“He has already spoken, and I will fight in this good cause—to the death, under your colors.”
He drew out a letter from Hathorn and read it slowly, without a single comment, and with a dramatic, hushed solemnity.
Before he had finished he saw in her glowing eyes that she was his prey. The poisoned arrow had struck home. She was, after all, a woman at heart.
Hathorn’s jerky letter referred to the “end of the season,” “a return incognito,” and demanded an early meeting with his chum. “I presume that you know all of Potter’s troubles. He wants to become a ‘special partner,’ and then to go away for two years. You must join us at once, or I must find another man. So, have your answer ready.” Elaine Willoughby was silent until Vreeland slowly read:
“I count on you to control in future Mrs. Willoughby’s business. Make yourself her friend and confidant. My wife is a tiger-cat of jealousy. Some fools or fiends have been working upon her spoiled babyhood. I’ve vainly told her that the woman whom she hates was past her youth and old enough to be her mother; but she will listen to no reason.
“Now, old fellow, you can easily gain Mrs. Willoughby’s good will. Her account is the best on the Street, and, in this way, if you join us, we can divide the profits, and I am then safe from a fruitless quarrel. Of course, I’ve got to drop the Willoughby for good.”
There was a shrill cry of rage and defiance. Vreeland’s heart leaped up.
“Let me read the rest of that alone,” cried Elaine, with blazing eyes. After a moment’s pause, she handed it back, when she had noted Hathorn’s signature.
“He asks you to cable him your decision!” breathlessly said the Queen of the Street.
“I have simply telegraphed: ‘Impossible! I decline!’” answered Vreeland, and then, in the silence the shade of Judas Iscariot laughed far down in hell.