Suddenly drawing herself erect, she walked with no uncertain tread to
the right-hand wall of the mantel and pushed back a double panel of the
wainscoting, revealing the muzzle of a steel safe let into the masonry
of the wall. A few deft twirls opened the combination, and the metal
door swung outward. Within the recess the pigeonholes were crammed with
papers and morocco jewel cases. Pressing a secret spring, a second door
jarred open in the left inner wall. From this receptacle she withdrew
several packets of letters and a set of plates with their accompanying
prints. Over them all she slipped a heavy rubber band, laid them aside
and closed the hiding place with methodical care. The compromising
documents disappeared within the warm hollow of her muff, and with a
last glance around, Mrs. Marteen unlocked the door and descended to the
street, where her walnut-brown limousine awaited her. Her face, which
had been vivid with emotion, took on its accustomed mask of cold
perfection, and when she was ushered into the anxiously awaiting
presence of Marcus Gard, she was the same perfectly poised machine,
wound up to execute a certain series of acts, that she had been on the
occasion of her former visit. Of their friendly acquaintance of the last
ten days there was no trace. They were two men of business met to
consult upon a matter of money. The host was thoroughly disappointed.
For ten days he had lost no opportunity of following up both Dorothy and
her mother. Dorothy had responded with frank-hearted liking; Mrs.
Marteen had suffered herself to be interested.

"How's my débutante?" he asked cordially, as Mrs. Marteen entered.

"She's very well, thank you," the marble personage replied. "I came in
answer to your note."