“_Ami intime de la maison!_” He had only learned more of her rare dignity in the repeated business interviews, and in the continued tableaux of her splendid social _entourage_, he was no nearer to her than others. There was the cool Conyers, who always came and went at will; he had also seen Senator David Alynton and the silent Wyman out driving with his lovely patroness. There were also _tête-à-tête_ dinners, too, with the old Judge and that young son of Anak, Noel Endicott, and moreover the well-bribed Justine spoke, too, of breakfasts where only Wyman and the handsome bookkeeper, Aubrey Maitland, were guests. _All_ this was dangerous. “Hang me if I can see why I am kept here,” uneasily fretted Vreeland. “The firm would move along just as smoothly without me,” but yet in his soul he felt that the steadfast woman still held him in reserve for some well-matured purpose of her own. With admirable _sang froid_ he awaited her orders in an expectant silence. “She shall not weary me out; but once let the cards come my way, then I will play the queen for all she is worth.” He knew in the drift of customers gradually drawn in by the now acknowledged solidity of their firm, that there were many spies and stool-pigeons of the angry Hathorns. He knew, too, what cold resentment burned in his old chum’s heart. He had secretly followed (through his agents) some of these skirmishers directly back to Hathorn, Wolfe & Co.’s office. And the cards were played both from the top and the bottom of the pack. Once he had himself caught Hathorn’s eyes following him with all the wolfish glare of a murderous heart. There were, besides, rumors of quarrels in the opposing firm and the early retirement of the returning Potter. And other sly traps were laid for him with silky scoundrelism. He was well aware that the defiant Alida Hathorn had openly expressed her utter disbelief in the existence of the late Wharton Willoughby. Even the prehensile Mrs. Volney McMorris had waylaid him to confess that she had never observed, in either of Mrs. Willoughby’s establishments, any mortuary bust, portrait, or even an humble photograph of the permanently eclipsed man who had given his name to the Queen of the Street. These things were food for uneasy thoughts harassing to the young schemer. And this respectable social scavenger had faltered out some indirect javelin thrusts evidently pointed by Hathorn’s willfully reckless wife. There were at least two men in Elaine Willoughby’s _entourage_ who, for gain and a passion under the rose, might be the source of all that quietly-sustained splendor which had so enraged the young married heiress. Mr. Harold Vreeland was on guard. He only fixed his fine eyes upon Mrs. McMorris in a pained surprise when that bustling dame hinted that he could easily drag forth the desired information. “I have always had a penchant, my dear Madame, for minding my own business,” was his most prudent rejoinder.