He dreamed strange dreams that night, for he well knew of the seraglio secrets of the bachelor apartments of New York.
He knew the light vanity that might lead her feet to the “Castle Dangerous” to solve the riddle which was as yet a mystery to himself.
But he whistled “Donna è Mobile” very contentedly, as he awoke to find a telegram on New Year’s morning from his sly partner in an already plotted treason. Justine’s words were pithy, and Justine was on guard.
“Watch in South Fifth Avenue for news!”
The simple signature J followed the words: “Lawyer here. See me first on your arrival.”
“I think that I am a pretty lucky devil,” was the flattering unction with which Vreeland regaled his soul, as he drove down to Wall Street and found the two responsible men there on duty.
Noel Endicott, with Aubrey Maitland, were in a secret junta busily opening the new set of books.
The finely assumed carelessness of Vreeland covered his desire to trace and locate the only man he feared—Mr. Horton Wyman.
“Just write your dispatch,” calmly said Endicott. “I’ll send it down to Washington to Alynton’s private secretary, and you’ll have Wyman’s answer at once. They are inspecting some of Alynton’s West Virginia properties.”
And, in truth, an open answer to Vreeland’s holiday greeting was at the Waldorf when the schemer finished his New Year’s dinner, and slipped out to visit the lair where a wrinkled hag guarded Justine Duprez’ convenient pied à terre.