The gilded child of fashion was first at the tryst, and Justine Duprez threw herself into her secret lover’s arms with a glad cry of triumph, when ten o’clock brought her to the meeting place. “If I could only come to you,” she fiercely sighed—“in your palace home!
“But wait—wait—till we have netted my lady. I have news now to make your heart dance.”
The panting woman drew from her breast a scrawl of paper, on which she had copied even the office marks. “This telegram came this morning. You see that it is dated Washington.” Vreeland’s heart bounded as he read the words: “Arlington—to-morrow. Don’t fail.” Was it an appointment—a lover’s secret call?
He could have shouted with triumph, as he gazed on the signature, “Alynton,” for a messenger had brought him a note at the moment of his departure to meet Justine. His patroness had fallen into a snare.
“I am going to Pittsburg to-night. Come up and dine. I will give you your orders for a week.”
He drew out the note, and glanced at the firm pen stroke. “Can Alynton be the father of Alva Whiting?” he growled.
He dropped his head on the table, while Justine took off her hat and wraps with the easy insouciance of a Camille. He was mad with mingled greed and jealousy.
“Perhaps! Alynton’s father was an irascible magnate of enormous wealth. They are about the same age. He may have feared his father’s wrath, for he naturally should make a political marriage. Ah! my lady, you have lied to me.
“If it is not the old secret of two guilty hearts, then there is the gordian knot of the great Sugar intrigue in this.”
His thoughts thronged upon him with lightning rapidity, and as her head lay on his arm, he gave the triumphant Frenchwoman her orders.