During the long, busy week before the Christmas holidays, Vreeland narrowly watched his strange, silent partner, Horton Wyman, to see if he were bidden to the Lakemere house party.
“He is the only one that I have to fear,” mused Vreeland, “for, with Senator Alynton’s backing and his daily intercourse with old Endicott, I would be bowled out in a moment, if I made a single misstep. Can he yearn for Elaine Willoughby’s money?”
In the daily office associations, the casual meetings at the Circassia, in the feebly maintained exchange of personal hospitalities, Horton Wyman had so far remained to him an unexplored country.
Cool, sturdy, with piercing black eyes, and a marvelous self-control, with a facial mask which even a Jesuit might have envied, Horton Wyman was seemingly devoid of any passion but money-making.
Vreeland had gained the general impression that he was “bookish,” and the silent partner avoided all show society.
Thirty-five years sat lightly on the man, whose scanty references to Senator Alynton’s millionaire father indicated that the “poor relation,” had been trained up in adversity as the dead financier’s private secretary. “He is a fellow to beware of. I’ll let him alone,” mused Vreeland.
Harold Vreeland thanked his lucky stars when Wyman drew him into his private den when the first sporadic Christmas trees were beginning to creep into Gotham.
“Well, old man,” cheerfully said Wyman, “I’m off for a two weeks’ visit to the Alyntons. Endicott will handle our Board work through his uncle’s private broker, and Maitland and Noel will take their leave after we return. I suppose that you will be at the Lakemere house party.
“Of course, there’s no need of you following up things at the office. Here’s my telegraph address, if anything turns up, and, of course, Mrs. Willoughby will call on you if she needs anything.
“We’ve got the thing running pretty smoothly, so take your full share of mistletoe. Noel tells me that all the prettiest girls in town will be up there at Lakemere.” It was a welcome relief.