“I know that you are looking for her,” whispered the radiant duenna. “Katharine is a sort of ward of Senator Garston. He is her trustee. They all come together. I must have a word with you about poor—”
The entrance of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby brought the splendid circle around her, there where gleaming lights and the breath of matchless flowers, where diamonds and brightest eyes, where ivory bosoms and shapely silver shoulders were mingling charms of a modern Paradise of throbbing, hungry hearts.
Doctor Alberg’s gloved hand was resting in Vreeland’s palm—he was whispering, “You and I and Justine must watch”—when the calm, passionless face of Senator Alynton, with Miss Katharine Norreys on his arm, appeared.
There was a hum of astonishment, of frank self-surrender to the Occidental beauty’s charms as Alynton gravely presented a tall, stately stranger, whose slightly silvered hair and chevalieresque bearing recalled the “Silver King.”
“My friend, Senator James Garston,” began Alynton, but there was a crowd of a dozen men eagerly stretching willing arms, as Elaine Willoughby’s face contracted in a spasm of pain, and she fell senseless into Doctor Alberg’s firm grasp. “Only the old heart trouble. In five minutes madame will be herself,” suavely announced the doctor. “Perhaps a bit too tightly laced,” he whispered to Mrs. McMorris.
It was a stately function, the dinner, which proceeded in a solemn splendor.
Senator James Garston was gravely attentive at the hostess’ left, and only Vreeland knew when the lights were low that Garston had whispered, “I must see you, at once.”
And with pale lips Elaine Willoughby had murmured, “At Lakemere, and to-morrow.”
Justine had gained her long-needed clue.