“I don’t doubt that in the least, madam—­confound it, I don’t!  Now when will you put the series, lock, stock and barrel, into my hands?”

“When you’ve done that little turn for me in the market, Mr. Gard.  You may trust me.”

“On the word—­of a debutante?” he demanded, with a snap of his square jaws.

For the first time she flushed, the color mantling to her temples; she was a very handsome woman.

“On the word of a debutante,” she answered, and her voice was steady.

“Well, then”—­he slapped the table with his open hand—­“if you’ll send me, to the office, what you want to invest, I’ll give orders that I will personally direct that account.”

“Thank you so much,” she murmured, rising.

“Don’t go!” he exclaimed, his request a command.  “I want to talk with you.  Don’t you know you’re the first person, man or woman, who has held me up—­me, Marcus Gard!  I don’t see how you had the nerve.  I don’t see how you had the idea.”  He changed his bullying tone suddenly.  “I wish—­I wish you’d talk to me.  I’m as curious as any woman.”

Mrs. Martin Marteen moved toward the door.

“I’m selling you your autographs—­not my autobiography.  I’m so glad to have seen you.  Good afternoon, Mr. Gard.”

She was gone, and the Great Man had not the presence of mind to escort his visitor to the door or ring for attendance.  He remained standing, staring after her.  His gaze shifted to the table, where, either by accident or design, the photographs remained, scattered.  He chuckled grimly.  Accident!  Nothing was accidental with that Machiavelli in petticoats.  She knew he would read those accursed lines, and realize with every sentence that in truth she was “letting him down easy.”  There was no danger of his backing out of his bargain.  Seated at the desk, he perused his folly, and grunted with exasperation.  Well, after all, what of it?  He had coveted a masterpiece; now he was to have two in one—­the contemplation of his own blunder, and Mrs. Marteen’s criminal genius—­cheap at the price.  How long had this been going on?  Whom had she victimized?  And how in the world had she been able to obtain the whole correspondence?  That his lawyers should have been deceived by copies was not so surprising—­they never dreamed of a substitution; the matter, not the letter, was proof enough to them of genuineness.  But—­he thumped his forehead.  He had been staying with friends at Newport at the time.  Had Mrs. Marteen been there?  Of course!  He took up the incriminating documents again and thoroughly mastered their contents, every turn of phrase, every between-the-line inference.  Accidents could happen; he must be prepared for the worst.  Not that negotiations would fail—­but—­not until the originals were in his hands and personally done away with would he feel secure.  He recalled Mrs. Marteen’s graceful and sumptuously clad figure, her clear-cut, beautiful head, the power of her unwavering sapphire eyes, the gentle elegance of her voice.  And this woman—­had—­held him up!