And on several occasions when Vreeland was absent, the grave-faced valet, Bagley, had joined the janitor, and in some hours spent over the cups of Gambrinus had gained pointers which had given the lively roundsman, Dan Daly, some very valuable hints. There was in his cup of “bittersweet,” however, one great consolation to the successful Harold Vreeland, whom all men now envied. The impending union with Katharine Norreys would found his fortunes on a solid basis; he would have the absolute protection of the great speculative Senator, and the reports of his detectives told him that Hugh Conyers was simply buried in his journalistic duties. It seemed to be a lull in the war, even the pickets had ceased firing. There were no conferences with Judge Hiram Endicott, and nothing to indicate any activity among Romaine Garland’s friends. Only one side of the whole affair remained dark to Vreeland. Even Justine Duprez could not tell him how or why Elaine Willoughby had openly taken her unacknowledged daughter to her house for shelter. It was as yet a mystery as to whether fear, intrigue or accident had brought the lovely girl into the opened arms of her still beautiful mother. “All I know,” said Justine, in a conference arranged for this purpose by her now indifferent fellow-conspirator, “all I could find out was, that this green-eyed cripple, this little sycophant Irelandaise, who now is my tyrant, brought the tall girl late one evening to the ‘Circassia.’” “It was a strange visit,” murmured Justine, “for she brought no luggage, and that girl never left my mistress’ presence for a moment, till she went away with the two Conyers. “I am certain that Madame had never seen this girl in the seven years of my employ. There were no pictures, no relics of childhood—nothing. And I was always on the lookout for the mystery of Madame’s life—” Justine demurely dropped her eyes. “Bah!” she cried; “a woman with blood as cold as a fish! No life, no love; she cares for nothing but money. “Among all of them, not a lover! I thought she was fond of the dead Mr. Hathorn once, but he was soon on a level with the others.” Justine’s voice was duly scornful. “And then her tears and frequent fits of sorrow! That was the record the whole of seven years. “The last thing I saw of her—a stolen glance—she had this girl’s picture in her hand, and was weeping over it. “If she is a child of hers, she is probably a child of shame. She now fears the exposure, and has gone abroad to hide the girl away forever. Trust to Justine’s experience! I know these women saints. They always have nibbled at _le fruit defendu_—hypocrites!” Mr. Harold Vreeland fancied that he saw light at last. “I believe that I can observe Senator Garston’s game. He would use this hidden fact to force Elaine Willoughby into his arms. By Jove! she does fear him! Perhaps Justine is right.