Her plan was already formulated. A simulated illness, a last “bleeding” of Harold Vreeland, and then, a return to dear Paris. Once again on French soil, she would be safe. For Paris would soon swallow her up. The vicious child would be hidden in the mighty bosom of the Mother of all Wickedness.
“Ah! he shall pay,” she muttered, as her velvety eyes rested, lit up with a strange fire, on the beautiful woman whose iron hand now held her so firmly. “She and the Kelly—how I could drive a knife into their hearts!” she hissed.
“But Justine must wait; gold first, gold—and then la liberté shall be mine.”
When “Harold Vreeland and wife” were duly domiciled at the Hotel Savoy, he was not astonished at the proximity of “Uncle James” at the Plaza Hotel; but, even on the pier, when the Senator met them, Vreeland noted the ravages of some overmastering passion in the strong man’s face.
The eyes were brilliant and unsteady, there was a foreign irritability in his abrupt manner, and Vreeland’s attempts at a tête-à-tête were only met with a sharp command “to get inside his old business lines” as soon as he could; and Vreeland, humbled, kept his temper.
“I must have you back in the traces again,” sharply cried Garston. “And, I would get up to Lakemere to-night if I were you. See Mrs. Willoughby, and get safe on the old basis.
“The stock market is humming, and I will soon have need of you in Wall Street. I trust no one there but you.”
Harold Vreeland hastened away to the office, and found the same unimpassioned greeting which had always characterized Horton Wyman. And in the rush, they were now glad to have his aid in their increasing affairs.
“You will go, of course, up to Lakemere to-night?” said Noel Endicott. “I have already telegraphed your arrival to Mrs. Willoughby.”
In a stolen detour, Vreeland arranged for an early morning interview with Doctor Alberg, and then he passed the “Circassia” on his way to the train after dinner.