Justine had finished a glass of wine when she sprang to her feet. “To-day is the day of days. The janitor, August Helms, is all ready to tie on the wires to tap her telegraph and telephone. Come up to the Circassia at noon. I will take you into his room by the back way. He has arranged all with Mulholland, one of the two letter-carriers, to always delay Mrs. Willoughby’s mail by one delivery. Mulholland can hold them all for himself to handle. And, Helms, in his room, will then open and copy any we need. He is a German adept in letter opening.”
“You are a genius, Justine,” cried Vreeland. “You can bring Helms down to your own room in South Fifth Avenue and there you and I together can square up with him. We must be two to his one. This is the very day of days while she is fondly lingering at Lakemere with her own oldest lover.
“And now, my girl, take a good look around my den and then get out of here. It is too dangerous for us.
“For, you must never come here again. The janitor has sharp eyes.”
“Yes, and, the new ‘Mees Gairland’ is many evenings now, with that little Kelly devil. Look out for them both. You can only trust me,” nodded Justine, as she fled away, whispering, “I will come down into the court of the Circassia and meet you, in the entrance, as if by hazard at noon precisely. All you have to do is to silently follow me. I will have that paper by midnight if I live and the nurse shall have the blame.”
The rooms echoed to the laughter of hell as Vreeland’s fiery devil whispered, “Victory!” He had at last solved the mystery of a “business syndicate” which made him tremble as he feared its name might escape his lips. The copied paper gave a list of names whose publication would shake a nation’s counsels, and Garston’s name was there.
So, tiger-like and triumphant, he waited for the hour to go and arrange for his secret stealing of his dupe’s messages.
And, far away, at lonely Lakemere, where the trees now gleamed like ghastly silver skeletons of summer’s glories, the winds wailed around the silent mansion where Elaine Willoughby stood face to face with the man who had come out of her dead past, an apparition as grim and awful to her as the rising of the sheeted dead.
It was the struggle to the death of two proud and world-hardened hearts. The secret of her blighted youth was face to face with her now. And, the shadow of a crime hung menacingly over James Garston, the toga wearer. A statesman of a clouded past—a past known only to the defiant woman facing him on her own battle-ground.
“I find you here under a stolen name, facing the world, as a living lie.” The woman’s scornful lips had lashed into his quivering heart. Garston, bold-brave, reckless now with a mad tide of desire sweeping over his reawakened heart, had seized her hands. He cried, passionately: “And, I find my lost wife, the mother of our child, here, a lovely, and a glowing truth.”