“Money trouble it can not be.”
He flourished his arm in the direction of the fortune in art and bibelots scattered around.
“Her general system is without disease. Her mind and self-control are perfect. She has no concealed bad habits, like the ‘suffering New York dames,’” he sneered. “But always periodical violent storms of sorrow, these violent attacks following old Endicott’s business visits.
“There must be some old bug-a-boo. Now, I know lonely women are often apt to be hysterical.
“Marry her. Take her away to Europe. Make her happy. She is a Venus de Melos, yet in her prime. Break off the domination of this old legal crab.
“Marriage reveals all secrets, finally. You will surely break his hold on her. You are no sentimentalist. I will prescribe marriage—do you see? We will work together. I will be your ally—your slave—your friend.
“You can well afford to be generous, and you then can work me in, as confidential physician, into that golden New York circle where the women’s confidence once gained, a man need not look further for a Golconda.
“Discretion, silence, and a willingness to go through fire to hide any woman’s secrets—voilà—the perfect doctor—the successful medical man! Shall we work together—you and I?”
The young schemer grasped the greedy German’s hand. “I’ll stop at nothing—to help you. By God! you shall have her every secret.”
“It’s a go. Loyal to the end,” whispered Vreeland.