With a last touch of his old lightness, the champion of the absent Alida whispered, “That’s a young goddess you have captured.” Potter had observed the Bona Dea.
Vreeland frowned gravely as he followed the furtive gesture.
“Miss Garland has entire charge of all the books and records of my private estate,” he coldly said.
“I am a man of system and order. The other little woman is my private telegraph operator. She is a part of our ‘business force.’” Vreeland affected the careworn millionaire.
“Ah, you don’t mix up the two affairs. Very good, very good,” complacently said Potter as he disappeared, leaving Vreeland startled. He bore away fruitful memories of Vreeland’s downcast hesitation.
The hard-hearted schemer took a pull at the brandy bottle. “It was a close shave,” he murmured.
“Alida Hathorn is game to the very last. She has not given him my name,
and now, as she will finally drift into this fortunate marriage, the Lady of the Red Rose will be only a buried memory.
“I am safe, and he never will know. The lovely ‘Red Rose’ is only another flower in le Jardin Secret.”
He realized, at last, that the daring imprudence of Alida Hathorn’s visit was but a jealous wife’s device, at any risk, to break the lines of her husband’s enemies.