“‘Under the name of “Alva Whiting”—full orphan—she was sent away for the second time. “‘I must find her! You must advertise!’ cried Madame. “‘Ah!’ said the old lawyer. ‘There is no hope. The young widower came back, after his second wedding was all safe, returning from a three years’ visit in Europe. By a strange chance, his later union was also childless. “‘Rich, and now thoroughly independent, he, too, wished to trace “Alva Whiting,” and to reclaim her. “‘But the matron says that even the wily McLloyd, tempted by a handsome reward, failed to find her. The Western New York people may have given a false name, to prevent the child from ever knowing that she was not their own. “‘That is all—the matron would gladly earn our offered money—she knows nothing. “‘And now, God alone can, in his infinite mercy, ever reclaim “Alva Whiting.” “‘I have tried to induce this woman to meet me. She flatly told my agent that she would have all the books burned—and then, deny everything—if her prosperous middle age was connected with old McLloyd’s baby farm. She cried, “I’m as fond of money as anyone—but there’s the end of it.” “‘No more would she say. I fear there is no hope.’ The old lawyer was almost in tears, as he saw Madame’s sufferings. “Now,” whispered Justine, “I merely saved my place by that agility of body which you have so often praised. When Madame fell in a dead faint, and the old lawyer screamed for help, I just ran around the hall, knocking over a table, and—the rest has been left in Doctor Alberg’s hands. So, you now know all.” The schemer’s brain was working like lightning as they parted in silence. After the breakfast, it was Justine who conducted Vreeland to Madame Willoughby’s morning room—but not until Doctor Alberg had first waylaid him. “The same old mystery!” the German sighed. “Money trouble it can not be.” He flourished his arm in the direction of the fortune in art and bibelots scattered around. “Her general system is without disease. Her mind and self-control are perfect. She has no concealed bad habits, like the ‘suffering New York dames,’” he sneered. “But always periodical violent storms of sorrow, these violent attacks following old Endicott’s business visits. “There must be some old bug-a-boo. Now, I know lonely women are often apt to be hysterical. “Marry her. Take her away to Europe. Make her happy. She is a Venus de Melos, yet in her prime. Break off the domination of this old legal crab. “Marriage reveals all secrets, finally. You will surely break his hold on her. You are no sentimentalist. I will prescribe marriage—do you see? We will work together. I will be your ally—your slave—your friend. “You can well afford to be generous, and you then can work me in, as confidential physician, into that golden New York circle where the women’s confidence once gained, a man need not look further for a Golconda.