The iron reserve of her former secret agents was never broken, and none knew and few cared whither she had gone out of the maddening whirl and, whether with full or empty coffers. The social world knew, though, that the splendid apartment at the “Circassia” was dismantled, and the various society journals announced the impending departure of the Lady of Lakemere “for a residence abroad of some years.” Garston’s death had proved a bombshell, scattering several little coteries. Only old Hiram Endicott gravely shook his head at the mysterious movements of his social friends. The match-making prophecy seemed clouded. Senator Alynton was busied dealing sturdy blows in the Senate at his party’s foes, and beyond a final conference arranging for the closing out of all past relations of his fair client with the Sugar Syndicate, Endicott followed neither the affairs of the giant partnership in Gotham nor their secret allies in Washington. He was busied with much legal detail in arranging Mrs. Willoughby’s manifold affairs for a protracted absence. “I wish all to be in order, Judge,” she said, “for I know not what may happen, and Romaine’s future must be assured.” The bright-faced girl had simply stormed her loving mother’s heart. “There is only one way to assure it,” gravely answered the old lawyer. “You must marry, for the child’s sake. This past life of yours has been a lonely, a wasteful and a forced one. “Now that you are out of stocks forever, now that you have found a new happiness in that charming girl, it is for you alone to build a barrier for her against the future fortune-hunter or scheming knave. “There are more Hathorns and Vreelands in the world than those two dead speculating lovers.” “Whom would you have me marry?” asked Margaret Cranstoun, gazing demurely at her chivalric friend—the man who even now possessed but half her life secret. Her woman’s heart was now beating wildly with a suggestion which she dared not own. “Why, Alynton, of course! One of America’s most brilliant men, a man already of national reputation,” slowly rejoined the old lawyer. He opened his eyes in a startled surprise as the beautiful woman frankly said, with a merry laugh: “I certainly can not consider his proposal—until he makes it!” She fled away, however, to confer with Noel Endicott upon the final closing accounts of the banking firm in which she was leaving a handsome sum as “special partner.” Both the Lady of Lakemere and the old Solon were now playing at “hoodman blind.” And Hugh Conyers felt himself of little use now, for the clouds had all vanished. He was no fair-weather friend. Elaine’s heart was light when she saw how completely Endicott had deceived himself. “Fate is still kind to me; no one knows, no one shall ever know,” she murmured, locking up a fond woman’s secret in her throbbing breast. It was not yet the appointed time of the final surrender of her self-sovereignty.