Constance was faced by an apparently insurmountable dilemma. She saw and agreed with the reasonableness of Graeme's position. But there was the opposition and obstinacy of Wickham, the bitterness and unscrupulousness of Drummond. Here was a tremendous problem. How was she to meet it?
For perhaps half an hour they sat in silence. One plan after another she rejected.
Suddenly an idea occurred to her. Somewhere, in a bank, she had seen a method which might meet the difficulty.
"To-morrow—I will arrange it—to suit both of you," she cried confidently.
"How?" he asked.
"Trust it all to me," she appealed.
"All," replied Graeme, rising and standing before her. "All. I will do anything you say."
He was about to take her hand, but she rose. "No, Graeme. Not now. There is work—the crisis. No, I must go. Trust me."
It was not until noon of the next day that he saw Constance again. There was an air of suppressed excitement about her as she entered the apartment and placed on a table before him a small oblong box of black enameled metal, beneath which was a roll of paper. Above was another somewhat similar box with another roll of paper.
Constance attached the instrument to the telephone, an enigmatical conversation followed, and she hung up the receiver.