“_Perhaps_,” she faltered, with pale and trembling lips, and when he looked up he was alone, but a knot of lilies of the valley from her corsage lay in his hand. He dreamed strange dreams that night, for he well knew of the seraglio secrets of the bachelor apartments of New York. He knew the light vanity that might lead her feet to the “Castle Dangerous” to solve the riddle which was as yet a mystery to himself. But he whistled “Donna è Mobile” very contentedly, as he awoke to find a telegram on New Year’s morning from his sly partner in an already plotted treason. Justine’s words were pithy, and Justine was on guard. “_Watch in South Fifth Avenue for news!_” The simple signature J followed the words: “_Lawyer here. See me first on your arrival._” “I think that I am a pretty lucky devil,” was the flattering unction with which Vreeland regaled his soul, as he drove down to Wall Street and found the two responsible men there on duty. Noel Endicott, with Aubrey Maitland, were in a secret junta busily opening the new set of books. The finely assumed carelessness of Vreeland covered his desire to trace and locate the only man he feared—Mr. Horton Wyman. “Just write your dispatch,” calmly said Endicott. “I’ll send it down to Washington to Alynton’s private secretary, and you’ll have Wyman’s answer at once. They are inspecting some of Alynton’s West Virginia properties.” And, in truth, an open answer to Vreeland’s holiday greeting was at the Waldorf when the schemer finished his New Year’s dinner, and slipped out to visit the lair where a wrinkled hag guarded Justine Duprez’ convenient _pied à terre_. He marveled long over a second dispatch which awaited him there. Its words were ominous, and yet, Elaine Willoughby was firm and steadfast in her purpose. “She has been greatly excited. Doctor Alberg has been telegraphed for. You are to come to-morrow. Lawyer leaves to-night. Dare not communicate by letter. I have the most important news.” And all night Harold Vreeland was tossed about in a vain unrest. He knew that his greedy accomplice Justine would easily handle and draw out Alberg, for, not of a jealous disposition, Vreeland was perfectly willing that the doctor should be made a tool of the facile Parisienne. “You know how to lead him on, Justine,” was Vreeland’s easy-going hint, whereat the demure maid dropped her lashes and smiled. And after all, even the artful Justine was only means to an end. The recurring excitement of the tortured lonely rich woman was only a new phase of the old invincible mystery. “Can it be a gigantic game of blackmail, the infamous price of someone’s silence—the bribe to her quiet enjoyment of a station not her own? What hideous Frankenstein hides behind the dropped arras of her life?” Vreeland knew how many dark shadows lurked behind the bright curtains of New York’s Belgravia and Mayfair.