Thirty-five years sat lightly on the man, whose scanty references to Senator Alynton’s millionaire father indicated that the “poor relation,” had been trained up in adversity as the dead financier’s private secretary. “He is a fellow to beware of. I’ll let him alone,” mused Vreeland. Harold Vreeland thanked his lucky stars when Wyman drew him into his private den when the first sporadic Christmas trees were beginning to creep into Gotham. “Well, old man,” cheerfully said Wyman, “I’m off for a two weeks’ visit to the Alyntons. Endicott will handle our Board work through his uncle’s private broker, and Maitland and Noel will take their leave after we return. I suppose that you will be at the Lakemere house party. “Of course, there’s no need of you following up things at the office. Here’s my telegraph address, if anything turns up, and, of course, Mrs. Willoughby will call on you if she needs anything. “We’ve got the thing running pretty smoothly, so take your full share of mistletoe. Noel tells me that all the prettiest girls in town will be up there at Lakemere.” It was a welcome relief. “I have now a free field,” jubilantly exclaimed Vreeland. “He is as indifferent to her as if she were only a cloak model. _Now, for Lakemere!_” Vreeland never stopped in his trickery to be ashamed of his low truckling with the French maid, whose malleable conscience was at his disposal, in the hopes of much future backsheesh. And so the adroit Continental Doctor had now two false friends between him and the woman who was his “star patient” and whom he, too, intended for an innocent dupe. The fate of every rich and lonely woman! It was under the Christmas tree at Lakemere that Harold Vreeland learned for the first time why the Queen of the Street had held him for months in a glittering quiescence in the rapidly built-up firm. The merry guests were already assembled on the other side of the curtain when the breathless Justine drew Vreeland into a dark corner. The French woman’s panting bosom heaved as she whispered: “She wants to see you in there, first of all. Now is your time, but don’t forget me, Harold.” There was the pledge of an infamous pact in the meeting of their guilty eyes. Justine now stood, with flaming sword, between her secret lover and those who would approach the woman who held both their fortunes. Her dark fidelity was doubly bought. It was a robed queen who stood waiting there by the fragrant Christmas tree and held both her hands out to Harold Vreeland. The Lady of Lakemere at her very best! With beaming eyes, she handed him an envelope and whispered: “The time has now come when you will have your own part to play, under my sole orders. “I know your whole record. You have been my own faithful knight. “Listen! All these merrymakers will go away with the old year. Judge Endicott brings me the firm’s settlement papers on New Years. I will then send for you and make you my secret representative in a momentous affair.