“The stock market is humming, and I will soon have need of you in Wall Street. I trust no one there but you.” Harold Vreeland hastened away to the office, and found the same unimpassioned greeting which had always characterized Horton Wyman. And in the rush, they were now glad to have his aid in their increasing affairs. “You will go, of course, up to Lakemere to-night?” said Noel Endicott. “I have already telegraphed your arrival to Mrs. Willoughby.” In a stolen detour, Vreeland arranged for an early morning interview with Doctor Alberg, and then he passed the “Circassia” on his way to the train after dinner. The flat demand of janitor Helms for “backsheesh” keenly angered a man already enraged by “Uncle James’” quiet appropriation of the first evening with that hawk-eyed free-lance of marital beauty, Mrs. Katharine Vreeland, “whose remarkable loveliness had created such a London and Paris sensation.” “I will soon cut the Gordian knot between these two,” growled Vreeland, as he descended from the waiting carriage at Lakemere. “I will either have my wife and her property to myself, or else ‘Uncle James’ will show his hand, to the very last card.” He was beginning to be reckless in a blind jealousy. The welcome of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby to her returned protégé was merely a complacently cordial one, and yet, in half an hour, Vreeland bore away the assurance of lulled suspicions and his continued business relation. “I shall soon call upon Mrs. Vreeland and assure myself by inspection of her married happiness,” was the last greeting of the hostess, whose other guests, if any, were invisible. “I will send for you to the ‘Circassia’ next week, and give you my general directions for some business which is impending.” “That woman has found a new happiness. Her life is now complete,” was the keen-eyed schemer’s comment as he sauntered away toward the park gates, where the impatient horses awaited his return. A flitting form in the dusky garden walks led him toward the “lovers’ labyrinth,” behind the unforgotten summer house. His one friend was on watch. “Justine!” he gasped, and he hastened to stealthily join her in the deepened gloom of the trees. A new fear smote upon his startled nerves. There was the velvet-eyed Frenchwoman in waiting, and her passionate words, her panting breast and gleaming eyes told him of an unbroken tie, the bond of their guilty past. The startled woman fled away at the sound of distant voices, while Vreeland, wildly agitated at heart, hastened to his carriage. “The enemy are on their lines,” he defiantly said. “I must strike a blow somewhere, for Elaine Willoughby’s vengeance is not dead, but sleepeth. She has not been deceived.