His fresh, bewhiskered face was slightly Semitic in its cast, and his record of prosperity was all too evident in that richness of jewelry which has been a legacy of the Biblical times when the Egyptians made such incautious loans of their ornaments. Harold Vreeland had now an unwritten chapter in his life devoted entirely to the thirsty-hearted Justine, and from that subjugated Gallic beauty he knew of all Alberg’s crafty approaches upon the mistress by a coarsely familiar wooing of the woman who had given herself over, body and soul, to Vreeland’s service. And so he marveled not that in the cozy private room at Martin’s the Doctor’s slim, white, “sterilized” hand reached out in the direction of a secret which Vreeland himself knew naught of. “I’ll just let this fool talk,” mused Vreeland, as the intriguing foreigner became both familiar and friendly. “He has his own little scheme. Perhaps he may point me toward what no one seems to know.” And so, in an affected _bruderschaft_, the would-be vampire listened with a beating heart to Alberg’s confidences when the strong Rhine wine had loosened the “Medical Arzt’s” slightly thickened tongue. “We ought to understand each other, _mein lieber_ Vreeland,” urged the Doctor, who had now thrown the mask off. “You and I are the two men nearest to this magnificent woman. You are her confidential man of affairs. “You know all—you _must_ know all. And a woman’s best friend is always her Doctor,” he grinned, with a suggestive pliancy. “We are necessary to each other. You and I only want what all New York wants—_money_! “Money talks in New York. Life is a hell without money. Now, my dear friend, we are both making money out of her _easily_. And to me, as well as to you, Mrs. Willoughby’s life is of great importance. “For my fee bill and your profits depend upon her being kept alive.” Vreeland started, in a sudden alarm. “Speak out, man! What the devil do you mean?” He saw a black gulf yawning before him. “She has some concealed source of mental trouble, some eating sorrow, some overmastering secret of her old life,” bluntly answered Alberg. “You, as a man of the world, could easily guess that such a woman should be married. She is rich, still very beautiful, young enough yet—she hardly looks thirty-three—woman’s royal epoch of mental force and bodily attractiveness. Now, she has strange periods of a profound mental depression. “There are dark storms of sorrow. Her heart action is somewhat impaired, and the waves of passion beat too fiercely in her locked breast. “_You must help me!_ You may, in this way, save your own future. We must work together. Drugs will do her no good. _I am at my wits’ ends!_” The gloomy Doctor buried his nose again in the Rudesheimer. “What can I do?” flatly said Vreeland. “Speak out! Don’t mince matters.”