lawyers should have been deceived by
copies was not so surprising--they never dreamed of a substitution; the
matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of genuineness. But--he
thumped his forehead. He had been staying with friends at Newport at the
time. Had Mrs. Marteen been there? Of course! He took up the
incriminating documents again and thoroughly mastered their contents,
every turn of phrase, every between-the-line inference. Accidents could
happen; he must be prepared for the worst. Not that negotiations would
fail--but--not until the originals were in his hands and personally done
away with would he feel secure. He recalled Mrs. Marteen's graceful and
sumptuously clad figure, her clear-cut, beautiful head, the power of her
unwavering sapphire eyes, the gentle elegance of her voice. And this
woman--had--held him up!

He turned on the electric lamp, opened a secret compartment drawer in
the table, abstracted a tiny key, and, deftly making a packet of the
scattered proofs, unlocked a small hidden safe behind a row of first
editions of Bunyan and consigned them to secure obscurity.

A moment later his secretary entered the room in response to his ring.

"I'm going out," he said. "Lock up, will you, and at any time Mrs.
Marteen wants to see me admit her at once."

Mr. Saunders' face shone. He, too, was a devout worshiper at the shrine
of art.

"The Vandyke?" he inquired hopefully.

"Well, no--but I'm negotiating for a very remarkable series of
letters--of--er--Napoleon--concerning--er Waterloo."

* * * * *

II

When Marcus Gard dressed that evening he was so absent-minded that his
valet held forth for an hour in the servants' hall, with assurances that
some mighty _coup_ was toward. Not since the days of B.L. & W. or the
rate war on the S. & O. had his master shown such complete absorption.

"He's like a blind drunk, or a man in a trance, he is--he's just not
there in the head, and you have to walk around and dress his body, like
he was a dumb wax-work. If I get the lay, Smathers, I'll tip you off.
There might be something in it for us. He's due for dinner and bridge at
the Met., but unless Frenchy puts him out of the motor, he won't know
when he gets there"--which proved true. Three times the chauffeur
respectfully advised his master of their arrival, before the wondering
eyes of the club _chasseur_, before the Great Man, suddenly recalled to
the present, des