Constance Dunlap

by Arthur B. Reeve

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PLUNGERS

  "They have the most select clientele in the city here."

  Constance Dunlap was sitting in the white steamy room of Charmant'sBeauty Shop. Her informant, reclining dreamily in a luxurious wickerchair, bathed in the perspiring vapor, had evidently taken a fancy toher.

  "And no wonder, either; they fix you up so well," she rattled on; thenconfidingly, "Now, last night after the show a party of us went tosupper and a dance--and it was in the wee small hours when we broke up.But Madame here can make you all over again. Floretta," she called toan attendant who had entered, "if Mr. Warrington calls up on the'phone, say I'll call him later."

  "Yes, Miss Larue."

  Constance glanced up quickly as Floretta mentioned the name of thepopular young actress. Stella Larue was a pretty girl on whom the wilddissipation of the night life of New York was just beginning to showits effects. The name of Warrington, too, recalled to Constanceinstantly some gossip she had heard in Wall Street about thedisagreement in the board of directors of the new Rubber Syndicate andthe effort to oust the president whose escapades were something morethan mere whispers of scandal.

  This was the woman in the case. Constance looked at Stella now withadded interest as she rose languidly, drew her bathrobe about hersuperb figure carelessly in such a way as to show it at best advantage.

  "I've had more or less to do with Wall Street myself," observedConstance.

  "Oh, have you? Isn't that interesting," cried Stella.

  "I hope you're not putting money in Rubber?" queried Constance.

  "On the contrary," rippled Stella, then added, "You're going to stay?Let me tell you something. Have Floretta do your hair. She's the besthere. Then come around to see me in the dormitory if I'm here when youare through, won't you?"

  Constance promised and Stella fluttered away like the pretty butterflythat she was, leaving Constance to wonder at the natural gravitation ofplungers in the money market toward plungers in the white lights.

  Charmant's Beauty Parlor was indeed all its name implied, a temple ofthe cult of adornment, the last cry in the effort to satisfy what ismore than health, wealth, and happiness to some women--the fundamentalfeminine instinct for beauty.

  Constance had visited the beauty specialist to have an incipientwrinkle smoothed out. Frankly, it was not vanity. But she had come torealize that her greatest asset was her personal appearance. Once thathad a chance to work, her native wit and keen ability would carry herto success.

  Madame Charmant herself was a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired,dark-eyed, well-groomed woman who looked as if she had been stampedfrom a die for a fashion plate--and then the die had been thrown away.All others like her were spurious copies, counterfeits. More than that,she affected the name of Vera, which in itself had the ring of truth.

  And so Charmant had prevailed on Constance to take a full course inbeautification and withhold the wrinkle at the source.

  "Besides, you know, my dear," she purred, "there's nothing discoveredby the greatest minds of the age that we don't apply at once."

  Constance was not impervious to feminine reason, and here she was.

  "Has Miss Larue gone?" she asked when at last she was seated in acomfortable chair again sipping a little aromatic cup of coffee.

  "No, she's resting in one of the little dressing rooms."

  She followed Floretta down the corridor. Each little compartment hadits neat, plain white enameled bed, a dresser and a chair.

  Stella smiled as Constance entered. "Yes," she murmured in response tothe greeting, "I feel quite myself now."

  "Mr. Warrington on the wire," announced Floretta a moment later, comingdown the corridor again with a telephone on a long unwinding wire.

  "Hello, Alfred--oh, rocky this morning," Constance overheard. "I saidto myself, 'Never again--until the next time. Vera? Oh, she was asfresh as a lark. Can I lunch with you downtown? Of course.'" Then asshe hung up the receiver she called, "Floretta, get me a taxi."

  "Yes, Miss Larue."

  "I always have a feeling here," whispered Stella, "that I am beinglistened to. I mean to speak to Vera about it some time. By the way,wouldn't you like to join us to-night? Vera will be along and Mr.Warrington and perhaps 'Diamond Jack' Braden--you know him?"

  Constance confessed frankly that she did not have the pleasure of theacquaintance of the well-known turfman and first nighter.

  She hesitated. Perhaps it was that that Stella liked. Almost any oneelse would have been overeager to accept. But to Constance, sure ofherself now, nothing of the sort was worth scrambling for. Besides, shewas wondering how a man with the fight of his life on his hands couldfind time to lunch downtown even with Stella.

  "I've taken quite a fancy to you," pressed Stella.

  "Thank you, it's very kind of you," Constance answered. "I shall tryvery hard to be there."

  "I'll leave a box for you at the office. Come around after theperformance to my dressing room."

  "Miss Larue, your taxi's waiting," announced Floretta.

  "Thanks. Are you going now, Mrs. Dunlap? Yes? Then ride down in theelevator with me."

  They parted at the foot of the elevator and Constance walked throughthe arcade of the office building in which the beauty parlor occupiedthe top floor. She stopped at a florist's stand to admire the flowers,but more for an excuse to look back at Stella.

  As Stella stepped into a taxicab, showing a generous wealth of silkenhosiery beneath the tango gown, Constance was aware that the driver ofanother cab across the street was also interested. She noticed that heturned and spoke to his fare through the open window.

  The cab swung around to follow the other and Constance caught afleeting glimpse of a familiar face.

  "Drummond," she exclaimed almost aloud.

  What did it mean? Why had the detective been employed to follow Stella?Instinctively she concluded that he must be engaged by Mrs. Warrington.

  "I must accept Stella's invitation," she said to herself excitedly. "Atleast, she should be put on her guard."

  That evening, as she was looking over the newspapers, her eye caughtthe item in the Wall Street edition:

  RUBBER SYNDICATE DISSENSION

  Break in Stock Follows Effort of Strong Minority to Oust Warringtonfrom Presidency

  Then followed a brief account of the struggle of a powerful group ofdirectors to force Warrington, Braden, and the rest out, with a hint atthe scandal of which every one now was talking.

  "I never yet knew a man who went in for that sort of thing that lastedlong in business," she observed. "This is my chance--a crowd riding fora fall."

  Constance chose a modest orchestra seat in preference to the place in abox which Stella had reserved for her at the office, and, aside fromthe purpose which was rapidly taking shape in her mind, she enjoyed theplay very much. Stella Larue, as the "Grass Widow," played her partwith a piquancy which Constance knew was not wholly a matter of bookknowledge.

  As the curtain went down, the audience, its appetite for the risquewhetted, filed out on Broadway with its myriad lights and continuousfilm of motion. Constance made her way around to Stella's dressing room.

  She had scarcely been welcomed by Stella, whose cheeks beneath thegrease paint were now genuinely ablaze with excitement, when a manentered. He was tall, spare, the type whose very bow is ingratiatingand whose "delighted, I assure you" is suave and compelling.

  Alfred Warrington seemed to be on very good terms indeed with Stella asshe introduced him to Constance.

  "You will join us, Mrs. Dunlap?" he asked, throwing an opera cloak overStella's shoulders. "Vera Charmant and Jack Braden are waiting for usat the Little Montmartre."

  As he mentioned the famous cabaret, Constance took a little tightergrip on herself and decided to take the plunge and see the affair out,although that sort of thing had very little attraction for her.

  They were leaving the theater when she saw lurking in the crowd thefamiliar figure of Drummond. She turned her head
quickly and sank backinto the dark recesses of the limousine.

  Should she tell them now about him?

  She leaned over to Warrington. "I saw a man in the crowd just now whoseemed to be quite interested in us," she said quickly. "Can't we drivearound a bit to throw him off if he should get into a cab?"

  Warrington looked at her keenly. It was quite evident that he thoughtit was Constance who was being followed, not Stella or himself.Constance decided quickly to say nothing more that would prejudiceStella, but as Warrington directed his driver to run up through thepark she saw that, far from alarming him, the words had only added azest of mystery about herself.

  They left the Park and the car jolted them quickly now over the unevenasphalt to the palace of pleasure, where already the two advance guardswere holding one of the best tables in a house crowded with all classesfrom debutantes to debauchees.

  "Diamond Jack" Braden was a heavy-set man with a debonnaire, dapper wayabout him. He wore a flower in his buttonhole, a smart touch whichseemed very fetching, evidently, to the artistic Vera.

  Constance fell to studying him, as she did all men and women. "Hishands betray him," she said to herself, as she was introduced.

  They were in fact shielded from view as he bowed, one with the thumbtucked in the corner of his trousers pocket, the other behind his back.

  "He is hiding something," flashed through her mind intuitively. And,when she analyzed it, she felt still that there was nothing fancifulabout the idea. It was simply a little unconscious piece of evidence.

  From the start the cabaret was pretty rapid. When they entered, two ofthe performers were rendering the Apache dance with an abandon thatimproved on its namesake. Scarcely had they finished when the orchestrabegan all over again, and a couple of diners from the tables glidedpast them on the dancing floor, then another couple and another.

  "Tanguez-vous?" bowed Braden, leaning over to Stella.

  "Oui, je tanguerai," she nodded, catching the spirit of the place.

  It left Warrington and Constance at the table with Vera, and asConstance looked eagerly after the graceful form of the little actress,Warrington asked, "Will you dance!"

  "No, thank you," she said, trying him out. "I haven't had time to learnthese new steps. And, besides, I have had a bad day in the market.Steel, Reading, everything is off. Not that I have lost much--but it'swhat I haven't made."

  Warrington, who had been about to repeat his question to Vera, turnedsuddenly. This was something new to him, to meet a woman likeConstance. If she knew about other stocks, she must know about theSyndicate. Already he had felt an attraction toward Constancephysically, an attraction of maturity which somehow or other seemedmore satisfying, at least novel, in contrast with, the gay butterflytalk of Stella.

  He did not ask Vera to dance. Instead he began banteringly to discussWall Street and in five minutes he found out that she really knew asmuch about certain features of the game as he did. She did not need tobe told that Alfred Warrington, plunger, man about town, was quiteunexpectedly struck by her personality.

  Now and then she could see Stella eyeing her covertly. The littleactress had had, like many another, a few dollars to invest or ratherwith which to speculate. Her method had been usually to make a quickprofit on a tip from some Wall Street friend. Often, if the tip wentwrong, the friend would return the money to the unsuspecting littlegirl, with some muttered apology about having been unable to get itplaced in time, and then, as the market went down or up, seeing that itwas too late, adding a congratulation that at least the principal wassaved if there was no profit.

  The little actress was plainly piqued. She saw, though she did notunderstand, that Constance was a different kind of plunger from whatshe had thought at first up at Charmant's. Instead of trying to competewith Constance in her field, she redoubled her efforts in her own. WasWarrington, a live spender, to slip through her grasp for a chanceacquaintance?

  Another dance. This time it was Stella and Warrington. Braden, who hadserved excellently as a foil to lead Warrington on when he had eyes forno one else, not even Vera, was left severely alone. Nothing was said,not an action done openly, but Constance, woman-like, could feel thecontest in the air. And she felt just a little quiver when they satdown and Warrington resumed the conversation with her where he had leftit. Even the daring cut of Stella's gown and the exaggerated proximityof her dainty person had failed this time.

  As they chatted gaily, Constance enjoyed her triumph to the full. Yes,she could see that Stella was violently jealous. But she intended thatshe should be. That was now a part of her plan as it shaped itself inher mind, since she had plunged or, perhaps better, had been draggedinto the game.

  As the evening wore on and the dancing became more furious, Warringtonseemed to catch the spirit of recklessness that was in the very air. Hetalked more recklessly, once in a while with a bitterness not aimed atany one in particular, which passed among the others as blase sarcasmof one who had seen much and to whom even the fastest was slow.

  But to Constance, as she tried to fathom him, it presented an entirelydifferent interpretation. For example, she asked herself, why had hebeen so ready, apparently, to transfer his interest from Stella? Was itbecause, having cut loose from the one feminine tie that morally boundhim, he no longer felt any restraint in cutting loose from others? Wasit the same spirit that had carried him on in the money game, havingcut loose from one financial principle, to let all go and to guide hiscourse as close to the edge of things as he dared? There had been thesame reckless bravado in the way he had urged on the driver of his carin the wild ride of the earlier evening, violating the speed laws yetsucceeding in escaping the traffic squad.

  Warrington was a plunger. Yet there was something about him that wasdifferent from others she had seen. Perhaps it was that he had aconscience, even though he had succeeded in detaching himself from it.

  And Stella. There was something different about her, too. Constancemore than once was on the point of revising her estimate of the littleactress. Was she, after all, wholly mercenary in her attitude towardWarrington? Was he merely a live spender whom she could not afford tolose? Or was she merely a beautiful, delicate creature caught in themerciless maelstrom of the life into which she had been thrown? Did sherealize the perilous position this all was placing her in?

  They were among the last to leave and Vera and Braden offered to takeConstance to her apartment in Braden's car, while Stella contrivedprettily to take so much of Warrington's time with the wraps that bythe time they were ready to go the manner of the breaking up of theparty was as she wanted it. In her final triumph she could not helpjust an extra inflection on, "I hope I'll see you again at Vera's soon,my dear."

  All night, or at least all that was left of it, Constance tried tostraighten out the whirl of her thoughts. With the morning she had anidea. Now, in a moment when the exhilaration of the gay life was at lowebb, she must see Stella.

  It was early yet, but Stella was not at her hotel when Constancecautiously called up the office to find out. Where was she? Constancedrove around to Charmant's on the chance that she might be there. Veragreeted her a trifle coldly, she thought, but then this was notmidnight at the Montmartre. No, Stella was not there, she said, butnevertheless Constance decided to wait.

  "I'm all unstrung," confided Constance, with an assumed air of languor,as she dropped into a chair.

  Charmant, as fresh as if she had just emerged from the proverbialbandbox, nodded knowingly. "A Turkish bath, massage, something to toneyou up," she advised.

  With alert eyes Constance went patiently through the process offreshening, first in the steamy hot room where she had met Stella theday before, then the deliciously cool shower, gentle massage, and allthe rest.

  At one of the little white tables of the manicures she noticed apretty, rather sad-faced little woman. There was something about herthat attracted Constance's attention, although she could not have toldexactly what it was.

  "You know her?" whispered Floretta, b
ursting with excitement. "No?Why,--" and here she paused and dropped her voice even lower,--"that'sMrs. Warrington."

  "Not the--"

  "Yes," she nodded, "his wife. You know, she comes here twice a week. Wehave to do some tall scheming to keep them apart. No, it's not vanity,either. It's--well--you see, she's trying to get him back, to look likea sport."

  Constance thought of the hopeless fight so far which the little womanwas waging to keep up with the dashing actress. Then she thought ofWarrington, of last night, of how he had sought her, so ready, itseemed, to leave even the "other woman." Then Floretta's remarkrepeated itself mechanically. "We have to do some tall scheming to keepthem apart." Was Stella here, after all?

  Mrs. Warrington was not a bad looking woman and in fact it wasdifficult to see how she expected to be improved by cosmetics thatwould lighten her complexion, bleaches that would flaxen her hair,tortures for this, that, and the other defect, real or imagined.

  Now, however, she was a creature of reinforcements, from her puffymasses of light hair to her French heels and embroidered stockings thatshowed through the slash in the drapery of her gown.

  Constance felt sorry for her, deeply sorry. The whole thing seemed notin keeping with her. She was a home-maker, not a butterfly. WasWarrington worth it all? asked Constance of herself. "At least shethinks so," flashed over her, as Mrs. Warrington rose, and left theroom, watchfully guided by Floretta to the next process in her coursein beautification.

  Constance sank back luxuriously on the cushions of her chaise longue.She longed to explore the beauty parlor, to leave the rest room and godown the narrow corridor, prying into the secrets of the littledressing rooms that opened into it. What did they conceal? Why had Veraseemed so distant? Was it the natural reaction of the "morning after,"or was Stella really there and was she keeping her away from Mrs.Warrington to prevent friction between two clients that would have beenannoying to all?

  She could reach no conclusion, except that there was a feeling ofluxurious well-being as she lolled back into the deep recesses of thelounge in the corner of the room separated from the next room by a thinboard partition.

  Suddenly her attention was arrested by muffled voices on the other sideof the partition. She strained her ears. She could not, of course, seethe speakers, or even recognize their voices, but they were a man and awoman.

  "We must get the thing settled right away," she overheard the man'svoice. "You see how he is? Every new face attracts him. See how he tookto that new one last night. Who knows what may happen? By and by someone may come along and spoil all."

  "Couldn't we use her?" asked the woman.

  "No, you can't use that woman. She's too clever. But we must dosomething, right away--to-night if possible."

  A pause. "How, then?"

  Another pause and the whispered monosyllable, "Dope!"

  "What?"

  "I have it here. Use a dozen of them. They can be snuffed as a powder,or it can be put in a drink. If you want more--see, I will put thebottle on this shelf--'way back. No one will see it."

  "Don't you think I ought to write a note, something that will be sureto get him up here?"

  "Yes--just a line or two--as if in haste."

  There was a sound as if of tearing a sheet of note paper from a pad.

  "Is that all right?"

  "Yes. As soon as the market closes. There will be nothing done to-day.To-morrow's the day. To-night we must get him going and in the meantimea meeting will be held, the plan arranged at the Prince Henryto-night--and then the smash. Between them all, he won't know what hasstruck him."

  "All right. You had better go out as you came in. It's better that noone up here should suspect anything."

  The voices ceased.

  What did it mean! Constance rose and sauntered around into the nextroom. It was empty, but when she looked hastily up on the shelf therewas a bottle of white tablets and on a table a pad of note paper fromwhich a sheet had been torn.

  She picked up the bottle gingerly. Who had touched it? Her mind wasworking quickly. Somewhere she had read of finger prints and thesubject had interested her because the system had been introduced inbanks and she saw that it was going to become more and more important.

  But how did they get them in a case like this? She had read of somepowder that adhered to the marks left by the sweat glands of thefingers. There was the talcum powder. Perhaps it would do.

  Quickly she shook the box gently over the glass. Then she blew it offcarefully.

  Clear, sharp, distinct, there were the imprints of fingers!

  But the paper. Talcum powder would not bring them out on that. It mustbe something black.

  A lead pencil! Eagerly she seized it and with, a little silverpen-knife whittled off the wood. Scrape! scrape! until she had a neatlittle pile of finely powdered graphite.

  Then she poured it on the paper and taking the sheet daintily by theedges, so that she would not mix her own finger prints with the others,she rolled the powder back and forth. As she looked anxiously she couldsee the little grains adhering to the paper.

  A fine camel's hair brush lay on the table, for penciling. She took itdeftly. It made her think of that first time when she painted thechecks for Carlton. A lump came into her throat.

  There they were, the second pair of telltale prints. But what tale didthey tell? Whose were they?

  Her reading on finger prints had been very limited but, like everythingshe did, to the point. She studied those before her, traced out as bestshe could the loops, whorls, arches, and composites, even counted theridges on some of them. It was not so difficult, after all.

  She stopped in an uptown branch of her brokers in one of the hotels.The market was very quiet, and even the Rubber Syndicate seemed to bemarking time. As she went out she passed the telephone booths. Shouldshe call up Warrington? Would he misinterpret it? What if he did? Shewas mistress of her own tongue. She need not say too much. Besides, ifshe were going on a fishing expedition, a telephone line was as good asany other--better than a visit.

  "This is Mrs. Dunlap," she said directly.

  "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Dunlap. I have been intending to call you up,but," he paused, and added, "you know we are having a pretty strenuoustime down here."

  There was a genuine ring to the first part of his reply. But the restof it trailed off into the old blase tone.

  "I'm sorry," she replied. "I enjoyed last night so much."

  "Did you?" came back eagerly.

  Before he could add anything she asked, "I suppose you are going to seeStella again this afternoon."

  "Why--er--yes," he hesitated. "I think so."

  "Where? At Vera's?" she asked, adopting a tone not of curiosity but ofchiding him for seeing Stella instead of herself.

  The moment of hesitation, before he said that he didn't know, told herthe truth. It was as good as a plain, "Yes."

  For a few moments they chatted. As she hung up the receiver after hisdeferential goodbye, Constance knew that she had gained a new anglefrom which to observe Warrington's character. He was intensely humanand he was "in wrong." Here was a mess, all around.

  The day wore on, yet brought no indecision as to what she would do,though it brought no solution as to how to do it. The inaction wasworse than anything else. The last quotations had come in over theticker, showing the Syndicate stocks still unchanged. She left herbrokers and sat for a few moments in the rotunda of the hotel,considering. She could stand it no longer. Whatever happened, she wouldrun around to Charmant's. Some excuse would occur when she got there.

  As Constance alighted from the private elevator, a delicate scent as ofattar of roses smote lightly on her, and there was, if anything, agreater air of exotic warmth about the place. Everything, from theelectric bulbs buried deep in the clusters of amber artificial flowersto the bright green leaves on the dainty trellises, the littlesquare-paned windows and white furniture, bespoke luxury. There was aninviting "tone" to it all.

  "I'm glad I've found you," began Co
nstance to Stella, as though nothinghad happened. "There is something I'd like to say to you besidesthanking you most kindly for the good time last--"

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" interrupted Madame Charmant in abusiness like tone. "I am sure that Miss Larue invited you last nightbecause she thought you were lonely. She and Mr. Warrington, you know,are old friends."

  Charmant emphasized the remark to mean, "You trespassed on forbiddenground, if you thought you could get him away."

  Constance seemed not to notice the implication.

  "There is something I'd like to say," she repeated gently.

  She picked up a little inking pad which lay on a mahogany secretarywhich Vera used as an office desk.

  "If you will be so kind, Stella, as to place your fingers flat on thispad-never mind about the ink; call Floretta; she will wipe them offafterwards-and then on this piece of paper, I won't bother you further."

  Almost before she knew it, the little actress had placed her daintywhite hand on the pad and then on the paper.

  Constance did the same, to illustrate, then called Floretta. "If Verawill do as I have done," she said, offering her the pad, and taking herhand. Charmant complied, and when Floretta arrived her impressions wereadded to the others.

  "There's a man wishes to see you, outside, Madame," said Floretta,wiping off the soiled finger tips.

  "Tell him to wait--in the little room."

  Floretta opened the door to go out and through it Constance caughtsight of a familiar face.

  A moment later the man was in the room with them. It was Drummond, thesame sneer, the same assurance in his manner.

  "So," he snarled at Constance. "You here?"

  "I seem to be here," she answered calmly. "Why?"

  "Never mind why," he blustered. "I knew you saw me the other night. Iheard you tell 'em to hit it up so as to shake me. But I found out allright."

  "Found out what?" asked Constance coldly.

  "Say, that's about your style, isn't it? You always get in when itcomes to trimming the good spenders, don't you?"

  "Mr. Drummond," she replied, "I don't care to talk to you."

  "You don't, hey? Well, perhaps, when the time comes you'll have totalk. How about that?"

  She was thinking rapidly. Was Mrs. Warrington preparing to strike ablow that would be the last impulse necessary to send the plunger downfor the last time? She decided to take a chance, to temporize untilsome one else made a move.

  "I'd thank you to place your fingers on this pad," said Constancequietly. "I'm making a collection of these things."

  "You are, are you?"

  "Yes," she cut short. "And if my collection isn't large enough I shallcall up Mrs. Warrington and ask her to come over, too," she addedsignificantly.

  Floretta entered again. "Please wipe the ink off Mr. Drummond'sfingers," ordered Constance quietly, still holding out the pad.

  "Confound your impudence," he ground out, seizing the pad. "There! Whatdo you mean by Mrs. Warrington? What has she to do with this? Have acare, Mrs. Dunlap--you're on the wrong track here, and going the wrongway."

  "Mr. Warrington is--" began Floretta.

  "Show him in--quick," demanded Constance, determined to bring theaffair to a show-down on the spot.

  As the door swung open, Warrington looked at the group in unfeignedsurprise.

  "Mr. Warrington," greeted Constance without giving any of the others achance, "this morning, I heard a little conversation up here. Floretta,will you go into the little room, and on the top shelf you will find abottle. Bring it here carefully. I have a sheet of paper, also, which Iam going to show you. I had already seen the little woman, Mr.Warrington, whom you have treated so unjustly. She was here tryingvainly to win you back by those arts which she thinks must appeal toyou."

  Floretta returned with the bottle and placed it on the secretary besideConstance.

  "Some one took some tablets from this bottle and gave them to some oneelse who wrote on this paper," she resumed, bending first over thepaper she had torn from the pad. "Ah, a loop with twelve ridges,another loop, a whorl, a whorl, a loop. The marks on this papercorrespond precisely with those made here just now by--Vera Charmantherself!"

  "You get out of here--quick," snarled Drummond, placing himself betweenthe now furious Vera and Constance.

  "One minute," replied Constance calmly. "I am sure Mr. Warrington is agentleman, if you are not. Perhaps I have no finger prints tocorrespond with those on the bottle. If not, I am sure that we can sendfor some one whose prints will do so."

  She was studying the bottle.

  "The other, however," she said slowly to conceal her own surprise, "wasa person who has been set to trail you and Stella, Mr. Warrington, adetective named Drummond!"

  Suddenly the truth flashed over her. Drummond was not employed by Mrs.Warrington at all. Then by whom? By the directors. And the rest ofthese people? Grafters who were using Stella to bait the hook. Bradenhad gone over to them, had aided in plunging Warrington into the wildlife until he could no longer play the business game as before.Charmant was his confederate, Drummond his witness.

  "Stella," said Constance, turning suddenly to the little actress,"Stella, they are using you, 'Diamond Jack' and Vera, using you to leadhim on, playing the game of the minority of the directors of theSyndicate to get him out. There is to be a meeting of the directorsto-night at the Prince Henry. He was to be in no condition to go. Areyou willing to be mixed up in such a scandal?"

  Stella Larue was crying into a lace handkerchief. "You--you areall--against me," she sobbed. "What have I done?"

  "Nothing," soothed Constance, patting her shoulder. "As for Charmantand Drummond, they are tied by these proofs," she added, tapping thepapers with the prints, then picking them up and handing them toWarrington. "I think if the story were told to the directors at thePrince Henry to-night with reporters waiting downstairs in the lobby,it might produce a quieting effect."

  Warrington was speechless. He saw them all against him, Vera, Braden,Stella, Drummond.

  "More than that," added Constance, "nothing that you can ever do canequal the patience, the faith of the little woman I saw here to-day,slaving, yes, slaving for beauty. Here in my hand, in these scraps ofpaper, I hold your old life,--not part of it, but ALL of it," sheemphasized. "You have your chance. Will you take it?"

  He looked up quickly at Stella Larue. She had risen impulsively andflung her arms about Constance.

  "Yes," he muttered huskily, taking the papers, "all of it."