It was left to the imperturbable Bagley, next day, “to gather up the fragments,” and headaches, heartaches, and visions of “woven paces and waving arms,”—with sky-pointed toes and glimpses _ne quid nimis_ of clocked stockings and sleek tricots, were fairly divided among the gallant swains who “did not go home till morning.” It was in this jovial manner that Vreeland vindicated the public character of _un homme galant_, which his strange feverish-hearted patroness seemed to thrust upon him. And he wondered as he obeyed—but, the game went bravely on. There were some seriously tender interludes in the “evening’s hilarity.” Miss Dickie Doubleday, in the _empanchement de son âme_ and, watchfully jealous of that dimpled star, Stella Knox, had quickly effected a truce, of an amatory character, with the loved and lost Jimmie Potter, who had lived to learn that her heart was “a bicycle made for two”—if not more. “After the ball,” Potter ostentatiously lingered to smoke a last weed with Vreeland, who had opened for him alone the last unprofaned corner of his domain—that Bluebeard chamber which was “strictly business.” He knew that Potter was secret, safe, and gamely silent. “Ah! my boy!” sighed Potter. “I see how you carry on your own private plunging. What a fool Hathorn was—to quarrel with the Willoughby! “Now that I’m out I don’t mind to tell you that the old firm is going downhill very fast. Hathorn lost his luck when he cut the golden cord. “I can’t make him out. He has grown strangely reckless and haggard. “And the wife is, to say the least, _un peu insouciante_. You know of that little yacht racket?”—and he whispered a few telling words. “Well! Alida Hathorn was the Veiled Lady. I have it from the man who is to be the sailing master of the ‘Aphrodite’ next year. “And the blinded Hathorn is obstinately shadowing Mrs. Willoughby, still following up her game, digging up her past, and backing up all his wife’s acidulated slanders. “When I found this to be a truth, and saw these damned guttersnipe Hawkshaws slipping in and out of his private office, I decided to quietly withdraw—for a quieter and a gamer woman never drew breath than Elaine Willoughby. “I wish to God that I had married Alida,” burst out the honest reveler, whose relaxed nerves had unsealed the fountains of truth. “For now, I fear, she will be every man’s woman—if she don’t pull up. She’s left all alone, and Hathorn’s one idea is revenge upon Elaine Willoughby. “And for her sake, he bitterly hates you. Look out for him. For he has lost all self-control. You are wise to play your outside game here in safety. Hathorn would not hesitate to bribe your own people. “I know he had that big lump of deviltry, Justine Duprez, in his pay. He even took her over to Paris the summer Mrs. Willoughby went out to Colorado. I’m glad I’m out of the stock business. You’ll tire of it, and with your money why do you fool with it?”