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Yet during all the wild scenes when the telephone was ringing insistently for him, Brainard, having set the machinery in motion and having been ostentatiously in the office when it started in order to avert suspicion, could not now be found.

The market had closed and Constance was reading the account of the collapse as it was interpreted in the Wall Street editions of the papers, when the door opened and Brainard entered.

“This has been a good day’s work, Constance,” he said, flinging himself into a chair.

“Yes, I was just reading of it in the papers. The little microphone has put an entirely new twist on affairs. And the best of it is that the financial writers all seem to think it was planned by Worthington and the rest.”

“Oh, hang Worthington–hang Motors. THAT is what I meant.”

He slapped down a packet of letters on the desk.

“You–you found them?” gasped Constance. She looked at him keenly. It was evident that a great weight had been taken off his mind.

“Yes indeed. I knew there was only one place where she would put them–in her safe with her jewels. She would think I would never suspect that she had them and, besides, she had the combination changed. I went up to the house this afternoon when she was out. I had an expert with me. He worked two hours, steady,–but he opened it. Here they are. Now for the real game.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I noticed the name of the manufacturer on your microphone. I have had one installed in the room which she uses most of all. The wires run to the next house where I’ve hired an apartment. I intend to ‘listen in’ there. I’ll get this Worthington –yet!”

That night Constance and Brainard sat for hours in the empty apartment patiently waiting for word over the microphone.

At last there was a noise as of a door opening.

“Show them in here.”

“Sybil,” whispered Brainard as if perhaps she might even hear.

Then came more voices.

“Worthington and Drummond,” he added. “They suspect nothing yet.”

“Drummond knows this Dunlap woman,” said Worthington.

The detective launched forth in a tirade against Constance.

“But she is clever, Drummond. You admit that.”

“Clever as they make ’em.”

“You will have her shadowed?”

“Every moment, Mrs. Brainard.” “What’s all this about the panic in Motors, Lee?”

“Some other time, Sybil, not now. Drummond, what do people say?”

Drummond hesitated.

“Out with it, man.”

“Well, Mr. Worthington, it is said you started it.”

“The deuce I did. But I guess Sheppard and I helped it along. We’ll go the limit, too. After all, it had to come. We’ll load up after it reaches the bottom.”

The voices trailed off.

“Good night, Mrs. Brainard.”

“Good night, Mr. Drummond. That was what I wanted to know.” A pause.

“Lee, how can I ever thank you?”

A sound suspiciously like a kiss came over the wire. Brainard clenched his fist.

“Good night, Sybil. I must go now–” Again the voices trailed off.

It was several minutes before Brainard spoke. Then it was that he showed his wonderful power of concentration.

“I have a conference in half an hour, Constance,” he remarked, looking at his watch. “It is very important. It means getting money to support Motors on the opening to-morrow after I have gathered in again what I need. I think I can come pretty near doubling my holdings if I play it right. That’s important. But so is this.”

“I will listen,” put in Constance. “Trust me. If anything else occurs I will tell you.”

She was at the office early the next day, but not before Brainard who, bright and fresh, even though he had been up all night, was primed for the battle of his life at the opening of the market.

Brainard had swung in at the turn and had quietly accumulated the stock control which he needed. He was now bulling the market by matching orders, pyramiding stock which he owned, using every device that was known to his astute brain.