"Who has been doing the shadowing?"
"Worthington, the treasurer, is the guiding spirit of the 'insurgents' as they call themselves—it sounds popular, like reform. I understand they have had a detective named Drummond working for them."
Constance raised her eyes quickly at the name. "Was Drummond always to cross her trail?
"This story of the letters," he went on, "puts on the finishing touch. They have me all right on that. I can tell by the way that Sybil—er, Mrs. Brainard—acts, that she has read and reread those letters. But, by God," he concluded, bringing down his fist on the desk, "I shall fight to the end, and when I go down,"—he emphasized each word with an additional blow,—"the crash will bring down the whole damned structure on their own heads, too."
He was too earnest even to apologize to her. Constance studied the grim determination in the man's face. He was not one of those destined to fail.
"All is not lost that is in peril, Mr. Brainard," she remarked quietly. "That's one of the maxims of your own Wall Street."
"What would you do?" he asked. It was not an appeal; rather it was an invitation.
"I can't say, yet. Let me come into the office of the Trust. Can't I be your private secretary?"
"Consider yourself engaged. Name your figure—after it is over. My record on the Streets speaks for how I stand by those who stand by me. But I hate a quitter."
"So do I," exclaimed Constance, rising and giving him her hand in a straight-arm shake that made Brainard straighten himself and look down into her face with unconcealed admiration.