By some vague influence, the personal future designs of Miss Worthington seemed to be a subject tabooed between Witherspoon, his wife, and Doctor Atwater, at the regular weekly dinner at Beechwood, where the young physician was always a stated guest. Miss Worthington, already a Lady Bountiful, in Detroit, conducted a separate correspondence with the young wife, the husband, and the physician, the last her only confidant in the still unmatured plans of a practical philanthropy. It was in the early autumn of the year following Randall Clayton's death that Witherspoon sprang up in astonishment, when he unfolded the New York Herald over his morning coffee at Beechwood. The cabled announcement of the death of the Honorable Arthur Ferris, United States Consul at Amoy, China, was only supplemented by the statement that he had fallen a victim of the coast fever. "This is the end of all," sadly mused the lawyer, as he saw his immediate duty of repeating the news by telegraph to Detroit. "Whatever connection Ferris had with the secret designs of Worthington is now a sealed mystery forever; the hand of Death has turned the last page down." Witherspoon rightly conjectured that to Senator Dunham the death of his once trusted negotiator would be a welcome release from the tyranny of a dangerous past. "The statesman's immaculate toga is still unsmirched," bitterly commented Witherspoon. "And now all of Arthur Ferris' busy schemes have come to naught! His bootless treason, his fruitless intrigue of years, even the hush-money on the one side, the blood-money on the other, are all alike valueless! He lost every trick in life, even with the cards in his own hands." It was a case of the engineer "hoist with his own petard!" In vain did John Witherspoon await any personal comment from the great heiress. The very name of the dead man was unmentioned in the daily letters from her secretary. When Doctor Atwater returned from one of his now frequent "business" visits to Detroit, he shook his head in a grave negation when Witherspoon brought up the name of the dead counsel. "Something very strange there! Even Boardman and Warner seemed averse to any conversation upon the subject," soberly said Atwater. "I judge that the memory of Ferris is a most distasteful topic to them all. I presume that the papers of old Hugh probably have revived matters, which might as well be buried in Ferris' lonely grave out there on the shores of the Formosa Strait." It was nearly two months after the cabled announcement when John Witherspoon received a bulky packet from the United States Vice-Consul at Amoy, China. He had not fully deciphered all the documents when he sprang from his chair and, quitting the Trading Company's office, hurriedly drove to Doctor Atwater's headquarters. Atwater saw from his friend's face that something of moment had happened. "Tell me, Jack, what is it?" he asked with a horrible fear. "Alice?"