he lady's villainy. She would not "hold out on
him."

His first care that morning had been to make a luncheon appointment with
his lawyer, and to elicit the information that, as far as his attorney
knew, the incriminating correspondence had been destroyed when received.
"As soon as your instructions were carried out, Mr. Gard. Of course,
none of us quite realized the changes that were coming--but--what those
letters would mean now! Too much care cannot be taken. I've often
thought a code might be advisable in the future, when the written word
must be relied on."

Gard smiled grimly and agreed. "Those letters would make a pretty basis
for blackmail, wouldn't they? Oh, by the way, you are Victor Mahr's
lawyers, aren't you?"

As he had half expected, he surprised a flash of suspicion and knowledge
in the other's eyes.

"What makes you speak of him in that connection?" laughed the lawyer.

"I don't," said Gard. "I happened to be playing bridge with him last
night and from something he let fall I gathered your firm had been
acting for him. Well, he needs the best legal advice that's to be had,
or I miss my guess." He rose and took leave of his friend, entered his
motor and was driven rapidly uptown.

Still his thoughts were of Mrs. Marteen, and again unaccountable
annoyance possessed him. Confound it! Mahr _had_ been held up. Clifton
knew about it; that argued that Mahr had taken the facts, whatever they
were, to them. Had he told them who it was who threatened him? Then
Clifton knew that Mrs. Marteen was a--Hang it! What possible right had
he to jump to the wild conviction that Victor Mahr had been blackmailed
at all? Because he was a friend of the lady's--a pretty reason that! Did
men make friends of--Yes, they did; he intended to himself; why not that
hound of a Mahr? Clifton _did_ know something. Mahr was just the sort of
scoundrel to drag in a woman's name. Why shouldn't he in such a case?
Then, with one of his quick changes of mood, he laughed at himself. "I'm
jealous because I think I'm not the only victim! It's time I consulted a
physician. I'm going dotty. She's a wonder, though, that woman. What a
brain, and what a splendid presence! But there's something vital
lacking; no soul, no conscience--that's the trouble," he commented
inwardly--little dreaming that he exactly voiced the criticism
universally passed upon himself. Then his thoughts took a new tack.
"Wonder what the daughter is like? I'll have to hunt