The laws of nature are the only inviolable code of life, and blindly the lady of Lakemere had passed on, all unwittingly, toward a turning point in her lonely life. Her barrier of pride only fenced out the ungrateful Hathorn, condemned for ingratitude. Vreeland, following carefully upon Fred Hathorn’s curvilinear conversational path, easily divined the uncertainty of the greedy young broker’s mind. “He wants Miss Millions, and yet, he would not lose his fairy godmother,” thought the crafty adventurer. “I shall go slow and let them make the game. “But wait till I am the guiding spirit of Lakemere. She shall come forward inch by inch, and he shall unfold to me every weak spot in his armor.” They had finished a grilled bone and a “bottle” before Hathorn foxily sought to draw out his friend as to the details of the Montana bonanza. The plan of an amateur four-months’ Wall Street experience was quietly and deftly brought in. “You see, Hod,” frankly said Hathorn, “Jimmy Potter drinks occasionally. He has that pretty devil, Dickie Doubleday, on the string, and he plays high. Now, my lawyer alone has my Power of Attorney. I can post our confidential man. “But, if you would open a special account of, say, a hundred thousand dollars, why, there is Sugar! There will soon be a ten per cent bonus dividend. You could see the Street, _on the inside_! I know that you would get along with Potter. “You always were a cool chap. What do you say? I shall marry Alida VanSittart, and take the run over the water while I can. I don’t care, however, to lose Mrs. Willoughby. She is the heaviest woman operator in America. Her account is a young fortune to us. Think this over.” The fine “poker nerve” of Mr. Harold Vreeland was now manifest in his quick perception of Hathorn’s trembling fingers. The smoke curled lazily from Vreeland’s Henry Clay as he said: “I will open my heart to you, Fred. All my money is already well invested. And I do not care to move a small block of my funds. Besides— “I have been cut off from all phases of womanhood save the ‘Calamity Jane’ type, or some one’s runaway wife, for long years. I shall hurry slowly. You know the Arabic proverb: ‘Hurry is the devil’s.’ Now, by October the first, I will have had my summer fling. I will perhaps join you then, if you can make the showing that I would like. But, just now, I am going in for the ‘roses and raptures.’” “You are not a marrying man, Hod?” cried Hathorn, in a sudden alarm. “Heavens, no!” laughed the Western man. “Omar Khayyam’s vision of the ‘Flower Garden’ pales before the ‘_embarras de richesse_’ of the New York ‘Beauty Show.’ I am as yet a free lance, and also, an old campaigner. I will solemnly promise not to marry till I see you again. But I’ll stand up with you and see you spliced.”