Every day Constance went to Wall Street, where she had established confidential relations with a number of brokers. Together they planned the campaigns; she executed them with consummate skill and adroitness.
Constance was amazed. Here was a man who for years had been able to earn only eighty-five dollars a month and had not seemed to show any ability. Yet he was able to speculate in Wall Street with such dash that he seemed to be in a fair way, through her, to accumulate a fortune.
One night as they were hurrying back to Graeme's after a walk, they had to pass a crowd on Broadway. Constance saw a familiar face hurrying by. It gave her a start. It was Drummond, the detective. He was not, apparently, looking for her. But then that was his method. He might have been looking. At any rate it reminded her unpleasantly of the fact that there were detectives in the world.
"What's the matter?" asked Graeme, noticing the change in her.
"I just saw a man I know."
The old jealousy flushed his face. Constance laughed in spite of her fears. Indeed, there was something that pleased her in his jealousy.
"He was the detective who has been hounding me ever since that time I told you about."
"Oh," he subsided. But if Drummond had been there, Mackenzie could have been counted on to risk all to protect her.
"We must be more careful," she shuddered.
Constance was startled one evening just as she was going out to meet Graeme and report on the progress of the day at hearing a knock at her door.