With tears of rage, Miss Joanna Marble gave up to him the picture of Romaine Garland, the one visible token of that young Diana’s existence. “I have failed, and even the Mansons can get no trace. I have even sent the picture around among all the hackmen as far as the Harlem River,” was Joanna’s meager report. “The girl has simply vanished and left no trace behind. “The man who ‘began her past’ for her has probably spirited the young vixen away. It was a masterly change of base, for she, sly one, took wing at once on recognizing that you would like to be something more than an employer.” And so, with orders for a redoubled energy in research, and the hope of a glittering reward, Joanna Marble returned to her mart of souls and her veiled brokerage of innocence. A comprehensive business letter from Mrs. Elaine Willoughby had at last directed Mr. Harold Vreeland to relieve Horton Wyman as general supervisor of the firm. The veiled steel hand under the velvet glove was concealed there. “You will have ample assistance in Noel Endicott and Maitland. Your partner needs a few weeks’ rest. Anything private will, of course, be communicated to you by Judge Endicott. I shall await my own delayed recovery, and perhaps, a fortnight at Lakemere may restore me. “Of course, as I shall keep Miss Kelly with me, there will be no business transacted uptown. I only depend upon you now for a daily watch during business hours of the firm’s affairs. As Noel Endicott has been made a Stock Exchange member, he will handle the Board matters, and you will hear my orders from Judge Endicott through him.” The letter was curt, chilling, and still courteous. It was however a polite closing of the social doors of the Circassia, and the anxious Vreeland, by a prompt evening call, soon verified the fact of the temporary absence of the woman who seemed to easily escape his toils. There was no one at his rooms to handle the concealed wires now. And Justine Duprez, too, had been snapped away out of his sight by the unannounced departure of her mistress. He was helpless now to continue any effective espionage. Even Helms, the janitor, mournfully shook his head. “The wires are all silent,” he grumbled. “The mail, too, all now goes direct to Lakemere, and so I’ve nothing to tell you.” But he wanted a handsome “temporary loan” just as usual. A lurid ray of warning light soon gleamed upon Vreeland’s path in a letter brought by Dr. Alberg from the beleaguered Frenchwoman. It was only a scrawl, but a scrawl of unmistakably grave import. “There is danger hovering near, _mon amant_,” she warned. “The old judge, the newspaper man, and his ugly, raw-boned sister have all been here, with the Kelly, little green-eyed Irish devil, and the other girl, the pretty one, who was her assistant with you.