“Her convent shyness backs up her convent modesty,” sneered Vreeland, who dared not covertly insult his patroness’ protégé. Plaintively handsome, her steadfast eyes gleaming with a patient resignation, the pale cheeks and slender form told of a life of semi-invalidism. When not employed on her fashionable master’s business, she was ever busied copying literary manuscripts or legal documents. “She’s another cool hand,” vulgarly imagined the upstart schemer. “She knows that she is safe as long as Mrs. Willoughby is at the other end of that private wire. “But, perhaps this Daly, the Roundsman, may some day bring a glow to those cheeks. They are all alike—mistress and maid—here in hot-hearted, wicked New York. “This one’s only a neat, sly little sneak, and a spy on me.” Vreeland’s every nerve was tingling as he dashed up the stairs to Justine’s nest on South Fifth Avenue. Standing ready for instant departure, the excited girl told him of how she had stolen away while her fatigued mistress slept. “You will hear from her at once—probably to come up to-night. Now, once for all, _there is no love between them_. I found my way as usual. Only business—_great business_—MONEY AFFAIRS—the play of the stocks. He is to come up in a month and bring a new Senator from the West. “One of the secret friends; so, _mon ami_, you may soon have another rival.” Vreeland gnashed his teeth as the girl said: “They dined together—alone—and talked for hours. Senator Alynton gave her a paper after they had talked about the Government, about lawsuits and troubles, and that I sewed up in her corset for her in her presence before we left. Brother and sister they are, in friendship, but he never even raised her hand to his lips. _Elle est bien bête, trop bête, pour l’amour!_” was Justine’s parting fling. “You and I must get that paper, or a copy of it. It’s our fortune!” he cried. But, Justine had fled, only adding: “She saw no other man. She only went there to meet Alynton. Now, back to your rooms. She will soon call for you.” Justine was a true prophetess, for while Vreeland sat in his rooms immersed in the study of a dozen newspaper articles upon an ominous flurry in the “Sugar” securities, the lame girl tapped at his door. With a bow, she handed him the transcribed telephone message: “Please come up at once. Very important.” “Compliments, and say that I’ll leave instantly,” gravely replied Vreeland, without lifting his head. As he hurried on toward the Circassia, he endeavored to frame some idea of the daring woman speculator’s plans. There were rumors of unfavorable tariff action, of hostile legislation, of adverse decisions of the courts to be expected, of a growing agitation against the “Sugar Trust,” and even of the desire of the great Standard Oil Company to force the value of “Sugar shares” down by the pressure of their heavily-armed capitalistic secret brokers, and to “gobble” a controlling interest, or at least the bulk of the heavy holdings.