e where he could remain
hidden. Mackenzie would have been near her, but Constance knew better.
She chose a bachelor apartment where the tenants never arose before
noon and where night was turned into day. Men would not ask questions.
In an apartment like her own there was nothing but gossip.

In the daytime he stayed at home. Only at night did he go forth and
then under her direction in the most unfrequented ways.

Every day Constance went to Wall Street, where she had established
confidential relations with a number of brokers. Together they planned
the campaigns; she executed them with consummate skill and adroitness.

Constance was amazed. Here was a man who for years had been able to
earn only eighty-five dollars a month and had not seemed to show any
ability. Yet he was able to speculate in Wall Street with such dash
that he seemed to be in a fair way, through her, to accumulate a
fortune.

One night as they were hurrying back to Graeme's after a walk, they had
to pass a crowd on Broadway. Constance saw a familiar face hurrying by.
It gave her a start. It was Drummond, the detective. He was not,
apparently, looking for her. But then that was his method. He might
have been looking. At any rate it reminded her unpleasantly of the fact
that there were detectives in the world.

"What's the matter?" asked Graeme, noticing the change in her.

"I just saw a man I know."

The old jealousy flushed his face. Constance laughed in spite of her
fears. Indeed, there was something that pleased her in his jealousy.

"He was the detective who has been hounding me ever since that time I
told you about."

"Oh," he subsided. But if Drummond had been there, Mackenzie could have
been counted on to risk all to protect her.

"We must be more careful," she shuddered.

Constance was startled one evening just as she was going out to meet
Graeme and report on the progress of the day at hearing a knock at her
door.

She opened it.

"I suppose you think I am your Nemesis," introduced Drummond, as he
stepped in, veiling the keenness of his search by an attempt to be
familiar.

She had more than half expected it. She said nothing, but her coldness
was plainly one of interrogation.

"A case has been placed in my hands by some western clients of ours,"
he said by way of swaggering explanation, "of an embezzler who is
hiding in New York. It required no great reasoning power to decide that
the man's trail would sooner or later cro