When the old advocate hastened away, then Elaine Willoughby turned like a tigress at bay.
“Bring Conyers here. I must think! Think! You may yet save us all!” The policeman darted away.
In five minutes, Daly had recounted the whole story to Hugh Conyers, who sat holding the woman’s trembling hands.
“I must go back now. Give me your orders. The newspapers are all that I fear! We must outwit them.”
“Is there not a French restaurant on the ground floor of this haunt down there?” said Conyers.
“Yes, yes!” impatiently cried Daly.
“Then,” calmly answered Hugh Conyers, “the story goes as follows: Vreeland, after a hard-drinking bout, had secretly wandered, half-mad, upstairs and took his life in the first room found open.
“You will remove his body to the Elmleaf apartments. I will send young Kelly down there to prepare Bagley for the last visit of his master.”
“And must I notify the Coroner when the body is there?” demanded the Roundsman, in admiration of the plan.
“Yes, and tell your own story. Keep the deputy marshals quiet. I’ll see that they are all well rewarded. I will telephone down to the Wall Street office that Mr. Vreeland has died by accident. I will meet Maitland, Wyman and Noel Endicott at the Elmleaf.