That one rare art of the woman-catcher, “never to bring up, in the faintest degree, the affairs of another woman,” victoriously carried Vreeland on into the vacant halls of the _filles de marbre_. And so, “Mr. Harold Vreeland” was universally voted “a charming man of vast culture and rare accomplishments.” Fortunately, Mr. Fred Hathorn had widely trumpeted abroad the Montana bonanza, and the vulgar slavering over an easily assumed wealth carried him on both fast and far. In his own heart, one carefully crystallized plan had already matured. To reach the innermost holy of holies of Elaine Willoughby’s heart, and then, to rule at Lakemere—to secretly lord it later in the Circassia. With a fine acumen, he refrained from making a single enemy among her sighing swains or her fawning women parasites. “They must not suspect my game here,” he sleekly smiled. But one brooding shadow hung over the sunshine of these days. He was always aware of the frequent visits of Judge Endicott. And Justine’s recitals proved to him that a hidden sorrow had its seat in her mistress’ soul. There were dark days when Elaine Willoughby’s heart failed under the burden of a past which Vreeland had never tried to penetrate. She was inaccessible then. Guarding a perfect silence as to his own antecedents, he trusted to her in time to unfold to him the secrets of the heart which he had secretly sworn to dominate. “I can be patient. I can afford to wait,” he mused, as with a faithful assiduity he came and went, and marked no shadows on the happy dial of those summer days. “She is worth serving seven years for,” he mused; “and, for her fortune—with Lakemere—seventeen.” “When I am master here,” he secretly exulted, “I can say: ‘Soul! thou hast much goods!’” And so he bided his time, and yet, with keen analysis, decided to make his _coup_ before the fretful and intriguing Hathorn returned. “It is the one chance of a lifetime,” he mused, as he paced the lawns of Lakemere. “Once that her social support would be withdrawn, once that this suspicious devil, Hathorn, would ‘drop on’ the dangerous game I am playing, I would be soon ground between the millstones of fate.” And his soul was uneasy as the October days approached and the blue haze of the golden Indian summer began to drift down the Hudson. He came to the conclusion at last to put his fate to the test. For certain letters received from Hathorn at the Isle of Wight had prepared him for the explosion of a social bomb which wrecked forever Frederick Hathorn’s dreams of regaining the alienated heart of the woman who had led him up the ladder of life. And that part of the situation which was seen “as through a glass darkly” was quickly made clear by the confidence of a fond woman who had begun to invest Mr. Harold Vreeland with all the virtues and many of the graces. Caught on the rebound, her heart was opening to her artful admirer.