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yourself in
    no time."
    "Thank you, Aunt Bernice." Absently, Madeline took the bottle.
    "I wouldn't worry too much about Mr. Hunt," Bernice said briskly. "I expect his chief concern is that you
    do not reveal his identity as the Dream Merchant. One cannot blame him. He is moving in some very
    exclusive circles at the moment."
    "Yes." Madeline frowned. "I wonder why. He does not seem the sort who would give a fig about the
    Polite World."
    "Looking for a wife, no doubt," Bernice said with airy assurance. "If it got out that he was in trade, his
    search would be considerably narrowed."
    "A wife?" Madeline was startled by her own response to Bernice's deduction. Why was she taken
    aback at the notion that Hunt was concealing his business connections because he was shopping for a
    wife? It was a perfectly logical conclusion. "Yes, of course. I hadn't thought of that possibility."
    Bernice gave her a knowing look. "That is because you are far too busy envisioning dire conspiracies
    and reading ominous portents into the smallest, most ordinary occurrences these days. No wonder your
    nerves are so inflamed that you cannot sleep well."
    "You may be right." Madeline turned to go down the hall. "One thing is certain, I must convince Hunt
    that his secrets are safe with me."
    "I'm sure you'll accomplish that with very little trouble, my dear. You are nothing if not resourceful."
    Madeline went into the library. She paused to empty the contents of the blue bottle into the potted palm
    near the window. Then she sat down behind her desk and thought about Artemas Hunt.
    Bernice was right. Hunt had been remarkably cooperative last night. He had also displayed a useful
    degree of skill. Perhaps he could be induced to be even more helpful in the future.
    Artemas lounged in his chair, propped an ankle on one knee, and idly tapped a letter opener against his
    boot. He regarded the sturdy looking man who sat across from him on the other side of the wide desk.
    Henry Leggett had been Artemas's man of affairs since before he'd had anything significant in the way of
    business affairs to handle. He'd more or less inherited Henry from his father.
    Not that Carlton Hunt had had much use for Henry's services. Artemas had been fond of his sire, but
    there was no denying that Carlton had had little interest in investing for the future. After the death of his
    wife, the small concern he'd had for managing what was left of the Hunt family fortune had vanished
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    altogether.
    Henry and Artemas had both been obliged to watch helplessly while all of Henry's sound advice was
    ignored by a man who lived for gambling and reckless adventures in the stews. In the end it had been
    Henry who had come up to Oxford to inform Artemas that Carlton had got himself killed in a duel over a
    disputed hand of cards. It was Henry who had sadly reported that there was nothing left in the family
    coffers.
    Alone in the world, Artemas had resorted to the gaming hells himself in order to survive. Unlike his
    father, he'd had a certain knack for cards. But the life of a gamester was precarious at best.
    One night Artemas had encountered an elderly gentleman who had won with methodical efficiency. The
    others had all played with bottles of claret at their sides, but the old man had had nothing to drink. Unlike
    his companions, who picked up their cards and tossed them down with fashionable indifference, the
    winner had paid strict attention to what he held in his hand.
    Artemas had quietly excused himself from the table midway through the game because he could see that,
    in the end, they would all lose to the unknown gentleman. Eventually the stranger had picked up his
    winning vouchers and left the club. Artemas had followed him out into the street.
    "What would it cost me to learn to play cards the way you do, sir?" he asked just as the man was about
    to climb into a waiting carriage.
    The stranger