Clayton keenly watched the solemn-faced manager as he drew out some papers from a bulky envelope.

There was but one phase in his now double life of which Clayton naturally feared the exposure.
Warned by Witherspoon, Clayton had watched the steady rise of the Western Trading Company's stock, week by week, during the absence of the arbiter of its destinies.

His veins were filled with the tide of a new-born passion.
Clayton had boldly risked all his savings in the margining of large blocks of the stock, dealing constantly through a Wall Street friend.
Three times he had fortunately turned over his capital since Witherspoon had unveiled the scheme to draw in a majority of the shares, and he was now sixteen thousand dollars to the good.

Even after lavishing a goodly part of his gains upon the mysterious diva, in every fantastic way possible, in their stealthy meetings, Clayton still had pyramided his capital and now was sure of another harvest.

And he only wondered at the reluctance with which the lovely Hungarian accepted the jewels thrust upon her.
"I will sell out the day before the election," mused Clayton, as he awaited the manager's slow mental processes.