It was impossible for the revengeful Teuton to learn the reason from Justine Duprez. The courteous terms of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby’s letter, inclosing a check for his annual account, were too unmistakable to be misconstrued even by the dense German. It was a _congé_ not to be misunderstood. His Waterloo! And, in a roundabout way he had also learned that Judge Endicott and his nephew made up the whole social circle at Lakemere, with Hugh Conyers as a permanent summer guest. Hugo Alberg had sworn an oath that Harold Vreeland should recoup him for the loss of his star patient. He now only awaited the return of his proposed victim “to levy the Rhine dues.” A visit to the South Fifth Avenue rooms where Justine had vicariously entertained him in the old days, gave him the news, by the mouth of the old denizen, that “_la pauvre_ Justine” was tied down at Lakemere. “Some one have robbed ze lady last year, and now Justine is ze prissonaire to watch ze garderobe all ze while; and only ze travail and ze solitude! _V’la tout!_ _Pauvre_ Justine! _Elle vent bien partir pour la France._” The doctor hungrily awaited Vreeland’s return for a bleeding process. No one but the Frenchwoman herself knew how tightly the coils were wound around her. Shaking in fear, left without the secret protection of her traitorous tempter, Vreeland, she dared not try to break away from Lakemere, for she now feared the gleaming wrist-irons. To run away would be only to invite an instant arrest, and she panted for the time of the winter’s gaieties. She would have a chance perhaps then to slip away unknown. Her plan was already formulated. A simulated illness, a last “bleeding” of Harold Vreeland, and then, a return to dear Paris. Once again on French soil, she would be safe. For Paris would soon swallow her up. The vicious child would be hidden in the mighty bosom of the Mother of all Wickedness. “Ah! he shall pay,” she muttered, as her velvety eyes rested, lit up with a strange fire, on the beautiful woman whose iron hand now held her so firmly. “She and the Kelly—how I could drive a knife into their hearts!” she hissed. “But Justine must wait; gold first, gold—and then _la liberté_ shall be mine.” When “Harold Vreeland and wife” were duly domiciled at the Hotel Savoy, he was not astonished at the proximity of “Uncle James” at the Plaza Hotel; but, even on the pier, when the Senator met them, Vreeland noted the ravages of some overmastering passion in the strong man’s face. The eyes were brilliant and unsteady, there was a foreign irritability in his abrupt manner, and Vreeland’s attempts at a _tête-à-tête_ were only met with a sharp command “to get inside his old business lines” as soon as he could; and Vreeland, humbled, kept his temper. “I must have you back in the traces again,” sharply cried Garston. “And, I would get up to Lakemere to-night if I were you. See Mrs. Willoughby, and get safe on the old basis.