Vreeland bitterly thought of the vacant chair in his luxurious den—the chair that Romaine Garland had quitted forever. He began to see that plainly which as hitherto had only glimmered “as in a glass darkly.” And for a second time, Fate had dealt him a heavy blow. She had escaped him as scathless as the “Lady of the Red Rose.” He had a foothold left, however. “That is my secret, sir,” sharply said Vreeland, as he wrenched himself loose, and pocketed the photograph sent “for inspection to Miss Marble.” “And that secret is for sale to you, on fair conditions.” “Let us make instant terms, Vreeland,” cried Garston, dropping into a chair. He was eager now. He reached out for a glass of cognac. “Your game is mine—and mine is yours. If you find that girl for me I’ll make your fortune—I swear it. I’ll put you into the strongest secret circle in America. “You shall handle all my private affairs—but I must have a gage of your fidelity—even when I’ve paid the price.” He watched the breathless schemer, who faltered: “And that is, when you marry Katharine Norreys there will be no secrets between us. You shall have money now—but to open all the doors even to you of the ‘Illuminati,’ you must be mine in interest—forever.” And then they opened their hearts to each other for the lust of gold, revenge and power. The stars were low in the west before the two wary adversaries had chaffered along to a reasonable basis of bargain and sale. “To-morrow—I ask only till to-morrow to think all over,” was the truce which parted them. And so each knew no more of the other’s heart secrets at the last than those impulsive outbreaks of Nature which will not down. But they had drifted very near on life’s sea. There were the wildest dreams of a brilliant future thronging Vreeland’s brain as he left the Millionaires’ Club to find Dr. Hugo Alberg in his midnight haunt where the Kegelbahn—beer of the stoutest Munich brew, and the songs of the Vaterland invited the Teuton to these cheap luxuries, recalling his happy student days. Vreeland soon caught his gloomy bird. Vreeland quickly led the startled Doctor aside. He handed over to him five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Get out of here by the first morning train. Make any professional excuse. Find out who is up at Lakemere with your patient, and, from Justine you must get me the whereabouts of that dark-haired girl who worked for me. The pretty one that you saw in my room—Miss Romaine Garland.” “I will be waiting for you at your rooms on your return—and, bid Justine not to dare to write or send a message save by you. There is the devil to pay somewhere!” Neither Senator Garston nor Harold Vreeland were to be found on the busy Saturday which dawned upon them. For Vreeland, telegraphing down to the office that he was called out of town for the half-holiday, closeted himself with a downtown detective firm.