“And now death pays all debts. I have absolutely nothing to show—”
Vreeland had seized his wife’s wrist.
“You were his—”
“Ward,” quietly retorted the beautiful rebel.
“And, sir, you took me as I took you, on trust! They told me that you were rich. I find you out to be a mere coward—a fool and a weakling, too! You have thrown away the handsome fortune which James Garston gave you. What has become of your own money?
“And your humbug ‘business interests’ down in Wall Street. Were you, too, only an ‘outside agent’ for Mrs. Willoughby—a mere paper screen for her speculations? What have you to show me?”
Vreeland’s whitened face proved his silent rage. “Our paths separate here!” bitterly said Katharine Vreeland. “If you have nothing, I have less. Not even a husband! Do you see that door?” she cried, with flashing eyes.
“Never cross its threshold again. Leave me to my dead friend, my dead hopes, my dead heart—and my poverty.” She was brave to the last, even in her abandonment.
With a last curse, lost upon the ears of the defiant woman now hidden in her own room, Vreeland had turned away to his flight, leaving his wife penniless, and he departed with but one last mad hope.
To bear away Justine Duprez, the only witness, to rescue the incriminating document, and then divide with the artful Frenchwoman the remaining twenty thousand dollars of the loan forced from Garston. For his deserted wife he had not even a thought!