ess. You have seen
her? A stunning woman--wonderful. But I long ago saw that such a
friendship could lead to nothing but ruin." He met Constance's eye
squarely. There was nothing of the adventuress in it as there had been
in Blanche Leblanc. "And," he finished, almost biting off the words, "I
decided to cut it out."

"How does Blanche Leblanc figure in the Motor Trust trouble?" asked
Constance keenly.

"They had been shadowing me a long time before I knew it, ferreting
back into my past. Yesterday I learned that some one had broken into
Miss Leblanc's apartments and had stolen a package of letters which I
wrote to her. It can't hurt her. People expect that sort of thing of an
actress. But it can hurt the president of the Motor Trust--just at
present."

"Who has been doing the shadowing?"

"Worthington, the treasurer, is the guiding spirit of the 'insurgents'
as they call themselves--it sounds popular, like reform. I understand
they have had a detective named Drummond working for them."

Constance raised her eyes quickly at the name. "Was Drummond always to
cross her trail?

"This story of the letters," he went on, "puts on the finishing touch.
They have me all right on that. I can tell by the way that Sybil--er,
Mrs. Brainard--acts, that she has read and reread those letters. But,
by God," he concluded, bringing down his fist on the desk, "I shall
fight to the end, and when I go down,"--he emphasized each word with an
additional blow,--"the crash will bring down the whole damned structure
on their own heads, too."

He was too earnest even to apologize to her. Constance studied the grim
determination in the man's face. He was not one of those destined to
fail.

"All is not lost that is in peril, Mr. Brainard," she remarked quietly.
"That's one of the maxims of your own Wall Street."

"What would you do?" he asked. It was not an appeal; rather it was an
invitation.

"I can't say, yet. Let me come into the office of the Trust. Can't I be
your private secretary?"

"Consider yourself engaged. Name your figure--after it is over. My
record on the Streets speaks for how I stand by those who stand by me.
But I hate a quitter."

"So do I," exclaimed Constance, rising and giving him her hand in a
straight-arm shake that made Brainard straighten himself and look down
into her face with unconcealed admiration.

The next morning Constance became private secretary to the president of
the Motor Trust.

"You will be