While Senator David Alynton, a cool, gray-eyed young millionaire wearer of the toga, a senator à
la mode, listened to Elaine Willoughby’s earnest arguments, he forgot that he was but forty years of age.
Though he was often an official listener to secrets in the marble capitol which might make or break the future of the Sugar Trust, he was also a raffiné man of the modern world—a luxury-lover—fond of money, and of its concrete power.
He knew, too well, that Elaine Willoughby was “game” to back her own candidate with a fortune as great as his own.
He felt that the past safe connection with Hathorn and Potter was broken for all time. He saw that the secret chief of the vast Syndicate blindly trusted the Queen of the Street, and, moreover, he was a man who was unable to resist the warm, womanly nature which drew him as the moon draws the seas.
“If you will personally watch over your young neophyte, Lady Mine,” he said, at last, “I will side with you. Your interests are mine. I hope that you do not forget what we both have to lose.” The Senator was mindful of the sanctity of his “toga,” now.
With softly shining eyes, she thanked him. “After all,” she laughed, her bosom heaving with the pride of victory, “you and I are the only real parties in interest here. We will let Endicott receive all the answers, and dear old Hugh Conyers can closely examine the whole record of the man whom we select as working partner.
“Between Vreeland and myself, the line of communication to you shall be guarded. As of old, Judge Endicott shall act for me—and I will alone handle all that concerns you. Even Vreeland shall never know—there’s my hand on it. You know that Hathorn has always been secretly kept ‘in the dark’
—against the day of his turning—like the fabled worm. You are safe as regards him—while I—”
She sighed, and left the man who was the “missing link” in the great scheme of active operations, wondering if she had ever really loved Hathorn. The young Senator was unconsciously grimly jealous.