“Senator Garston,” cried Vreeland, “you may yet find that love will not be led in chains. Of all hells on earth, the embrace of an unwilling woman is the coldest revenge of an outraged Nature. And he should beware of Elaine—if she can, she will strike back at him like a wounded lioness. “And for my own safety there is but one rule, ‘Cash down on the delivery of goods.’ “And so far, he only proposes partial payments—with Katharine Norreys as our mutual gage of faith to the last.” Agnostic as he was, Vreeland was forced to admit that Garston’s disclosure of Mrs. Willoughby’s marital chains had swept away his last hope of ever being the master of Lakemere. She was still the wife of some unknown John Doe—and Vreeland knew that Garston would never babble. The young broker was ready now to play his last card to make his position between the two enemies impregnable. He was again at Life’s crossroads. But he had a last little game to play out before a final decision. He was the picture of elegant prosperity as he picked his way up the long stairs of the modest apartment on a side street where the humble Kelly family gazed from a four-story window upon a row of private stables opposite. The hour was opportune, and his own coupé awaited him below. The hands of the little clock marked nine as Vreeland raised his hat to the white-haired old Irish mother seated there, prayer-book in hand, and giving a touch of dignity to the plain little “parlor.” The keen-eyed young schemer quickly noted the photograph of Miss Romaine Garland proudly given the place of honor upon the mantel. Before he could announce his errand, Miss Mary Kelly painfully limped in from the other room, whence a murmur of voices had told him of her presence. If he could only trap her into revealing Romaine’s address! All his gentle gravity of manner was manifest as Vreeland explained his personal call. “I desire to send to Miss Garland her uncollected monthly salary, and also to obtain some private papers which must be yet in her possession,” began Vreeland, carefully studying the girl’s plaintive pale face. “If you would kindly give me Miss Garland’s present address, I can send a messenger to her. She probably forgot the papers.” Vreeland paused, and then his heart hardened, as the young girl’s fearless eyes looked him through and through. There was an indictment in her innocent glances which made him mutter, “Miss Majesty has surely blabbed about the Ollie Manson musicale. That was a clumsy failure.” “I cannot give you Miss Garland’s address, Mr. Vreeland,” said the girl, with an uneasy glance at her old mother. “She has left New York City for good, and I think has gone to California.” “When she said ‘good-by’ to me, she mentioned that she would not care to continue as the only woman worker in your employ. I presume that you will hear from her through Miss Marble’s agency.”