MONSIGNOR LAFELLE made another afternoon call on the Beaubien a few days later. That lady, fresh from her bath, scented, powdered, and charming in a loose, flowing Mandarin robe, received him graciously.

“But I can give you only a moment, Monsignor,” she said, waving him to a chair, while she stooped and tenderly took up the two spaniels. “I have a dinner to-night, and so shall not listen unless you have something fresh and really worth while to offer.”

“My dear Madam,” said he, bowing low before he sank into the great leather armchair, “you are charming, and the Church is justly proud of you.”

“Tut, tut, my friend,” she returned, knitting her brows. “That may be fresh, I admit, but not worth listening to. And if you persist in that vein I shall be obliged to have William set you into the street.”

“I can not apologize for voicing the truth, dear Madam,” he replied, as his eyes roved admiringly over her comely figure. “The Church has never ceased to claim you, however far you may have wandered from her. But I will be brief. I am leaving for Canada shortly on a mission of some importance. May I not take with me the consoling assurance that you have at last heard and yielded to the call of the tender Mother, who has never ceased to yearn for her beautiful, wayward daughter?”

The Beaubien smiled indulgently. “There,” she said gently, “I thought that was it. No, Monsignor, no,” shaking her head. “When only a wild, thoughtless girl I became a Catholic in order that I might marry Gaspard de Beaubien. The priest urged; and I––poof! what cared I? But the past eighteen years have confirmed me in some views; and one is that I shall gain nothing, either here or hereafter, by renewing my allegiance to the Church of Rome.”

Monsignor sighed, and stroked his abundant white hair. Yet his sigh bore a hope. “I learned this morning,” he said musingly, “that my recent labors with the Dowager Duchess of Altern in England have not been vain. She has become a communicant of Holy Church.”

“What!” exclaimed the Beaubien. “The Duchess of Altern––sister of Mrs. J. Wilton Ames? Why, she was a high Anglican––”

“Only a degree below the true Church, Madam. Her action is but anticipatory of a sweeping return of the entire Anglican Church to the true fold. And I learn further,” he went on, “that the Duchess will spend the winter in New York with her sister. Which means, of course, an unusually gay season here, does it not?”

The Beaubien quickly recovered from her astonishment. “Well, Monsignor,” she laughed, “for once you really are interesting. What else have you to divulge? That Mrs. Ames herself will be the next convert? Or perhaps J. Wilton?”

“No––at least, not yet. But one of your most intimate friends will become a communicant of Holy Saints next Sunday.”

“One of my most intimate friends!” The Beaubien set the spaniels down on the floor. “Now, my dear Monsignor, you are positively refreshing. Who is he?”

The man laughed softly. “Am I not right when I insist that you have wandered far, dear Madam? It is not ‘he,’ but ‘she,’ your dear friend, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.”

The Beaubien’s mouth opened wide and she sat suddenly upright and gazed blankly at her raconteur. The man went on, apparently oblivious of the effect his information had produced. “Her beautiful ward, who is to make her bow to society this winter, is one of us by birth.”

“Then you have been at work on Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward, have you?” said the Beaubien severely, and there was a threatening note in her voice.

“Why,” returned Monsignor easily, “the lady sent for me to express her desire to become affiliated with the Church. We do not seek her. And I have had no conversation with the girl, I assure you.”

The Beaubien reflected. Then:

“Will you tell me why, Monsignor, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles takes this unusual step?”

“Unusual! Is it unusual, Madam, for a woman who has seen much of the world to turn from it to the solace and promise of the Church?”

The Beaubien laughed sharply. “For women like Mrs. Hawley-Crowles it is, decidedly. What was her price, Monsignor?”

“Madam! You astonish me!”

“Monsignor, I do not. I know Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. And by this time you do, too. She is the last woman in the world to turn from it.”

“But the question you have just propounded reflects seriously upon both the Church and me––”

“Bah!” interjected the Beaubien, her eyes flashing. “Wait,” she commanded imperiously, as he rose. “I have a few things to say to you, since this is to be your last call.”

“Madam, not the last, I hope. For I shall not cease to plead the cause of the Church to you––”

“Surely, Monsignor, that is your business. You are welcome in my house at any time, and particularly when you have such delightful scraps of gossip as these which you have brought to-day. But, a word before you go, lest you become indiscreet on your return. Play Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to any extent you wish, but let her ward alone––absolutely! She is not for you.”

The cold, even tone in which the woman said this left no doubt in the man’s mind of her meaning. She was not trifling with him now, he knew. In her low-voiced words he found no trace of banter, of sophistry, nor of aught that he might in any wise misinterpret.

“Now, Monsignor, I have some influence in New York, as you may possibly know. Will you admit that I can do much for or against you? Drop your mask, therefore, and tell me frankly just what has induced Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to unite with your Church.”

The man knew he was pitting his own against a master mind. He hesitated and weighed well his words before replying. “Madam,” said he at length, with a note of reproach, “you misjudge the lady, the Church, and me, its humble servant. The latter require no defense. As for Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, I speak truly when I say that doubtless she has been greatly influenced by love for her late husband.”

“What!” The Beaubien half rose from her chair. “Jim Crowles––that raw, Irish boob, who was holding down a job on the police force until Ames found he could make a convenient 88 tool of him! The man who was Gannette’s cat’s-paw in the Fall River franchise steal! Now, Monsignor, would you have me believe you devoid of all sense?”

“But,” ejaculated the man, now becoming exasperated, and for the moment so losing his self-control as to make wretched use of his facts, “she is erecting an altar in Holy Saints as a memorial to him!”

“Heavens above!” The Beaubien sank back limp.

Monsignor Lafelle again made as if to rise. He felt that he was guilty of a miserable faux pas. “Madam, I regret that I must be leaving. But the hour––”

“Stay, Monsignor!” The Beaubien roused up and laid a detaining hand upon his arm. “Our versatile friend, what other projects has she in hand? What is she planning for her young ward?”

“Why, really, I can not say––beyond the fact that the girl is to be introduced to society this winter.”

“Humph! Going to make a try for the Ames set?”

“That, I believe, Madam, would be useless without your aid.”

“Did Mrs. Hawley-Crowles say so, Monsignor?” demanded the woman, leaning forward eagerly.

“Why, I believe I am not abusing her confidence when I say that she intimated as much,” he said, watching her closely and sparring now with better judgment. “She mentioned Mrs. Ames as New York’s fashionable society leader––”

“There is no such position as leader in New York society, Monsignor,” interrupted the Beaubien coldly. “There are sets and cliques, and Mrs. Ames happens to be prominent in the one which at present foolishly imagines it constitutes the upper stratum. Rot! And Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, with nothing but a tarnished name and a large bank account to recommend her, now wishes to break into that clique and attain social leadership, does she? How decidedly interesting!”

Then the woman’s eyes narrowed and grew hard. Leaning closer to the churchman, she rested the tip of her finger on his knee. “So, Monsignor,” she said, with cold precision, “this is Mrs. Hawley-Crowles’s method of renouncing the world, is it? Sublime! And she would use both you and me, eh? And you are her ambassador at the court of the Beaubien? Very well, then, she shall use us. But you and I will first make this compact, my dear Monsignor: Mrs. Hawley-Crowles shall be taken into the so-called ‘Ames set,’ and you shall cease importuning me to return to your Church, and what is more, shall promise to have no conversation on church matters with her ward, the young girl. If you do not agree to this, Monsignor, I shall set in motion forces that will make your return to New York quite 89 undesirable.” When she concluded, she looked long and steadily into his eyes.

Monsignor got slowly to his feet. “Madam!” he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, “my astonishment––”

“There,” she said calmly, as she rose and took his hand, “please omit the dramatics, Monsignor. And now you must go, for to-night I entertain, and I have already given you more time than I intended. But, Monsignor, do you in future work with or against me? Are we to be friends or enemies?”

“Why, Madam,” he replied quickly, “we could never be the latter!”

“And you always respect the wishes of a friend, especially if she is a lady, do you not?”

“Always, Madam,” he returned after a moment’s hesitation, as he bowed low over her hand.

“Then, good-bye. And, Monsignor,” she added, when he reached the door, “I shall be pleased to attend the dedication of the Hawley-Crowles altar.”

When Monsignor’s car glided away from her door the Beaubien’s face grew dark, and her eyes drew to narrow slits. “So,” she reflected, as she entered the elevator to mount to her dressing room, “that is her game, is it? The poor, fat simpleton has no interest in either the girl or myself, other than to use us as stepping-stones. She forgets that a stone sometimes turns under the foot. Fool!”

She entered her room and rang for her maid. Turning to the pier glass, she threw on the electric light and scrutinized her features narrowly. “It’s going,” she murmured, “fast! God, how I hate those gray hairs! Oh, what a farce life is––what a howling, mocking farce! I hate it! I hate everything––everybody! No––that little girl––if it is possible for me to love, I love her.”

She sank into an easy chair. “I wonder what it is she does to me. I’m hypnotized, I guess. Anyhow, I’m different when I’m with her. And to think that Hawley-Crowles would sacrifice the child––humph! But, if the girl is made of the right stuff––and I know she is––she will stand up under it and be stronger for the experience. She has got something that will make her stand! I once asked her what she had that I didn’t, and now I know––it is her religion, the religion that Borwell and Lafelle and the whole kit of preachers and priests would corrupt if they had half a chance! Very well, we’ll see what it does under the test. If it saves her, then I want it myself. But, as for that little pin-headed Hawley-Crowles, she’s already signed her own death-warrant. She shall get into the Ames set, yes. And I will use her, oh, beautifully! to pay off certain 90 old scores against Madam Ames––and then I’ll crush her like a dried leaf, the fat fool!”

The Beaubien’s position was, to say the least, peculiar, and one which required infinite tact on her part to protect. It was for that reason that the decorum which prevailed at her dinners was so rigidly observed, and that, whatever the moral status of the man who sat at her board, his conduct was required to be above reproach, on penalty of immediate ejection from the circle of financial pirates, captains of commercial jugglery, and political intriguers who made these feasts opportunities for outlining their predatory campaigns against that most anomalous of creatures, the common citizen.

It was about this table, at whose head always sat the richly gowned Beaubien, that the inner circle of financial kings had gathered almost nightly for years to rig the market, determine the price of wheat or cotton, and develop mendacious schemes of stock-jobbery whose golden harvests they could calculate almost to a dollar before launching. As the wealth of this clique of financial manipulators swelled beyond all bounds, so increased their power, until at last it could be justly said that, when Ames began to dominate the Stock Exchange, the Beaubien practically controlled Wall Street––and, therefore, in a sense, Washington itself. But always with a tenure of control dubiously dependent upon the caprices of the men who continued to pay homage to her personal charm and keen, powerful intellect.

At the time of which we speak her power was at its zenith, and she could with equal impunity decapitate the wealthiest, most aristocratic society dame, or force the door of the most exclusive set for any protÉgÉe who might have been kept long years knocking in vain, or whose family name, perchance, headed a list of indictments for gross peculations. At these unicameral meetings, held in the great, dark, mahogany-wainscoted dining room of the Beaubien mansion, where a single lamp of priceless workmanship threw a flood of light upon the sumptuous table beneath and left the rest of the closely guarded room shrouded in Stygian darkness, plans were laid and decrees adopted which seated judges, silenced clergymen, elected senators, and influenced presidents. There a muck-raking, hostile press was muffled. There business opposition was crushed and competition throttled. There tax rates were determined and tariff schedules formulated. There public opinion was disrupted, character assassinated, and the death-warrant of every threatening reformer drawn and signed. In a word, there Mammon, in the rÔle of business, organized and unorganized, legitimate and piratical, sat enthroned, with wires 91 leading into every mart of the world, and into every avenue of human endeavor, be it social, political, commercial, or religious. These wires were gathered together into the hands of one man, the directing genius of the group, J. Wilton Ames. Over him lay the shadow of the Beaubien.

An hour after the departure of Monsignor Lafelle the Beaubien, like a radiant sun, descended to the library to greet her assembled guests. Some moments later the heavy doors of the great dining room swung noiselessly open, and the lady proceeded unescorted to her position at the head of the table. At her signal the half dozen men sat down, and the butler immediately entered, followed by two serving men with the cocktails and the first course. The chair at the far end of the table, opposite the Beaubien, remained unoccupied.

“Ames is late to-night,” observed the girthy Gannette, glancing toward the vacant seat, and clumsily attempting to tuck his napkin into his collar.

The Beaubien looked sharply at him. “Were you at the club this afternoon, Mr. Gannette?” she inquired coldly.

Gannette straightened up and became rigid. Pulling the napkin down hastily, he replied in a thick voice, “Just a little game of bridge––some old friends––back from Europe––”

The Beaubien turned to the butler. “William, Mr. Gannette is not drinking wine this evening.” The butler bowed and removed the glasses from that gentleman’s place.

Gannette turned to expostulate. “Now, Lucile––” he began peevishly. The Beaubien held up a hand. Gannette glowered and sank down in his chair like a swollen toad.

“May be Ames is trying to break into the C. and R. directors’ meeting,” suggested Weston, himself a director in a dozen companies, and a bank president besides. A general laugh followed the remark.

“They tell me,” said Fitch, “that for once Ames has been outwitted, and that by a little bucket-shop broker named Ketchim.”

“How’s that?” queried Kane, Board of Trade plunger, and the most mettlesome speculator of the group.

“Why,” explained Weston, “some months ago Ames tried to reach Ed. Stolz through Ketchim, the old man’s nephew, and get control of C. and R. But friend nephew dropped the portcullis just as Ames was dashing across the drawbridge, and J. Wilton found himself outside, looking through the bars. First time I’ve ever known that to happen. Now the boys have got hold of it on ‘Change, and Ames has been getting it from every quarter.”

“Long time leaking out, seems to me,” remarked Kane. “But what’s Ames going to do about it?”

“Nothing, I guess,” returned Weston. “He seems to have dropped the matter.”

“I think you will find yourself mistaken,” put in the Beaubien evenly.

“Why?” queried Fitch, as all eyes turned upon the woman. “Have you inside information?”

“None whatever,” she replied. “But Mr. Ames always gets what he goes after, and he will secure control of C. and R. eventually.”

“I don’t believe it!” vigorously asserted Murdock, who had been an interested listener. “He will never oust Stolz.”

“I have one thousand dollars that says he will,” said the Beaubien, calmly regarding the speaker. “William, my checkbook, please.”

Murdock seemed taken back for the moment; but lost no time recovering his poise. Drawing out his own book he wrote a check in the Beaubien’s name for the amount and sent it down the table to her.

“Mr. Fitch will hold the stakes,” said the woman, handing him the two slips of paper. “And we will set a time limit of eighteen months.”

“By the way,” remarked Peele, the only one of the group who had taken no part in the preceding conversation, “I see by the evening paper that there’s been another accident in the Avon mills. Fellow named Marcus caught in a machine and crushed all out of shape. That’s the third one down there this month. They’ll force Ames to equip his mills with safety devices if this keeps up.”

“Not while the yellow metal has any influence upon the Legislature,” returned the Beaubien with a knowing smile. “But,” she added more seriously, “that is not where the danger lies. The real source of apprehension is in the possibility of a strike. And if war breaks out among those Hungarians down there it will cost him more than to equip all his mills now with safety devices.”

Gannette, who had been sulking in his chair, roused up. “Speaking of war,” he growled, “has Ames, or any of you fellows, got a finger in the muddle in South America? I’ve got interests down there––concessions and the like––and by––!” He wandered off into incoherent mutterings.

The Beaubien gave a sharp command to the butler. “William, Mr. Gannette is leaving now. You will escort him to the door.”

“Now look here, Lucile!” cried Gannette, his apoplectic face becoming more deeply purple, and his blear eyes leering angrily upon the calm woman. “I ain’t a-goin’ to stand this! 93 What have I done? I’m as sober as any one here, an’––” William took the heavy man gently by the arm and persuaded him to his feet. The other guests suppressed their smiles and remained discreetly quiet.

“But––my car––!” sputtered Gannette.

“Have Henri take him to his club, William,” said the Beaubien, rising. “Good night, Mr. Gannette. We will expect you Wednesday evening, and we trust that we will not have to accept your excuses again.”

Gannette was led soddenly out. The Beaubien quietly resumed her seat. It was the second time the man had been dismissed from her table, and the guests marveled that it did not mean the final loss of her favor. But she remained inscrutable; and the conversation quickly drifted into new channels. A few moments later William returned and made a quiet announcement:

“Mr. Ames.”

A huge presence emerged from the darkness into the light. The Beaubien immediately rose and advanced to greet the newcomer. “What is it?” she whispered, taking his hand.

The man smiled down into her upturned, anxious face. His only reply was a reassuring pressure of her hand. But she comprehended, and her face brightened.

“Gentlemen,” remarked Ames, taking the vacant chair, “the President’s message is out. I have been going over it with Hood––which accounts for my tardiness,” he added, nodding pleasantly to the Beaubien. “Quoting from our chief executive’s long list of innocent platitudes, I may say that ‘private monopoly is criminally unjust, wholly indefensible, and not to be tolerated in a Republic founded upon the premise of equal rights to all mankind.’”

“Certainly not!” concurred Weston, holding up his glass and gazing admiringly at the rich color of the wine.

The others laughed. “Quite my sentiments, too,” murmured Fitch, rolling his eyes upward and attempting with poor success to assume a beatific expression.

“Furthermore,” continued Ames, with mock gravity, “the interlocking of corporation directorates must be prohibited by law; power must be conferred upon the Interstate Commerce Commission to superintend the financial management of railroads; holding-companies must cease to exist; and corrective policies must be shaped, whereby so-called ‘trusts’ will be regulated and rendered innocuous. Are we agreed?”

“We are,” said they all, in one voice.

“Carried,” concluded Ames in a solemn tone. Then a burst of laughter rose from the table; and even the inscrutable William smiled behind his hand.

“But, seriously,” said Weston, when the laughter had ceased, “I believe we’ve got a President now who’s going to do something, don’t you?”

“I do not,” replied Ames emphatically. “As long as the human mind remains as it is there is nothing to fear, though Congress legislate itself blue in the face. Reform is not to be made like a garment and forced upon the people from the outside. It is a growth from within. Restrictive measures have not as yet, in all the history of civilization, reformed a single criminal.”

“What does Hood say?” asked Murdock.

“That we are puncture-proof,” replied Ames with a light laugh.

“But what about your indictment in that cotton deal? Is Hood going to find you law-proof there?”

“The case is settled,” said Ames easily. “I went into court this morning and plead guilty to the indictment for conspiring to corner the cotton market two years ago. I admitted that I violated the Sherman law. The judge promptly fined me three thousand dollars, for which I immediately wrote a check, leaving me still the winner by some two million seven hundred thousand dollars on the deal, to say nothing of compound interest on the three thousand for the past two years. You see the beneficent effect of legislation, do you not?”

“By George, Ames, you certainly were stingy not to let us in on that!” exclaimed Kane.

“Cotton belongs to me, gentlemen,” replied Ames simply. “You will have to keep out.”

“Well,” remarked Fitch, glancing about the table, “suppose we get down to the business of the evening––if agreeable to our hostess,” bowing in the direction of the Beaubien.

The latter nodded her approval of the suggestion. “Has any one anything new to offer?” she said.

Some moments of silence followed. Then Ames spoke. “There is a little matter,” he began, “that I have been revolving for some days. Perhaps it may interest you. It concerns the Albany post road. It occurred to me some time ago that a franchise for a trolley line on that road could be secured and ultimately sold for a round figure to the wealthy residents whose estates lie along it, and who would give a million dollars rather than have a line built there. After some preliminary examination I got Hood to draft a bill providing for the building of the road, and submitted it to Jacobson, Commissioner of Highways. He reported that it would be the means of destroying the post road. I convinced him, on the other hand, that it would be the means of lining his purse with fifty thousand 95 dollars. So he very naturally gave it his endorsement. I then got in consultation with Senator Gossitch, and had him arrange a meeting with the Governor, in Albany. I think,” he concluded, “that about five hundred thousand dollars will grease the wheels all ’round. I’ve got the Governor on the hip in that Southern Mexican deal, and he is at present eating out of my hand. I’ll lay this project on the table now, and you can take it up if you so desire.”

“The scheme seems all right,” commented Weston, after a short meditation. “But the profits are not especially large. What else have you?”

“Well, a net profit of half a million to split up among us would at least provide for a yachting party next summer,” remarked Ames sententiously. “And no work connected with it––in fact, the work has been done. I shall want an additional five per cent for handling it.”

An animated discussion followed; and then Fitch offered a motion that the group definitely take up the project. The Beaubien put the vote, and it was carried without dissent.

“What about that potato scheme you were figuring on, Ames?” asked Fitch at this juncture. “Anything ever come of it?”

Ames’s eyes twinkled. “I didn’t get much encouragement from my friends,” he replied. “A perfectly feasible scheme, too.”

“I don’t believe it,” put in Weston emphatically. “It never could be put through.”

“I have one million dollars that says it could,” returned Ames calmly. “Will you cover it?”

Weston threw up his hands in token of surrender. “Not I!” he exclaimed, scurrying for cover.

Ames laughed. “Well,” he said, “suppose we look into the scheme and see if we don’t want to handle it. It simply calls for a little thought and work. The profits would be tremendous. Shall I explain?” He stopped and glanced at the Beaubien for approval. She nodded, and he went on:

“I have lately been investigating the subject of various food supplies other than wheat and corn as possible bases for speculation, and my attention has been drawn strongly to a very humble one, potatoes.”

A general laugh followed this announcement. But Ames continued unperturbed:

“I find that in some sections of the West potatoes are so plentiful at times that they bring but twenty cents a bushel. My investigations have covered a period of several months, and now I have in my possession a large map of the United States 96 with the potato sections, prices, freight rates and all other necessary data indicated. The results are interesting. My idea is to send agents into all these sections next summer before the potatoes are turned up, and contract for the entire crop at twenty-five cents a bushel. The agents will pay the farmers cash, and agree to assume all expenses of digging, packing, shipping, and so forth, allowing the farmer to take what he needs for his own consumption. Needless to say, the potatoes will not be removed from the fields, but will be allowed to rot in the ground. Those that do reach the market will sell for a dollar and a half in New York and Chicago.”

“In other words,” added Fitch, “you are simply figuring to corner the market for the humble tuber, eh?”

“Precisely,” said Ames.

“But––you say you have all the necessary data now?”

“All, even to the selection of a few of my agents. I can control freight rates for what we may wish to ship. The rest of the crop will be left to rot. The farmers will jump at such a bargain. And the consumers will pay our price for what they must have.”

“Very pretty,” mused Murdock. “And how much do you figure we shall need to round the corner?”

“A million, cash in hand,” replied Ames.

“Is this anything that the women can mix into?” asked Fitch suddenly. “You know they forced us to dump tons of our cold-storage stuff onto the market two years ago.”

“That was when I controlled wheat,” said Ames, “and was all tied up. But this is a wholly different proposition. It will be done so quietly and thoroughly that it will all be over and the profits pocketed before the women wake up to what we’re doing. In this case there will be nothing to store. And potatoes exposed in the field rot quickly, you know.”

The rest of the group seemed to study the idea for some moments. Then the practical Murdock inquired of Ames if he would agree to handle the project, provided they took it up.

“Yes,” assented Ames, “on a five per cent basis. And I am ready to put agents in the field to-morrow.”

“Then, Madam Beaubien,” said Fitch, “I move that we adopt the plan as set forth by Mr. Ames, and commission him to handle it, calling upon us equally for whatever funds he may need.”

A further brief discussion ensued; and then the resolution was unanimously adopted.

“Say, Ames,” queried Weston, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “will any of these potatoes be shipped over the C. and R.?” 97 A laugh went up around the table, in which Ames himself joined. “Yes,” he said, “potatoes and cotton will both go over that road next summer, and I shall fix the rebates.”

“How about your friend Ketchim?” suggested Fitch, with a wink at Murdock.

Ames’s mouth set grimly, and the smile left his face. “Ketchim is going to Sing Sing for that little deal,” he returned in a low, cold tone, so cold that even the Beaubien could not repress a little shudder. “I had him on Molino, but he trumped up a new company which absorbed Molino and satisfied everybody, so I am blocked for the present. But, mark me, I shall strip him of every dollar, and then put him behind the bars before I’ve finished!”

And no one sought to refute the man, for they knew he spoke truth.

At midnight, while the cathedral chimes in the great hall clock were sending their trembling message through the dark house, the Beaubien rose, and the dinner was concluded. A few moments later the guests were spinning in their cars to their various homes or clubs––all but Ames. As he was preparing to leave, the Beaubien laid a hand on his arm. “Wait a moment, Wilton,” she said. “I have something important to discuss with you.” She led him into the morning room, where a fire was blazing cheerily in the grate, and drew up a chair before it for him, then nestled on the floor at his feet.

“I sent Gannette home this evening,” she began, by way of introduction. “He was drunk. I would drop him entirely, only you said––”

“We need him,” interrupted Ames. “Hold him a while longer.”

“I’ll soil my hands by doing it; but it is for you. Now tell me,” she went on eagerly, “what about Colombia? Have you any further news from Wenceslas?”

“A cable to-day. Everything’s all right. Don’t worry. The Church is with the Government, and they will win––although your money may be tied up for a few years. Still, you can’t lose in the end.”

The woman sat for some moments gazing into the fire. Then:

“Lafelle was here again to-day.”

“Hold him, too,” said Ames quickly. “Looks as if I had made you a sort of holding company, doesn’t it?” he added, with a chuckle. “But we shall have good use for these fellows.”

“He gave me some very interesting news,” she said; and then went on to relate the conversation in detail. Ames laughed loudly as he listened. 98 “And now, Wilton,” said the Beaubien, a determined look coming into her face, “you have always said that you never forgave me for making you let Jim Crowles off, when you had him by the throat. Well, I’m going to give you a chance to get more than even. Jim’s fat widow is after your wife’s scalp. I intend that she shall lose her own in the chase. I’ve got my plans all laid, and I want your wife to meet the lovely Mrs. Hawley-Crowles at the Fitch’s next Thursday afternoon. It will be just a formal call––mutual introductions––and, later, an invitation from Mrs. Ames to Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. Meantime, I want you to get Mrs. Hawley-Crowles involved in a financial way, and shear her of every penny! Do you understand?”

Ames looked at her quizzically. Then he broke into another sharp laugh. “My dear,” said he, taking her hand, “you are charming this evening. Added years only make you more beautiful.”

“Nonsense, Will!” she deprecated, although the smile she gave him attested her pleasure in the compliment. “Well,” she continued briskly, “if I’m so beautiful, you can’t help loving me; and if you love me, you will do what I ask.”

He playfully pinched her cheek. “Why, poor old Jim Crowles! Really, I’ve long since forgotten him. Do you realize that that was more than ten years ago?”

“Please don’t mention years, dear,” she murmured, shuddering a little. “Tell me, what can we do to teach this fat hussy a lesson?”

“Well,” he suggested, laughing, “we might get Ketchim after her, to sell her a wad of his worthless stocks; then when he goes down, as he is going one of these days, we will hope that it will leave her on the rocks of financial ruin, eh?”

“What’s Ketchim promoting?” she asked. “I know nothing about him.”

“Why, among other innocent novelties, a scheme bearing the sonorous title of SimitÍ Development Company, I am told by my brokers.”

“SimitÍ! Why––I’ve heard Carmen mention that name. I wonder––”

“Well, and who is Carmen?” he asked with a show of real interest.

“My little friend––the one and only honest person I’ve ever dealt with, excepting, of course, present company.”

“The amendment is accepted. And now where does this Carmen enter the game?”

“Why, she’s––surely you know about her!”

“If I did I should not ask.” 99 “Well, she is a little Colombian––”

“Colombian!”

“Yes. They say she’s an Inca princess. Came up with the engineers who went down there for Ketchim to examine the Molino properties. She lived all her life in a town called SimitÍ until she came up here.”

Ames leaned over and looked steadily into the fire. “Never heard of the place,” he murmured dreamily.

“Well,” said the Beaubien eagerly, “she’s a––a wonderful child! I’m different when I’m with her.”

He roused from his meditations and smiled down at the woman. “Then I’d advise you not to be with her much, for I prefer you as you are.”

They sat some minutes in silence. Then the woman looked up at her companion. “What are you thinking about so seriously?” she asked.

The man started; then drew himself up and gave a little nervous laugh. “Of you,” he replied evasively, “always.”

She reached up and slapped his cheek tenderly. “You were dreaming of your awful business deals,” she said. “What have you in hand now?––besides the revolution in Colombia, your mines, your mills, your banks, your railroads and trolley lines, your wheat and potato corners, your land concessions and cattle schemes, and––well, that’s a start, at least,” she finished, pausing for breath.

“Another big deal,” he said abruptly.

“Wheat, again?”

“No, cotton. I’m buying every bale I can find, in Europe, Asia, and the States.”

“But, Will, you’ve been caught in cotton before, you know. And I don’t believe you can get away with it again. Unless––”

“That’s it––unless,” he interrupted. “And that’s just the part I have taken care of. It’s a matter of tariff. The cotton schedule will go through as I have it outlined. I practically own the Commission. They don’t dare refuse to pass the measure. Cotton is low now. In a few months the tariff on cotton products will be up. The new tariff-wall sends the price of raw stuff soaring. I profit, coming and going. I was beaten on the last deal simply because of faulty weather prognostications. I made a bad guess. This time the weather doesn’t figure. I’ll let you in, if you wish. But these other fellows have got to stay out.”

“I haven’t a penny to invest, Will,” she replied mournfully. “You got me so terribly involved in this Colombian revolution.”

“Oh, well,” he returned easily, “I’ll lend you what you need, any amount. And you can give me your advice and suggestions 100 from time to time. As for your Colombian investments, haven’t I guaranteed them, practically?”

“Not in writing,” she said, looking up at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Bah! Well, do you want that?”

“No, certainly not,” she returned, giving him a glance of admiration. “But, to return, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles is going to be received into your wife’s set, and you are going to give her a good financial whipping?”

“Certainly, if you wish it. I’m yours to command. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles shall go to the poor-house, if you say the word. But now, my dear, have William order my car. And, let me see, Mrs. Ames is to meet Mrs. Hawley-Crowles at Fitch’s? Just a chance call, I take it.”

“Yes, dear,” murmured the Beaubien, reaching up and kissing him; “next Thursday at three. Good night. Call me on the ’phone to-morrow.”