“She has publicly boasted that he shall cease all semblance of friendship with me, and Mrs. McMorris told me that Alida had forced every detail of our past intimacy out of her husband, who admitted only a confidential business relation. “‘Break it off!’ was Alida’s ultimatum, and she has publicly declared ‘war to the knife.’ “When Hathorn referred to our business connection, so profitable to the firm, Alida had cried: ‘I have money enough for both of us. I married a gentleman, _not a counter jumper_! You shall drop all this humbug business which has been the cloak to your _amourette_.’” Elaine Willoughby saw the wonderment of Vreeland’s eyes. With a blush reddening her pale cheek, she faltered: “The maid overheard the quarrel, and she told Mrs. McMorris all. She was once her own attendant.” “That McMorris is a genius,” mused Vreeland, as Mrs. Willoughby concluded: “And, Hathorn has been silent. I have not heard one word from him.” Her bosom heaved as she gloomily said: “I will give him a last chance to speak out, and if he acts the moral coward, then it is _war to the knife_! “Her husband’s lady-love! An ex-goddess! ‘A star on the retired list!’ I will make her pay for these brutal vulgarities! I will force him to speak, and in her presence!” The artful Mr. Harold Vreeland fancied that he had discovered the reason of the storms of sorrow which had swept over the lady of Lakemere. He knew not of Endicott’s bootless quest for a message from the misty shores of the past. “_These two women foes will decide my fate!_” he quickly decided. “Here is the place to leap into the breach and widen it.” Taking Elaine Willoughby’s trembling hands in his own, he fixed his ardent eyes upon her, and once more her glances fell under the spell of his steady gaze. His voice had the ring of sincerity in it as he proceeded with a feigned reluctance. “You need not wait, Madonna!” Mr. Vreeland had easily reached the stage of a special appellation for the Queen of the Street. “He has already spoken, and I will fight in this good cause—to the death, under your colors.” He drew out a letter from Hathorn and read it slowly, without a single comment, and with a dramatic, hushed solemnity. Before he had finished he saw in her glowing eyes that she was his prey. The poisoned arrow had struck home. She was, after all, a woman at heart. Hathorn’s jerky letter referred to the “end of the season,” “a return _incognito_,” and demanded an early meeting with his chum. “I presume that you know all of Potter’s troubles. He wants to become a ‘special partner,’ and then to go away for two years. You must join us at once, or I must find another man. So, have your answer ready.” Elaine Willoughby was silent until Vreeland slowly read: