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Page 41
"I don't think badly of you," she answered in a low voice. "You are
not the only man who has been caught with a crowd of crooks who plan
to leave him holding the bag."
"Oh, it isn't that," he hastened, "I mean this Blanche Leblanc
affair. May I be frank with you?"
It was not the first time Constance had been made a confidante of
the troubles of the heart, and yet there was something fascinating
about having a man like Brainard consider her worthy of being
trusted with what meant so much to him.
"I'm not altogether to blame." he went on slowly. "The estrangement
between my wife and myself came long before that little affair. It
began over--well--over what they call a serious difference in
temperament. You know a man--an ambitious man--needs a partner, a
woman who can use the social position that money gives not alone for
pleasure but as a means of advancing the partnership. I never had
that. The more I advanced, the more I found her becoming a
butterfly--and not as attractive as the other butterflies either.
She went one way--I, another. Oh well--what's the use? I wont too
far--the wrong way. I must pay. Only let me save what I can from the
wreck."
It was not Constance, the woman, to whom he was talking. It was
Constance, the secretary. Yet it was the woman, not the secretary,
who listened.
Brainard stopped again beside her desk.
"All that is neither here nor there," he remarked, forcing a change
in his manner. "I am in for it. Now, the question is--what are we
going to do about it!"
Constance had unwrapped the package on her desk, disclosing an
oblong box.
"What's that?" he asked curiously.
"Mr. Brainard," she answered tapping the box, "there's no limit to
the use of this little machine for our purposes. We can get at their
most vital secrets with it. We can discover every plan which they
have against us. We may even learn the hiding place of those letters
Why, there is no limit. This is one of those new microphone
detectives."
"A microphone?" he repeated as he opened the box, looked sharply at
the two black little storage batteries inside, the coil of silk-
covered wire, a little black rubber receiver and a curious black
disc whose face was pierced by a circular row of holes.
"Yes. You must have heard of them. You hide that transmitter behind
a picture or under a table or desk. Then you run the wire out of the
room and by listening in the receiver you can hear everything!"
"But that is what detectives use--"
"Well?" she interrupted coolly, "what of it? If it is good for them,
is it not just as good for us?"
"Better!" he exclaimed. "By George, you ARE the goods."
It was late before Constance had a chance to do anything with the
microphone. It seemed as if Worthington were staying, perversely,
later than usual. At last, however, he left with a curt nod to her.
The moment the door was closed she stopped the desultory clicking of
her typewriter with Which she had been toying in the appearance of
being busy. With Brainard she entered the board room where she had
noticed Worthington and Sheppard often during the day.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the most plainly furnished
rooms she had ever seen. A long mahogany table with eight large
mahogany chairs, a half inch pile of velvety rug on the floor and a
huge chandelier in the middle of the ceiling constituted the
furniture. Not a picture, not a cabinet or filing case broke the
blankness of the brown painted walls.
For a moment she stopped to consider. Brainard waited and watched
her narrowly.
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