“It is the only way to trace Mrs. Willoughby’s real movements and so be able to post Senator Garston.”
He would have been disturbed had he marked roundsman Dan Daly, a cool but shadowy pursuer of Justine Duprez on her every outing, and known also that the untiring schoolboy brother was on his own trail all the while.
The moving into the South Fifth Avenue lodging-house of a very agreeable old French crony gave a neighbor to Justine’s resident old hag, who speedily became a familiar visitor. And then through the walls of that adjoining room, a carefully contrived peep-hole enabled roundsman Daly’s all-seeing eye to witness the now infrequent interviews of Vreeland and Justine.
“I shall not be happy until I place the jewelry on that scoundrel’s wrists,” was Daly’s pledge to his own heart, for he had not forgotten Vreeland—bully and coward! There was a growing score to settle—a long one!
And so Vreeland and Justine had freely met in the fancied security of their Fools’ Paradise.
But blissfully ignorant, over the wine, Vreeland in the crowning interview, eyed the Western rising statesman. He was all on the alert as he said: “Senator Garston, I am now ready to close with you.
“But first, you must plainly tell me all. Why do you wish to find this girl?”
Garston carelessly knocked the ash off his cigar, as he coolly said: “There is a large amount of Western property, a very large one, in which that child has an interest, an interest moreover of which she knows nothing. That is my real business with the girl, whose life story I alone know—save the mother who has adroitly hidden her so long. You see her presence would have embarrassed the social queen!”
“Who was her father?” flatly demanded Vreeland.
The Senator’s eyes hardened. “That is nobody’s business but mine.