The one rare virtue of this scoundrel in embryo was that no inane self-conceit clouded his clear and mercilessly direct reasoning.
“I am only her tool as yet,” he reflected.
“But the Endicotts, Aubrey Maitland, and Wyman are to know nothing! This, of course, excludes Senator Alynton. She trusts me then alone—of the whole world.” And so, he panted for the coming solution of the enigma.
As he departed for New York, he left one lynx-eyed aid behind him.
It was the hot-hearted Justine, who already knew what her étrennes would be—a second thousand dollars.
“Remember, my own Justine,” he urged, with glowing eyes, “I want you to earn that whole five thousand dollars. Spy on Alberg.
“He is only a fool. But catch every whisper of this wary old Endicott. He alone knows what you must learn. There lies your fortune—in those pretty ears.”
“I have made my plan,” smilingly whispered the brown-skinned maid. “I am going to earn that money. Remember, I am vraie Française!”
There were but two plausible explanations of Madonna’s strangely secret course. Some “deed without a name” was in the plot.
And none of her old friends, no one of the financial world, not even her advisers, tried and true, were to share the secret of the two for whom the “bachelor apartment” was to be the veiled headquarters.