The house was dark where Alida Hathorn had directed her secret campaign when Vreeland, under Bagley’s escort, returned at midnight from the Waldorf. Vreeland turned his eyes away in a sickening dread.
The only remark made by the serene Queen of the Street was a commendation of his promptness. She was graciously cheerful. “The market turned upon us so quickly, that not a moment was to be lost,” placidly remarked Elaine Willoughby, whose pleasant smile of dismissal followed the sending up of a card whereon Vreeland saw the words “Hiram Endicott.” But, his patroness said, “You have earned a week’s rest. I can now give you that. You can amuse yourself for a week. I shall stand out of the market. You can go ahead and pick up the threads of current affairs down town.
“Remember, not a word of this to Wyman. It would lead to our instant parting. You have done well. I know now that I can trust to you, to the very last.”
Vreeland shuddered and stole away, wearing a sickly smile. The night had new terrors for him now.
All that long night, Mr. Harold Vreeland paced his room, waiting for the morrow. His haggard face was gray and ashen in the morning dawn, as he waited for the earliest journals.
And, for once, the brandy bottle was his friend.
He recalled a thousand times the impassioned face of the beautiful woman who had blindly followed his desperate lead.
“I had nothing to lose,” he mused. “This fierce play was only a flurry to my nerves, but, she may be wrecked. And if she should now turn upon me.”
He did not dare to think of facing her, and he even feared to show himself in Wall Street until the news of his beautiful accomplice’s situation should reach him.
“Where would she land on Life’s stormy seas?” He did not dare to face the ruin he had wrought.