The old lawyer heard Elaine Willoughby’s cry of affright when Daly told her that Vreeland lay dead by his own hand in the squalid trysting place of sin. Hugh Conyers, with a fine prescience of some coming tragedy, had held the boy messenger under his own eye in the rooms where he sat guarding Justine until her partner in crime should have been seized. “Let no one know, not even him!” begged Daly. “Let the world always think it to have been a suicide induced by drink and overspeculation. I can cover it all up. “Your daughter is safe now. Trust to no one but Conyers. Tell him the whole story, for, he loves the very ground you walk on.” There was a strange pallor on Elaine’s face as she laid her finger on her lips. “You have saved the happiness of three women, their future, and their peace of heart and soul. Do not stir. I must have time to think,” she whispered, as she glided away. Murmuring, “Dead! dead! in all his unfinished villainy!” she walked calmly back into the room where the old lawyer awaited her final answer to Senator Alynton’s urgent prayers. “Go, my friend! Go! Bring Senator Alynton here at once,” cried the desperate woman. “In your presence only, I will return to him the document which he demands. And its return marks my divorce for life from the Street. I have signed my last check for stocks, and my heart says Never Again! “Go quickly; for when Romaine arrives I wish to be only the Lady of Lakemere. I have stepped down and out. I abdicate! There’s no longer a Queen of the Street. “Noel Endicott can close up all my affairs under your directions.” “And, Vreeland?” anxiously cried Judge Endicott. The woman’s lips trembled. “I shall never see him again,” she faltered. “Go now, for my strength fails, and I wish to be rid of the dangerous trust forever—this terrible paper which is lying a weight upon my heart.” When the old advocate hastened away, then Elaine Willoughby turned like a tigress at bay. “Bring Conyers here. I must think! Think! You may yet save us all!” The policeman darted away. In five minutes, Daly had recounted the whole story to Hugh Conyers, who sat holding the woman’s trembling hands. “I must go back now. Give me your orders. The newspapers are all that I fear! We must outwit them.” “Is there not a French restaurant on the ground floor of this haunt down there?” said Conyers. “Yes, yes!” impatiently cried Daly. “Then,” calmly answered Hugh Conyers, “the story goes as follows: Vreeland, after a hard-drinking bout, had secretly wandered, half-mad, upstairs and took his life in the first room found open. “You will remove his body to the Elmleaf apartments. I will send young Kelly down there to prepare Bagley for the last visit of his master.” “And must I notify the Coroner when the body is there?” demanded the Roundsman, in admiration of the plan.