THE PLUNGERS
"They have the most select clientele in the city here."
Constance Dunlap was sitting in the white steamy room of Charmant's
Beauty Shop. Her informant, reclining dreamily in a luxurious wicker
chair, bathed in the perspiring vapor, had evidently taken a fancy to
her.
"And no wonder, either; they fix you up so well," she rattled on; then
confidingly, "Now, last night after the show a party of us went to
supper and a dance--and it was in the wee small hours when we broke up.
But Madame here can make you all over again. Floretta," she called to
an attendant who had entered, "if Mr. Warrington calls up on the
'phone, say I'll call him later."
"Yes, Miss Larue."
Constance glanced up quickly as Floretta mentioned the name of the
popular young actress. Stella Larue was a pretty girl on whom the wild
dissipation of the night life of New York was just beginning to show
its effects. The name of Warrington, too, recalled to Constance
instantly some gossip she had heard in Wall Street about the
disagreement in the board of directors of the new Rubber Syndicate and
the effort to oust the president whose escapades were something more
than mere whispers of scandal.
This was the woman in the case. Constance looked at Stella now with
added interest as she rose languidly, drew her bathrobe about her
superb figure carelessly in such a way as to show it at best advantage.
"I've had more or less to do with Wall Street myself," observed
Constance.
"Oh, have you? Isn't that interesting," cried Stella.
"I hope you're not putting money in Rubber?" queried Constance.
"On the contrary," rippled Stella, then added, "You're going to stay?
Let me tell you something. Have Floretta do your hair. She's the best
here. Then come around to see me in the dormitory if I'm here when you
are through, won't you?"
Constance promised and Stella fluttered away like the pretty butterfly
that she was, leaving Constance to wonder at the natural gravitation of
plungers in the money market toward plungers in the white lights.
Charmant's Beauty Parlor was indeed all its name implied, a temple of
the cult of adornment, the last cry in the effort to satisfy what is
more than health, wealth, and happiness to some women--the fundamental
feminine instinct for beauty.
Constance had visited the beauty specialist to have an incipient
wrinkle smoothed out. Frankly, it was not vanity. But she had come to
realize that her greatest asset was her personal appearance. Once that
had a chance to work, her native wit and keen ability would carry her
to success.
Madame Charmant herself was a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired,
dark-eyed, well-groomed woman who looked as if she had been stamped
from a die for a fashion plate--and then the die had been thrown away.
All others like her were spurious copies, counterfeits. More than that,
she affected the name of Vera, which in itself had the ring of truth.
And so Charmant had prevailed on Constance to take a full course in
beautification and withhold the wrinkle at the source.
"Besides, you know, my dear," she purred, "there's nothing discovered
by the greatest minds of the age that we don't apply at once."
Constance was not impervious to feminine reason, and here she was.
"Has Miss Larue gone?" she asked when at last she was seated in a
comfortable chair again sipping a little aromatic cup of coffee.
"No, she's resting in one of the little dressing rooms."
She followed Floretta down the corridor. Each little compartment had
its neat, plain white enameled bed, a dresser and a chair.
Stella smiled as Constance entered. "Yes," she murmured in response to
the greeting, "I feel quite myself now."
"Mr. Warrington on the wire," announced Floretta a moment later, coming
down the corridor again with a telephone on a long unwinding wire.
"Hello, Alfred--oh, rocky this morning," Constance overheard. "I said
to myself, 'Never again--until the next time. Vera? Oh, she was as
fresh as a lark. Can I lunch with you downtown? Of course.'" Then as
she hung up the receiver she called, "Floretta, get me a taxi."
"Yes, Miss Larue."
"I always have a feeling here," whispered Stella, "that I am being
listened to. I mean to speak to Vera about it some time. By the way,
wouldn't you like to join us to-night? Vera will be along and Mr.
Warrington and perhaps 'Diamond Jack' Braden--you know him?"
Constance confessed frankly that she did not have the pleasure of the
acquaintance of the well-known turfman and first nighter.
She hesitated. Perhaps it was that that Stella liked. Almost any one
else would have been overeager to accept. But to Constance, sure of
herself now, nothing of the sort was worth scrambling for. Besides, she
was wondering how a man with the fight of his life on his hands could
find time to lunch downtown even with Stella.
"I've taken quite a fancy to you," pressed Stella.
"Thank you, it's very kind of you," Constance answered. "I shall try
very hard to be there."
"I'll leave a box for you at the office. Come around after the
performance to my dressing room."
"Miss Larue, your taxi's waiting," announced Floretta.
"Thanks. Are you going now, Mrs. Dunlap? Yes? Then ride down in the
elevator with me."
They parted at the foot of the elevator and Constance walked through
the arcade of the office building in which the beauty parlor occupied
the top floor. She stopped at a florist's stand to admire the flowers,
but more for an excuse to look back at Stella.
As Stella stepped into a taxicab, showing a generous wealth of silken
hosiery beneath the tango gown, Constance was aware that the driver of
another cab across the street was also interested. She noticed that he
turned and spoke to his fare through the open window.
The cab swung around to follow the other and Constance caught a
fleeting glimpse of a familiar face.
"Drummond," she exclaimed almost aloud.
What did it mean? Why had the detective been employed to follow Stella?
Instinctively she concluded that he must be engaged by Mrs. Warrington.
"I must accept Stella's invitation," she said to herself excitedly. "At
least, she should be put on her guard."
That evening, as she was looking over the newspapers, her eye caught
the item in the Wall Street edition:
RUBBER SYNDICATE DISSENSION
Break in Stock Follows Effort of Strong Minority to Oust Warrington
from Presidency
Then followed a brief account of the struggle of a powerful group of
directors to force Warrington, Braden, and the rest out, with a hint at
the scandal of which every one now was talking.
"I never yet knew a man who went in for that sort of thing that lasted
long in business," she observed. "This is my chance--a crowd riding for
a fall."
Constance chose a modest orchestra seat in preference to the place in a
box which Stella had reserved for her at the office, and, aside from
the purpose which was rapidly taking shape in her mind, she enjoyed the
play very much. Stella Larue, as the "Grass Widow," played her part
with a piquancy which Constance knew was not wholly a matter of book
knowledge.
As the curtain went down, the audience, its appetite for the risque
whetted, filed out on Broadway with its myriad lights and continuous
film of motion. Constance made her way around to Stella's dressing room.
She had scarcely been welcomed by Stella, whose cheeks beneath the
grease paint were now genuinely ablaze with excitement, when a man
entered. He was tall, spare, the type whose very bow is ingratiating
and whose "delighted, I assure you" is suave and compelling.
Alfred Warrington seemed to be on very good terms indeed with Stella as
she introduced him to Constance.
"You will join us, Mrs. Dunlap?" he asked, throwing an opera cloak over
Stella's shoulders. "Vera Charmant and Jack Braden are waiting for us
at the Little Montmartre."
As he mentioned the famous cabaret, Constance took a little tighter
grip on herself and decided to take the plunge and see the affair out,
although that sort of thing had very little attraction for her.
They were leaving the theater when she saw lurking in the crowd the
familiar figure of Drummond. She turned her head quickly and sank back
into the dark recesses of the limousine.
Should she tell them now about him?
She leaned over to Warrington. "I saw a man in the crowd just now who
seemed to be quite interested in us," she said quickly. "Can't we drive
around a bit to throw him off if he should get into a cab?"
Warrington looked at her keenly. It was quite evident that he thought
it was Constance who was being followed, not Stella or himself.
Constance decided quickly to say nothing more that would prejudice
Stella, but as Warrington directed his driver to run up through the
park she saw that, far from alarming him, the words had only added a
zest of mystery about herself.
They left the Park and the car jolted them quickly now over the uneven
asphalt to the palace of pleasure, where already the two advance guards
were holding one of the best tables in a house crowded with all classes
from debutantes to debauchees.
"Diamond Jack" Braden was a heavy-set man with a debonnaire, dapper way
about him. He wore a flower in his buttonhole, a smart touch which
seemed very fetching, evidently, to the artistic Vera.
Constance fell to studying him, as she did all men and women. "His
hands betray him," she said to herself, as she was introduced.
They were in fact shielded from view as he bowed, one with the thumb
tucked in the corner of his trousers pocket, the other behind his back.
"He is hiding something," flashed through her mind intuitively. And,
when she analyzed it, she felt still that there was nothing fanciful
about the idea. It was simply a little unconscious piece of evidence.
From the start the cabaret was pretty rapid. When they entered, two of
the performers were rendering the Apache dance with an abandon that
improved on its namesake. Scarcely had they finished when the orchestra
began all over again, and a couple of diners from the tables glided
past them on the dancing floor, then another couple and another.
"Tanguez-vous?" bowed Braden, leaning over to Stella.
"Oui, je tanguerai," she nodded, catching the spirit of the place.
It left Warrington and Constance at the table with Vera, and as
Constance looked eagerly after the graceful form of the little actress,
Warrington asked, "Will you dance!"
"No, thank you," she said, trying him out. "I haven't had time to learn
these new steps. And, besides, I have had a bad day in the market.
Steel, Reading, everything is off. Not that I have lost much--but it's
what I haven't made."
Warrington, who had been about to repeat his question to Vera, turned
suddenly. This was something new to him, to meet a woman like
Constance. If she knew about other stocks, she must know about the
Syndicate. Already he had felt an attraction toward Constance
physically, an attraction of maturity which somehow or other seemed
more satisfying, at least novel, in contrast with, the gay butterfly
talk of Stella.
He did not ask Vera to dance. Instead he began banteringly to discuss
Wall Street and in five minutes he found out that she really knew as
much about certain features of the game as he did. She did not need to
be told that Alfred Warrington, plunger, man about town, was quite
unexpectedly struck by her personality.
Now and then she could see Stella eyeing her covertly. The little
actress had had, like many another, a few dollars to invest or rather
with which to speculate. Her method had been usually to make a quick
profit on a tip from some Wall Street friend. Often, if the tip went
wrong, the friend would return the money to the unsuspecting little
girl, with some muttered apology about having been unable to get it
placed in time, and then, as the market went down or up, seeing that it
was too late, adding a congratulation that at least the principal was
saved if there was no profit.
The little actress was plainly piqued. She saw, though she did not
understand, that Constance was a different kind of plunger from what
she had thought at first up at Charmant's. Instead of trying to compete
with Constance in her field, she redoubled her efforts in her own. Was
Warrington, a live spender, to slip through her grasp for a chance
acquaintance?
Another dance. This time it was Stella and Warrington. Braden, who had
served excellently as a foil to lead Warrington on when he had eyes for
no one else, not even Vera, was left severely alone. Nothing was said,
not an action done openly, but Constance, woman-like, could feel the
contest in the air. And she felt just a little quiver when they sat
down and Warrington resumed the conversation with her where he had left
it. Even the daring cut of Stella's gown and the exaggerated proximity
of her dainty person had failed this time.
As they chatted gaily, Constance enjoyed her triumph to the full. Yes,
she could see that Stella was violently jealous. But she intended that
she should be. That was now a part of her plan as it shaped itself in
her mind, since she had plunged or, perhaps better, had been dragged
into the game.
As the evening wore on and the dancing became more furious, Warrington
seemed to catch the spirit of recklessness that was in the very air. He
talked more recklessly, once in a while with a bitterness not aimed at
any one in particular, which passed among the others as blase sarcasm
of one who had seen much and to whom even the fastest was slow.
But to Constance, as she tried to fathom him, it presented an entirely
different interpretation. For example, she asked herself, why had he
been so ready, apparently, to transfer his interest from Stella? Was it
because, having cut loose from the one feminine tie that morally bound
him, he no longer felt any restraint in cutting loose from others? Was
it the same spirit that had carried him on in the money game, having
cut loose from one financial principle, to let all go and to guide his
course as close to the edge of things as he dared? There had been the
same reckless bravado in the way he had urged on the driver of his car
in the wild ride of the earlier evening, violating the speed laws yet
succeeding in escaping the traffic squad.
Warrington was a plunger. Yet there was something about him that was
different from others she had seen. Perhaps it was that he had a
conscience, even though he had succeeded in detaching himself from it.
And Stella. There was something different about her, too. Constance
more than once was on the point of revising her estimate of the little
actress. Was she, after all, wholly mercenary in her attitude toward
Warrington? Was he merely a live spender whom she could not afford to
lose? Or was she merely a beautiful, delicate creature caught in the
merciless maelstrom of the life into which she had been thrown? Did she
realize the perilous position this all was placing her in?
They were among the last to leave and Vera and Braden offered to take
Constance to her apartment in Braden's car, while Stella contrived
prettily to take so much of Warrington's time with the wraps that by
the time they were ready to go the manner of the breaking up of the
party was as she wanted it. In her final triumph she could not help
just an extra inflection on, "I hope I'll see you again at Vera's soon,
my dear."
All night, or at least all that was left of it, Constance tried to
straighten out the whirl of her thoughts. With the morning she had an
idea. Now, in a moment when the exhilaration of the gay life was at low
ebb, she must see Stella.
It was early yet, but Stella was not at her hotel when Constance
cautiously called up the office to find out. Where was she? Constance
drove around to Charmant's on the chance that she might be there. Vera
greeted her a trifle coldly, she thought, but then this was not
midnight at the Montmartre. No, Stella was not there, she said, but
nevertheless Constance decided to wait.
"I'm all unstrung," confided Constance, with an assumed air of languor,
as she dropped into a chair.
Charmant, as fresh as if she had just emerged from the proverbial
bandbox, nodded knowingly. "A Turkish bath, massage, something to tone
you up," she advised.
With alert eyes Constance went patiently through the process of
freshening, first in the steamy hot room where she had met Stella the
day before, then the deliciously cool shower, gentle massage, and all
the rest.
At one of the little white tables of the manicures she noticed a
pretty, rather sad-faced little woman. There was something about her
that attracted Constance's attention, although she could not have told
exactly what it was.
"You know her?" whispered Floretta, bursting with excitement. "No?
Why,--" and here she paused and dropped her voice even lower,--"that's
Mrs. Warrington."
"Not the--"
"Yes," she nodded, "his wife. You know, she comes here twice a week. We
have to do some tall scheming to keep them apart. No, it's not vanity,
either. It's--well--you see, she's trying to get him back, to look like
a sport."
Constance thought of the hopeless fight so far which the little woman
was waging to keep up with the dashing actress. Then she thought of
Warrington, of last night, of how he had sought her, so ready, it
seemed, to leave even the "other woman." Then Floretta's remark
repeated itself mechanically. "We have to do some tall scheming to keep
them apart." Was Stella here, after all?
Mrs. Warrington was not a bad looking woman and in fact it was
difficult to see how she expected to be improved by cosmetics that
would lighten her complexion, bleaches that would flaxen her hair,
tortures for this, that, and the other defect, real or imagined.
Now, however, she was a creature of reinforcements, from her puffy
masses of light hair to her French heels and embroidered stockings that
showed through the slash in the drapery of her gown.
Constance felt sorry for her, deeply sorry. The whole thing seemed not
in keeping with her. She was a home-maker, not a butterfly. Was
Warrington worth it all? asked Constance of herself. "At least she
thinks so," flashed over her, as Mrs. Warrington rose, and left the
room, watchfully guided by Floretta to the next process in her course
in beautification.
Constance sank back luxuriously on the cushions of her chaise longue.
She longed to explore the beauty parlor, to leave the rest room and go
down the narrow corridor, prying into the secrets of the little
dressing rooms that opened into it. What did they conceal? Why had Vera
seemed so distant? Was it the natural reaction of the "morning after,"
or was Stella really there and was she keeping her away from Mrs.
Warrington to prevent friction between two clients that would have been
annoying to all?
She could reach no conclusion, except that there was a feeling of
luxurious well-being as she lolled back into the deep recesses of the
lounge in the corner of the room separated from the next room by a thin
board partition.
Suddenly her attention was arrested by muffled voices on the other side
of the partition. She strained her ears. She could not, of course, see
the speakers, or even recognize their voices, but they were a man and a
woman.
"We must get the thing settled right away," she overheard the man's
voice. "You see how he is? Every new face attracts him. See how he took
to that new one last night. Who knows what may happen? By and by some
one may come along and spoil all."
"Couldn't we use her?" asked the woman.
"No, you can't use that woman. She's too clever. But we must do
something, right away--to-night if possible."
A pause. "How, then?"
Another pause and the whispered monosyllable, "Dope!"
"What?"
"I have it here. Use a dozen of them. They can be snuffed as a powder,
or it can be put in a drink. If you want more--see, I will put the
bottle on this shelf--'way back. No one will see it."
"Don't you think I ought to write a note, something that will be sure
to get him up here?"
"Yes--just a line or two--as if in haste."
There was a sound as if of tearing a sheet of note paper from a pad.
"Is that all right?"
"Yes. As soon as the market closes. There will be nothing done to-day.
To-morrow's the day. To-night we must get him going and in the meantime
a meeting will be held, the plan arranged at the Prince Henry
to-night--and then the smash. Between them all, he won't know what has
struck him."
"All right. You had better go out as you came in. It's better that no
one up here should suspect anything."
The voices ceased.
What did it mean! Constance rose and sauntered around into the next
room. It was empty, but when she looked hastily up on the shelf there
was a bottle of white tablets and on a table a pad of note paper from
which a sheet had been torn.
She picked up the bottle gingerly. Who had touched it? Her mind was
working quickly. Somewhere she had read of finger prints and the
subject had interested her because the system had been introduced in
banks and she saw that it was going to become more and more important.
But how did they get them in a case like this? She had read of some
powder that adhered to the marks left by the sweat glands of the
fingers. There was the talcum powder. Perhaps it would do.
Quickly she shook the box gently over the glass. Then she blew it off
carefully.
Clear, sharp, distinct, there were the imprints of fingers!
But the paper. Talcum powder would not bring them out on that. It must
be something black.
A lead pencil! Eagerly she seized it and with, a little silver
pen-knife whittled off the wood. Scrape! scrape! until she had a neat
little pile of finely powdered graphite.
Then she poured it on the paper and taking the sheet daintily by the
edges, so that she would not mix her own finger prints with the others,
she rolled the powder back and forth. As she looked anxiously she could
see the little grains adhering to the paper.
A fine camel's hair brush lay on the table, for penciling. She took it
deftly. It made her think of that first time when she painted the
checks for Carlton. A lump came into her throat.
There they were, the second pair of telltale prints. But what tale did
they tell? Whose were they?
Her reading on finger prints had been very limited but, like everything
she did, to the point. She studied those before her, traced out as best
she could the loops, whorls, arches, and composites, even counted the
ridges on some of them. It was not so difficult, after all.
She stopped in an uptown branch of her brokers in one of the hotels.
The market was very quiet, and even the Rubber Syndicate seemed to be
marking time. As she went out she passed the telephone booths. Should
she call up Warrington? Would he misinterpret it? What if he did? She
was mistress of her own tongue. She need not say too much. Besides, if
she were going on a fishing expedition, a telephone line was as good as
any other--better than a visit.
"This is Mrs. Dunlap," she said directly.
"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Dunlap. I have been intending to call you up,
but," he paused, and added, "you know we are having a pretty strenuous
time down here."
There was a genuine ring to the first part of his reply. But the rest
of it trailed off into the old blase tone.
"I'm sorry," she replied. "I enjoyed last night so much."
"Did you?" came back eagerly.
Before he could add anything she asked, "I suppose you are going to see
Stella again this afternoon."
"Why--er--yes," he hesitated. "I think so."
"Where? At Vera's?" she asked, adopting a tone not of curiosity but of
chiding him for seeing Stella instead of herself.
The moment of hesitation, before he said that he didn't know, told her
the truth. It was as good as a plain, "Yes."
For a few moments they chatted. As she hung up the receiver after his
deferential goodbye, Constance knew that she had gained a new angle
from which to observe Warrington's character. He was intensely human
and he was "in wrong." Here was a mess, all around.
The day wore on, yet brought no indecision as to what she would do,
though it brought no solution as to how to do it. The inaction was
worse than anything else. The last quotations had come in over the
ticker, showing the Syndicate stocks still unchanged. She left her
brokers and sat for a few moments in the rotunda of the hotel,
considering. She could stand it no longer. Whatever happened, she would
run around to Charmant's. Some excuse would occur when she got there.
As Constance alighted from the private elevator, a delicate scent as of
attar of roses smote lightly on her, and there was, if anything, a
greater air of exotic warmth about the place. Everything, from the
electric bulbs buried deep in the clusters of amber artificial flowers
to the bright green leaves on the dainty trellises, the little
square-paned windows and white furniture, bespoke luxury. There was an
inviting "tone" to it all.
"I'm glad I've found you," began Constance to Stella, as though nothing
had happened. "There is something I'd like to say to you besides
thanking you most kindly for the good time last--"
"Is there anything I can do for you?" interrupted Madame Charmant in a
business like tone. "I am sure that Miss Larue invited you last night
because she thought you were lonely. She and Mr. Warrington, you know,
are old friends."
Charmant emphasized the remark to mean, "You trespassed on forbidden
ground, if you thought you could get him away."
Constance seemed not to notice the implication.
"There is something I'd like to say," she repeated gently.
She picked up a little inking pad which lay on a mahogany secretary
which Vera used as an office desk.
"If you will be so kind, Stella, as to place your fingers flat on this
pad-never mind about the ink; call Floretta; she will wipe them off
afterwards-and then on this piece of paper, I won't bother you further."
Almost before she knew it, the little actress had placed her dainty
white hand on the pad and then on the paper.
Constance did the same, to illustrate, then called Floretta. "If Vera
will do as I have done," she said, offering her the pad, and taking her
hand. Charmant complied, and when Floretta arrived her impressions were
added to the others.
"There's a man wishes to see you, outside, Madame," said Floretta,
wiping off the soiled finger tips.
"Tell him to wait--in the little room."
Floretta opened the door to go out and through it Constance caught
sight of a familiar face.
A moment later the man was in the room with them. It was Drummond, the
same sneer, the same assurance in his manner.
"So," he snarled at Constance. "You here?"
"I seem to be here," she answered calmly. "Why?"
"Never mind why," he blustered. "I knew you saw me the other night. I
heard you tell 'em to hit it up so as to shake me. But I found out all
right."
"Found out what?" asked Constance coldly.
"Say, that's about your style, isn't it? You always get in when it
comes to trimming the good spenders, don't you?"
"Mr. Drummond," she replied, "I don't care to talk to you."
"You don't, hey? Well, perhaps, when the time comes you'll have to
talk. How about that?"
She was thinking rapidly. Was Mrs. Warrington preparing to strike a
blow that would be the last impulse necessary to send the plunger down
for the last time? She decided to take a chance, to temporize until
some one else made a move.
"I'd thank you to place your fingers on this pad," said Constance
quietly. "I'm making a collection of these things."
"You are, are you?"
"Yes," she cut short. "And if my collection isn't large enough I shall
call up Mrs. Warrington and ask her to come over, too," she added
significantly.
Floretta entered again. "Please wipe the ink off Mr. Drummond's
fingers," ordered Constance quietly, still holding out the pad.
"Confound your impudence," he ground out, seizing the pad. "There! What
do you mean by Mrs. Warrington? What has she to do with this? Have a
care, Mrs. Dunlap--you're on the wrong track here, and going the wrong
way."
"Mr. Warrington is--" began Floretta.
"Show him in--quick," demanded Constance, determined to bring the
affair to a show-down on the spot.
As the door swung open, Warrington looked at the group in unfeigned
surprise.
"Mr. Warrington," greeted Constance without giving any of the others a
chance, "this morning, I heard a little conversation up here. Floretta,
will you go into the little room, and on the top shelf you will find a
bottle. Bring it here carefully. I have a sheet of paper, also, which I
am going to show you. I had already seen the little woman, Mr.
Warrington, whom you have treated so unjustly. She was here trying
vainly to win you back by those arts which she thinks must appeal to
you."
Floretta returned with the bottle and placed it on the secretary beside
Constance.
"Some one took some tablets from this bottle and gave them to some one
else who wrote on this paper," she resumed, bending first over the
paper she had torn from the pad. "Ah, a loop with twelve ridges,
another loop, a whorl, a whorl, a loop. The marks on this paper
correspond precisely with those made here just now by--Vera Charmant
herself!"
"You get out of here--quick," snarled Drummond, placing himself between
the now furious Vera and Constance.
"One minute," replied Constance calmly. "I am sure Mr. Warrington is a
gentleman, if you are not. Perhaps I have no finger prints to
correspond with those on the bottle. If not, I am sure that we can send
for some one whose prints will do so."
She was studying the bottle.
"The other, however," she said slowly to conceal her own surprise, "was
a person who has been set to trail you and Stella, Mr. Warrington, a
detective named Drummond!"
Suddenly the truth flashed over her. Drummond was not employed by Mrs.
Warrington at all. Then by whom? By the directors. And the rest of
these people? Grafters who were using Stella to bait the hook. Braden
had gone over to them, had aided in plunging Warrington into the wild
life until he could no longer play the business game as before.
Charmant was his confederate, Drummond his witness.
"Stella," said Constance, turning suddenly to the little actress,
"Stella, they are using you, 'Diamond Jack' and Vera, using you to lead
him on, playing the game of the minority of the directors of the
Syndicate to get him out. There is to be a meeting of the directors
to-night at the Prince Henry. He was to be in no condition to go. Are
you willing to be mixed up in such a scandal?"
Stella Larue was crying into a lace handkerchief. "You--you are
all--against me," she sobbed. "What have I done?"
"Nothing," soothed Constance, patting her shoulder. "As for Charmant
and Drummond, they are tied by these proofs," she added, tapping the
papers with the prints, then picking them up and handing them to
Warrington. "I think if the story were told to the directors at the
Prince Henry to-night with reporters waiting downstairs in the lobby,
it might produce a quieting effect."
Warrington was speechless. He saw them all against him, Vera, Braden,
Stella, Drummond.
"More than that," added Constance, "nothing that you can ever do can
equal the patience, the faith of the little woman I saw here to-day,
slaving, yes, slaving for beauty. Here in my hand, in these scraps of
paper, I hold your old life,--not part of it, but ALL of it," she
emphasized. "You have your chance. Will you take it?"
He looked up quickly at Stella Larue. She had risen impulsively and
flung her arms about Constance.
"Yes," he muttered huskily, taking the papers, "all of it."