“Yes, and tell your own story. Keep the deputy marshals quiet. I’ll see that they are all well rewarded. I will telephone down to the Wall Street office that Mr. Vreeland has died by accident. I will meet Maitland, Wyman and Noel Endicott at the Elmleaf. “One of them can go over and notify Vreeland’s wife, and so, the whole thing rests safely in our hands.” “Helms and Mulholland?” questioned Roundsman Daly. “Let them be safely locked up in Ludlow Street Jail, separately. The poor letter-carrier will soon confess, and he can be pardoned. He has only been a tool. Helms can be allowed to leave the country. He will never talk! “And to-night, I will face Justine with Martha Wilmot, and then have her whole confession.” “That scoundrel, Doctor Alberg?” moodily demanded Daly, as he moved to the door. “He will never be heard of after the news of Vreeland’s suicide is published. Let him slink away; that will be the easiest way to get rid of him.” When Daly had departed, Mrs. Willoughby clasped both Conyers’ hands in her trembling palms. The grateful light in her eyes was shadowed with tears. “You would save me, Hugh?” she faltered. “All trouble, all annoyance, all sorrow,” said the journalist, as he rose. “I must be busy now. See no one. Speak to no one, and above all never tell Endicott nor Alynton nor any single living soul the baseness of the man who lies dead down there.” “You are my saviour,” she murmured; “I will obey; I have only one matter to close up with Senator Alynton, and then, I am free,” she said with downcast eyes. As Conyers went sadly away, he moodily added: “And that is to answer ‘Yes’ to his offer of his hand and fortune.” Hugh Conyers was absent, engaged in throwing the mantle of charity about Vreeland’s sudden death, when Senator Alynton was led into Elaine’s presence by Judge Endicott. It was only a matter of a few moments for the load to be lifted from the woman’s agitated heart. “There is no receipt needed,” gravely said Endicott. “Of course the possession of such a paper is as dangerous to friend as foe. I have no fears that any one will ever call on Mrs. Willoughby for it again.” Alynton gazed upon the troubled face of the woman whose empire over his heart only grew more perfect day by day. “I must come to you at another time. Can I write?” he murmured. And Elaine Willoughby bowed her head in silence then, for his speaking eyes told the story of a life’s hopes. He forebore, in sheer mercy, to press his suit upon her now. The great Senatorial millionaire gazed uneasily at Endicott. “I heard a strange rumor down at the Waldorf from young Wiltshire, about Vreeland’s individual failure on the Street being announced.” “Not another word, I beg, Senator,” hurriedly said the old lawyer, courteously taking his arm. “My client has been too sadly shocked,” and with the promise of his own return in the evening, Endicott led his captive away.