“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 ‘Miss’ Dunlap,” remarked Brainard.  “It sounds more plausible.”

Quietly he arranged her duties so that she would seem to be very busy without having anything which really interfered with the purpose of her presence.

She had been thinking rapidly.  Late in the forenoon she reached a decision.  A little errand uptown kept her longer than she expected, but by the late afternoon she was back again at her desk, on which rested a small package which had been delivered by messenger for her.

“I beg you won’t think as badly of me as it seems on the surface, Miss Dunlap,” remarked Brainard, stopping beside her desk.

“I don’t think badly of you,” she answered in a low voice.  “You are not the only man who has been caught with a crowd of crooks who plan to leave him holding the bag.”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” he hastened, “I mean this Blanche Leblanc affair.  May I be frank with you?”

It was not the first time Constance had been made a confidante of the troubles of the heart, and yet there was something fascinating about having a man like Brainard consider her worthy of being trusted with what meant so much to him.