“Mr. Caswell,” interrupted Drummond, “this woman——­”

“Mr. Drummond,” cried Constance, rising and shaking the burnt stub of the little gold-banded cigarette at him to impress it on his mind, “Mr. Drummond, I don’t care whether I am a—­a she-devil”—­she almost hissed the words at him—­“but I have evidence enough to go before the district attorney of this city and the grand jury and get indictments for conspiracy against a certain clairvoyant and a bucket shop operator.  To save themselves, they will probably tell all they know about a certain crook who has been using them.”

Caswell looked at her, amazed at her denunciation of the detective.  As for Drummond, he turned his back on her as if to ignore her utterly.

“Mr. Caswell,” he said bitterly, “in those reports—­”

“Forest Caswell,” insisted Constance, rising and facing him, “if you have in that heart of yours one shred of manhood it should move you.  You—­this man—­the others—­have placed in the path of a woman every provocation, every temptation for financial, physical, and moral ruin.  She has consulted a clairvoyant—­yes.  She has speculated—­yes.  Yet she was proof against something greater than that.  And I know—­ because I know her unconscious self which her dreams reveal, her inmost soul—­I know her better than you do, better than she does herself.  I know that even now she is as good and true and would be as loving as—­”

Constance had paused and taken a step toward the drawing room.  Before she knew it, the portieres flew apart and an eager little woman had rushed past her and flung her arms about the neck of the man.

Caswell’s features were working, as he gently disengaged her arms, still keeping one hand.  Half shoving her aside, ignoring Constance, he had faced Drummond.  For a moment the brazen detective flinched.

As he did so, deForest Caswell crumpled up the mass of tissue paper reports and flung them into the fireplace.

“Get out!” he said, suppressing his voice with difficulty.  “Send me —­your bill.  I’ll pay it—­but, mind, if it is one penny more than it should be, I’ll—­I’ll fight if it takes me from the district attorney and the grand jury to the highest court of the State.  Now—­ go!”

Caswell turned slowly again toward his wife.

“I’ve been a brute,” he said simply.

Something almost akin to jealousy rose in Constance’s heart as she saw Mildred, safe at last.

Then Caswell turned slowly to her.  “You,” he said, stroking his wife’s hand gently but looking at Constance, “you are a real clairvoyant.”

CHAPTER VII

THE PLUNGERS

“They have the most select clientele in the city here.”

Constance Dunlap was sitting in the white steamy room of Charmant’s Beauty Shop.  Her informant, reclining dreamily in a luxurious wicker chair, bathed in the perspiring vapor, had evidently taken a fancy to her.