The last flurries of the sudden Sugar speculations had all died away, and Vreeland at last believed Mrs. Willoughby’s description of the market.
“There is nothing in sight. I shall let all speculation alone until Dr. Alberg pronounces me able to stand business excitement. Your time is your own till I call you back to your post and send Miss Kelly down to her work again. She will act as my private secretary until I am thoroughly well.”
And Vreeland, now fearful that he might be as suddenly dropped as Frederick Hathorn had been, forbore to press on the confidence of the woman whose thinned cheeks and hollow eyes told of some internal fires eating away her vitality. He was unable to extract any information of value from Dr. Hugo Alberg. And the thieving nurse was now safe over the sea—the robbery of the envelope still undiscovered.
The German medical worthy was really puzzled. In the secrecy of Vreeland’s rooms he confided that though all the depression of the skillfully administered overdoses of chloral had worn away, his patient was wearing herself to the verge of a collapse.
“Mental trouble! mental trouble!” he growled. “Neither Justine nor my new nurse (whom I dare not fully trust) can gain the slightest clew to her sorrows. The Madame has grown cat-like, too, in her secretive ways. There is old Endicott always hovering around, and that newspaper fellow, Hugh Conyers; and, besides, his raw-boned artist sister, Miss Sara, is closeted with her nearly every evening. What they are all up to is a devil’s wonder.
“Are they plucking her of her gold? There is such a thing as social blackmail. Any lonely woman of fortune usually has a ring of hungry sycophants around her.”
The German groaned helplessly. He wanted that same gold, and wanted it badly.
“And you, of course, think that you should be the king-pin of the whole machine,” sneered Vreeland. The half-angered German snorted a warning.
“Look out for yourself,” growled Alberg. “She does not let the French maid go out of her sight now, and her new nurse has not dared to leave. Remember, I will hold you responsible about the stolen envelope. I have covered up my own tracks.”
And then he proudly exhibited the newspaper clipping headed, “An Ungrateful Protégé,” which described the heartless pillaging of Dr. Alberg’s office and rooms by “Miss Martha Wilmot,” who had “decamped for parts unknown.” The police detective opinions and the portentous interviews were all set out in extenso.