"I might, but I won't. The glory shall all be yours."

"I'm glad there is to be some glory in this affair; there's been little enough so far. However, to begin."

"No hurry, my dear Madame X."

"Don't you want my decision as to dinner?" she asked.

"You can continue the narrative while we dine. Now to begin."

"Then vanish Madame X, and enter Mistress Clephane."

At that moment a woman and a man entered the room from the corridor by the middle door, and crossed to a divan in the corner farthest from Mrs. Clephane and Harleston. The former had her back to them; Harleston was facing their way and saw them.

The man was middle-aged, bald, and somewhat stout—and Harleston recognized one of his visitors of the early morning. The woman was sinuous, with raven hair, dead white complexion, a perfectly lovely face, and a superb figure. Harleston would have known that walk and that figure anywhere and at any time even if he had not seen her face.

It was Madeline Spencer.



VIII

THE STORY

Harleston quickly swung his chair around so that the broad back hid Mrs. Clephane and himself. He was quite sure that she had noticed the pair; though when he glanced at her she was looking thoughtfully at him, as if considering where to begin her story.

"Do you know the two who just came in and are sitting in the far corner," he asked; "the slender woman and the bald-headed man?"

"No," she answered; "except that she is an exceedingly fine-looking woman—as you doubtless have noted."

"I've noted other things!" he smiled.

"About her?"

"No, not about her."

She laughed, deliciously he thought.

"I best get on with my tale," she said. "So, once upon a time, which means, to be accurate, about ten days ago, I took a steamer at Cherbourg for New York. On the boat was a Madame Durrand, whom I had known on the Continent and in London for a number of years. Neither was aware of the other's sailing until we met aboard. I think that it was on the fourth day out she asked me to come to her state-room; there she told me that she was a secret agent of the French Government and the bearer of a most important letter from a high official, written however in his private capacity to their Ambassador in Washington; that she had a presentiment ill fortune would befall her on the way; that there was no one else on the ship in whom she trusted; and that she wanted me to accompany her to Washington, and, if she were to meet with an accident, to deliver the letter to the Ambassador. I consented, wishing to oblige her, and being bound for Washington. She showed me where she carried the letter, and gave me the verbal message that went with it, which was the name of the Minister and that he sent it in his private capacity and not officially.

"I'm not in the secret service of a government, as you doubtless can infer from my knowledge of matters and use of technical language!" she smiled. "And the affair rather fascinated me, I admit, by its unusualness. Moreover, I knew Madame Durrand intimately—how intimately may be inferred from the circumstances.

"Well, we landed, had our baggage chalked, and went to the Plaza for the night. In the morning, we took a taxi to the Pennsylvania Station, were held up by traffic, and were hurrying down the marble steps to catch our train, when a man, hurrying also, jostled Madame Durrand. Her heel caught and she plunged head first down to the landing. Of course men sprang forward to her assistance and picked her up—with her wrist and ankle broken. She was plucky, however, wonderfully plucky. She did not faint, as I'm sure I should have done; she just turned ghastly pale—and said to me, with a bit of smile, motioning for me to bend over her so that none could hear:

"'I told you so, Edith. Here is where you come in.' She slid her hand under her skirt, drew out the envelope, and slipped it to me. 'Hurry!' she said. 'You can yet make the train.'

"But I was obdurate; I wouldn't leave her until she was in a hospital and comfortable. And when she saw I meant it, she smiled—and fainted. Well, instead of the ten o'clock train, I caught the twelve, which should have landed me here at five, but a series of delays, due to accidents ahead; put us at seven. It was, I thought, too late to deliver my letter that evening, so I took a taxi here and had dinner. Then I paid a short visit to some friends at the Shoreham and returned shortly before midnight. I found two notices that I had been called on the telephone at 10:15 and 11:00, by parties who declined to give their names or leave a call. This struck me as queer since no one knew of my being in town except my friends at the Shoreham. A moment after I entered my room, the telephone rang. I answered. A man's voice came back.

"'Who is that?' said he.

"'Whom do you want?' said I.

"'I wish to speak to Mrs. Clephane.'

"'Very well,' said I; 'I'm Mrs. Clephane.'

"'Oh, Mrs. Clephane, we have been trying for you since ten o'clock!' said he. 'The Ambassador wishes to see you at once. Can you be ready to come in fifteen minutes—we'll send a carriage for you?'

"'How did you know'—I began, then stopped. 'Yes, I'll be ready,' said I; 'but let one of the staff come with the carriage.'

"'Oh, of course!' he replied. 'In fifteen minutes, madame?'

"I didn't fancy going out at midnight, yet I had undertaken the matter and I would see it through. I had not changed from my travelling suit and it hadn't a pocket in it; nor had I one such as Madame Durrand employed, so I was carrying the letter pinned inside my waist. Now I took it out and put it in my hand-bag, all the while thinking over the affair and liking it less the more I thought. It was pretty late at night, and there was something suspicious about the affair. I went to the desk and hurriedly wrote a note to the friends that I had just left; then I called a page, and ordered him to take it at once to the Shoreham. On the envelope I had written the instruction that it was not to be delivered until morning.

"As I finished, the telephone rang and Mr. and Mrs. Buissard, I think that was the name, were announced as coming by appointment. I went down at once. Mrs. Buissard was in evening dress, a pretty, vivacious woman, Mr. Buissard was a man of thirty, slender, with a little black moustache and black hair. Somehow I didn't like him; and I was glad he had brought his wife—she was charming.

"They had a cab instead of a car or taxi. We got in and drove up Fourteenth to H, and out H to Sixteenth. As we swung in Sixteenth, the man leaned forward to the window on my side.

"'Look at that!' he exclaimed excitedly.

"As I turned to look, the woman flung her silk wrap over my head and twisted it tightly about my neck.

"I tried to cry out, but a hand closed over my mouth and only a weak gurgle responded.

"'Listen, Mrs. Clephane!' said the man, 'We mean you no harm. Give us the package you have for the French Ambassador, and we will at once return you to your hotel.'

"I'm pretty much a coward, yet I managed to hold myself together and not faint, and to say nothing. I didn't care a straw for the letter, but I didn't fancy being defeated at that stage of the game. I tried to think—but thinking is a bit difficult under such circumstances. Just as the wrap went over my head, my hand happened to be on my hand-bag. I quietly opened it, dropped the letter close along the seat, and closed the bag. Here was a slight chance to balk them—at all events, it was the only course occurring to me at the moment.

"'Has she fainted?' asked the man.

"'I think so,' said the woman, 'or she is scared to death.'

"Here was a suggestion—and I took it. I remained perfectly quiet.

"'Well,' was his answer, 'we're almost there, and it's a lucky chance. No trouble at all, Seraphina.'

"I had felt the cab round several corners; almost immediately after the last it stopped. I'm a trifle hazy as to what they did; but finally I was passed out of the cab like a corpse and carried into a house. There the wrap was removed from my head; I blinked uncertainly, and looked around in a bewildered fashion.

"'Where am I?' I gasped.

"The woman replied, 'You're in absolutely no danger, Mrs. Clephane. We want the package you have for the French Ambassador; when we have it, we will send you back to your hotel.'

"'What is to be done with the cab?' someone asked.

"'Nothing,' another replied. 'The horse will find his way to his stand; he's almost there.'

"'But I haven't any package!' I protested.

"'Come, come!' the woman answered briskly. 'You have it about you somewhere; that was what you were going to the Embassy to deliver?'

"'Who are you?' I demanded.

"'It matters not who we are—we want the package.'

"'The package is not with me,' I remarked. 'It's locked in the hotel safe.'

"'Will you permit yourself to be searched?' she asked, with an amused smile. I knew it was a threat.

"'I'm perfectly willing to submit to a search by you,' I said. 'The quicker you set about it, the quicker I'll be released. I don't care for these diplomatic affairs; they may be regular but they seem unnecessarily dangerous. I was simply a substitute anyway, and I won't substitute again; though how you people discovered it I don't see.'

"'Because you're new at the game,' she replied, as we passed into the drawing-room.

"She closed the door—and I soon satisfied her that the package was not concealed about me.

"'I may go now?' I inquired.

"'I think so, but I must consult the Chief,' she replied. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

"They seemed high-class knaves at least; but it was quite evident that the diplomatic game and its secret service were distinctly not in my line. I want no more of them even to oblige a friend in distress. I hate a mess!"

"I'm very glad for this mess," Harleston interjected. "Otherwise I should not have—met you."

"And you are the only compensation for the mess, Mr. Harleston!" she smiled.

She said it so earnestly Harleston was almost persuaded that she meant it—though he replied with a shrug and a sceptical laugh.

"But the woman was long in returning," Mrs. Clephane resumed; "and after a while I put out the light, and going to the window raised the shade. The cab was no longer before the house; it had moved a little distance to the left, and the horse was lying down in the shafts. As I was debating whether to risk the jump from the window, a man came down the street and halted at the cab.—That man was you, Mr. Harleston. The rest of the tale you know much better than I—and the material portion you are to tell me, or rather to give me."

"How did you know the man at the cab was I? You didn't recognize me in the corridor, this afternoon."

"Oh, yes I did—but I waited to see if you would follow me, or would go up to the other woman in black and roses."

"I never was in doubt!" Harleston laughed. "I told you, on the telephone, that I could pick you out in a crowd; after a glimpse of you, I could—" he ended with a gesture.

"Still pick me out," she supplied. "Well, the important thing is that you did pick me out—and that you're a gentleman. Also you forget that your picture has been pretty prominent lately, on account of the Du Portal affair; and besides you've been pointed out to me a number of times during the last few years as something of a celebrity. So, you see, it was not a great trick to recognize you under the electric lights, even at one o'clock in the morning."

Harleston nodded. It was plausible surely. Moreover, he was prepared to accept her story; thus far it seemed straightforward and extremely credible.

"It was about three when you telephoned to me—where were you then?" he asked.

"At the Chateau. They were kind enough to release me about three o'clock, and to send me back in a private car—at least, it wasn't a taxi. Now, have you any other questions?"

"I think not, for the present."

"Have I satisfied you that my tale is true?"

"I am satisfied," he replied.

"Then you will give me the letter?" she said joyfully.

"And what of the roses?"

"I presented them to you last night."

"And of this handkerchief?" drawing it from his pocket.

She took the bit of lace, glanced at it, and handed it back.

"It is not mine," she replied. "Probably it's the other woman's." She held out her hand, the most symmetrical hand Harleston had ever seen. "My letter, please, Mr. Harleston."

"I no longer have the letter," said Harleston.

"Then why did you—" she exclaimed; "but you can lay your hand on it?"

"I can lay my hand on it," he smiled—"whenever you convince me, or I ascertain, that the letter does not concern directly or indirectly the diplomatic affairs of the United States. You forget that was the concluding stipulation, Mrs. Clephane. Meanwhile the letter will not, you may feel assured, fall into the possession of the party who attempted to steal it from you."

"What does it all mean?" she asked, leaning forward. "Who beside France are the parties concerned?"

"It means that some nation is ready to take desperate chances to prevent your letter from reaching the French Ambassador. What actuates it, whether to learn its contents or to prevent its present delivery, I naturally do not know." Then he laughed. "Would it interest you very much to learn, Mrs. Clephane, that I was visited last night by three men, who tried, at the point of the revolver, to force the letter from me?"

"You surely don't mean it!" she exclaimed.

And with this exclamation the last doubt in Harleston's mind of Mrs. Clephane's having aught to do with the night attack vanished—and having acquitted her in that respect, there was scarcely any question as to the sincerity and truth of her tale.

As it has been remarked previously, Mrs. Clephane was very good to look at—and what is more to the point with Harleston, she looked back.

"I had all sorts of adventures, beginning with the cab of the sleeping horse, three crushed roses, a bit of lace, and a letter," he laughed; "and the adventures haven't yet ended, and they grow more interesting as they progress."

"They didn't get the letter?" she asked quickly.

"They got nothing but the trouble of getting nothing," he replied.

"Where is the letter now, Mr. Harleston—is it safe from them?"

There was a note of concern in her voice, and it puzzled him. What else did she know—or didn't she know anything? Was it only his habit in diplomatic affairs to doubt everything that was not undoubtable.

"The letter," he replied, "is with the expert of the State Department for translation."

"What language is it in?" she demanded.

"Cipher language—and a particularly difficult cipher it is. Can you help us out, Mrs. Clephane?"

"I can't, Mr. Harleston; I don't know anything about ciphers. And I told you the whole truth when I said that I neither knew what the envelope contained nor its purpose. What disturbs me is how to explain to the French Ambassador the loss of the letter."

"Tell him the exact truth," said Harleston. "It would have been better possibly had you told him this morning."

"I thought you would return the letter to me," she replied.

"I likely should, had I seen you before I turned it over to the State Department. Now that it has passed out of my hands, it is a matter for the Secretary to decide."

"But he will be advised by you!" she exclaimed.

"Advised, yes,—dominated, no. The only chance of the letter being returned to you, is that it does not affect this government."

"Diplomacy then is willing to stoop to any crime or to profit by any wrong?" she mocked.

"I am afraid I must admit the accusation. Everything is fair in love and war, you know—and diplomacy is only a species of war."

"Have I no redress for the outrage upon me, nor for the loss of the letter by reason of that outrage?"

"I'm afraid you'll find the wheels of justice very slow-moving—when they have to do with affairs diplomatic."

"But the letter, sir?"

"You must remember, Mrs. Clephane, that I found the letter in an abandoned cab."

"And now that you know to whom it belongs," she flashed, "you will not return it?"

"Because I can't! Which brings us back to where we started—and to dinner."

"I will not dine with you!"

"Then let me dine with you!"

"No!"

"Fix it any way you wish, only so that we dine together," he persisted. "I've the cosiest little table reserved for us, and—"

"Mr. Harleston," the page was calling. "Mr. Harles—"

Harleston turned, and the boy saw him.

"Telephone, sir," said he, giving Harleston the call slip.

"Will you excuse me a moment, Mrs. Clephane?" Harleston asked, and hurried out—conscious all the while that Madeline Spencer and her companion were watching him.

"This is Police Headquarters, Mr. Harleston," came the voice over the wire. "Major Ranleigh wants to know if you will meet him at his office at ten o'clock tonight. The Major was called out suddenly or he would have telephoned you, himself!"

"I'll be on hand," Harleston replied, hung up the receiver, and hurried back.

As he entered the red-room, he shot a covert glance toward the place where Mrs. Spencer and her companion had been sitting.

They were gone!

"Yes! Yes!" said he under his breath, and turned toward the corner where he had left Mrs. Clephane.

Mrs. Clephane was gone.



IX

DECOYED

Harleston faced about and surveyed the entire room. Then not content with surveying, he deliberately walked through it, and satisfied himself that Mrs. Clephane was not there—nor Madeline Spencer, nor her bald-headed companion.

He took a turn up and down the corridor, and up and down again. They were not there.

He even walked through the dining-rooms.

Nothing!

"Hum!" said he, at length—and returned to the red-room, and to his chair. It was quite possible that Mrs. Clephane would be back in a moment—yet somehow he doubted.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, and she did not come. He made another tour of Peacock Alley, the lobby, the dining-rooms, and back to the red-room.

Nothing!

He looked at his watch—it was half-after-seven o'clock. He would wait fifteen minutes longer. Then, if she had not come, he would go about his business—which, at present, was to dine.

He sat with his watch in his hand, looking down the room and at those who entered.

The fifteen minutes passed. He put up his watch and arose; the wait was ended.

He crossed the corridor to the dining-room.

"The table in yonder corner, Philippe," he said, to the bowing head-waiter.

"One, Monsieur Harleston?" the man replied; and himself escorted him over and placed him, and took his order for dinner. From which facts it can be inferred that Harleston was something of a personage at the big caravansary.

The clams had just been placed before him, and he was dipping the first one in the cocktail, when Madeline Spencer and the bald-headed man entered and passed to a table—reserved for them—at the far side of the room. Harleston knew that she saw him, though apparently she had not glanced his way. Here was another move in the game; but what the game, and what the immediate object?

His waiter whisked away the clam cocktail and put down the clear turtle.

As Harleston took up his spoon, a page spoke a word to Philippe, who motioned him to Harleston's corner. The next instant the boy was there, a letter on the extended salver—then he faded away.

Harleston put aside the letter until he had finished his soup; then he picked it up and turned it over. It was a hotel envelope, and addressed simply: "Mr. Harleston," in a woman's handwriting—full and free, and, unusual to relate, quite legible. He ran his knife under the flap and drew out the letter. It was in the same hand that wrote the address.

"DEAR MR. HARLESTON:

"I've just seen someone whom I wish to avoid, so won't you be good enough to dine with me in my apartment. It's No. 972, and cosy and quiet—and please come at once. I'm waiting for you—with an explanation for my disappearance.

"EDITH CLEPHANE."

"Hum!" said Harleston, and drummed thoughtfully on the table. Then he arose, said a word to Philippe as he passed, and went out to the elevator.

He got off at the ninth floor and walked down the corridor to No. 972. It was a corner and overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street. He tapped lightly on the door; almost immediately it was opened by a maid—a very pretty maid, he noticed—who, without waiting for him to speak, addressed him as Monsieur Harleston and told him that Madame was expecting him.

Harleston handed the maid his hat, stick, and gloves, and crossed the private hall into the drawing-room.

As he passed the doorway, a heavy silk handkerchief was flung around his neck from behind, and instantly tightened over his larynx; at the same time his arms were pinioned to his side. He could neither make a sound nor raise a hand. He was being garroted. At his first struggle the garrote was twisted; it was be quiet or be strangled. And, queer as it may seem, his first thought was of the garroters of India and the instant helplessness of their victims. In fact, so immediate was his helplessness, that it sapped all will to be otherwise than quiescent.

"Two can play at this game, Mr. Harleston," said a familiar voice, and Crenshaw stepped out in front. "I'm in a better humour now, and more my natural self; I was somewhat peeved in the Collingwood—due to late hours, I think. By the way, it isn't an especially pleasant game for the fellow who is it, Mr. Harleston? I'll take your answer for granted—or we'll let my distinguished colleague answer for you—you know Mr. Sparrow, sir?" as the man with the garrote put his head over Harleston's shoulder. "Answer for Mr. Harleston will you, Sparrow?"

"No, it is not, Mr. Crenshaw," said Sparrow.

"I neglected to ask if you're not surprised to see me, Mr. Harleston?"

"I am indeed," said Sparrow.

"I regret that it was inconvenient for me to remain longer in your apartment, Mr. Harleston—and so I exchanged places with your detective," Crenshaw explained.

"I'm quite content, Mr. Crenshaw," Sparrow replied.

"Yes, certainly, and thank you, Mr. Harleston," Crenshaw smiled. "And now, with your permission, sir, we shall inspect the contents of your pockets, to the end that we may find a certain letter that you wot of—also ourselves."

After the first warning twist, the garrote had been relaxed just enough to permit Harleston breath sufficient for life, yet not sufficient for an outcry; moreover, he knew that at the first murmur of a yell the wrist behind him would turn and he would be throttled into unconsciousness.

There was nothing to do but be quiet and as complaisant as his captors wished, and await developments. And the irony of such a situation—happening in the most crowded and most popular hotel in the Capital, with hundreds of guests at hand, and scores of servants poised to obey one's slightest nod—struck him with all the force of its supreme absurdity. It was but another proof of the proposition that one is never so alone as in the midst of a throng.

He smiled—somewhat chillily, it must be admitted—and whispered, his speaking voice being shut off by the garrote.

"The quicker you look, the sooner I shall, I hope, be released from this rather uncomfortable position."

"Good eye!" said Crenshaw. "You're a reasonable man, Mr. Harleston, it's a pleasure to do business with you."

"Proceed!" Harleston whispered. "I haven't the letter with me, as you should know. Do I look so much like a novice? Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, I told you that I was going direct to the State Department to deliver the letter for translation so how could I have it now?"

"We're not debating, we're searching," Crenshaw sneered; "though it may occur to you that a copy is as easy of translation as the original. However, we will proceed with the inspection—the proof of the caviare is in the roe of the sturgeon."

"Then I pray you open the fish at once," said Harleston. "I can't assist you in my present attitude, so get along, Mr. Crenshaw, if you please. You interrupted my dinner—I was just at the soup; and you may believe me when I say that I'm a bit hungry."

"With your permission," Crenshaw replied, proceeding to go through Harleston's pockets, and finding nothing but the usual—which he replaced.

He came last to the breast-pocket of the coat; in it were the wallet and one letter—the letter that had brought Harleston here.

"It caught you!" Crenshaw smiled. "There's no bait like a pretty woman!"

Harleston raised his eyebrows and shrugged his answer.

"And a rather neat trap, wasn't it—we're very much pleased with it."

"You'll not be pleased with what it produces," Harleston smiled.

"It has produced you," the other mocked; "that's quite some production, don't you think? And now, as this letter has served its purpose, I'll take the liberty of destroying it," tearing it into bits and putting the bits in his pockets, "lest one of us be liable for forgery. Now for the pocket-book; you found something in mine, you may remember, Mr. Harleston."

Harleston gave a faint chuckle. They would find nothing in his pocket-book but some visiting and membership cards, a couple of addresses and a few yellow-backs and silver certificates.

"The letter doesn't seem to be there—which I much regret, but these visiting cards may be useful in our business; with your permission I'll take them. Thank you, Mr. Harleston."

He folded the book and returned it to Harleston's pocket.

"I might have looked in your shoes, or done something disagreeable—I believe I even promised to smash your face when I got the opportunity—but I'm better disposed now. I shall return good for evil; instead of tying you up as you did me, I'll release you from your bonds if you give me your word to remain quiet in this room until tomorrow morning at eight, and not to disclose to anyone, before that hour, what has occurred here."

"After that?" said Harleston.

"You shall be at liberty to depart and to tell."

"And if I do not give my word?"

"Then," said Crenshaw pleasantly, "we shall be obliged to bind you and gag you and leave you to be discovered by the maid—which, we shall carefully provide, will not be before eight tomorrow morning."

"You leave small choice," Harleston observed.

"Just the choice between comfort and discomfort!" Crenshaw laughed. "Which shall it be, sir?"

Harleston had been shifting slowly from one foot to the other, feeling behind him for the man with the garrote. He had him located now and the precise position where he was standing—one of his own legs was touching Sparrow's.

At the instant Crenshaw had finished his question, Harleston suddenly kicked backwards, landing with all the force of his sharp heel full on Sparrow's shin.

Instantly the garrote loosened; and Harleston, with a wild yell, sprang forward and swung straight at the point of Crenshaw's jaw.

Crenshaw dodged it—and the two men grappled and went down, fighting furiously; Harleston letting out shouts all the while, and even managing to overturn a table, which fell with a terrific smash of broken glass and bric-a-brac, to attract attention and lead to an investigation.

He had not much trouble in mastering Crenshaw; but Sparrow, when he was done spinning around on one foot from the agonizing pain of the kick on the shin, would be another matter; the two men and the woman could overpower him, unless assistance came quickly. And to that end he raised all the uproar possible for the few seconds that Sparrow spun and the woman stared.

Just as Sparrow hobbled to Crenshaw's aid, Harleston landed a short arm blow on the latter's ear and sprang up, avoided the former's rush and made for the hall-way.

At the same moment came a loud pounding on the corridor door. The noise had been effective.

In a bound, Harleston reached the door; it should, as he knew, open from within by a turn of the knob. But it was double-locked on the inside and the key was missing.

He whirled—just in time to see the last of the mixed trio disappear into the drawing-room, and the door snap shut behind them.

He sped across and flung himself against it—it was locked.

Meanwhile the pounding on the corridor door went on.

"Try another door!" Harleston shouted.

But by reason of the heavy door and the din, some time elapsed before he could attract the attention of those in the corridor and make himself understood. Then more time was consumed in getting the floor-maid with the pass-key to the room adjoining the drawing-room of the suite.

By that time, the manager of the hotel had come up and put himself at the head of the relief; and he was not in the best of temper when he entered and saw the debris of the bric-a-brac and the table.

"What is the meaning of—" he demanded—then he recognized Harleston and stopped—"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harleston! I didn't know that you were here, sir; this apartment was occupied by—"

"Two men and a woman," Harleston supplied. "Well, it's been vacated by them in deference to me."

"I don't understand!" said the manager.

"If you will have the baggage, which, I imagine, is in the bedrooms, examined, and give me your private ear for a moment, I'll endeavour to explain as much as I know."

"Certainly, Mr. Harleston," the man replied; and, directing the others to examine the baggage, he closed the door of the drawing-room.

"First tell me who occupied this suite, when it was taken, and when they came," said Harleston.

"One moment," said the manager, and picking up the telephone he called the office. "It was, the office says, occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Davidson of New York City, who took it this afternoon about five o'clock. They had made no reservation for it."

"Now as to their baggage."

The manager bowed and went out—to return almost instantly, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Two new and cheap suit cases, each containing a couple of bricks and some waste paper," he reported.

"Yes," nodded Harleston, "I thought as much. Mr. Banks, you will confer a favour on me, and possibly on the government, if you will be good enough to let this affair pass unnoticed, at least for the time. I'll pay for the broken table and its contents, and a proper charge for the rooms for the few hours they've been occupied. I overturned the table. As for the rest—how I came to be here, and what became of the occupants, and why the furniture was smashed, and why I have a slight contusion in my cheek, and anything else occurring to the management as requiring explanation, just forget it, please."

"Certainly, sir."

"Very good!" said Harleston. "Now wait one moment."

He went to the telephone and asked for Mrs. Clephane's apartment.

Her maid answered—with the information that Mrs. Clephane had been out since five o'clock and had not yet returned.

Harleston thanked her, hung up the receiver, and turned to Banks.

"I have reason to believe that Mrs. Clephane, who is a guest of the hotel, has disappeared. I was talking to her in the red-room at about 6:30, when I was called to the telephone. On my return, after a brief absence, she was gone, and a frequent and thorough search on the first floor did not disclose her. She was to have dined with me at seven-thirty. She did not keep the engagement. I dined alone, and had just begun the meal when a letter was handed to me asking that I dine with her in her apartment, No. 972. I came here at once—and was held up by two men and a woman, who sought to obtain something that they imagined was in my possession. It wasn't, however, and we fought; and I raised sufficient disturbance to bring you. You see, I have told you something of the affair. The note was a forgery. This isn't Mrs. Clephane's apartment, and her maid has just told me that her mistress has not been in her apartment since five o'clock—which was the time she met me. I am persuaded that she is a prisoner, and likely in this hotel—held so to prevent her disclosing a certain matter to a certain high official. What I want is for you to make every effort to determine whether she is in this house."

"We'll do it, Mr. Harleston," the manager acquiesced instantly. "Come down to the office and we'll go over the guest diagram, while I have every unoccupied room looked into. In fact, sir, we'll do anything short of burglaring our guests."

"I'll be right down," Harleston said; "after I've bathed my face and straightened up a bit."

The contusion on his cheek was not particularly noticeable; it might be worse in the morning; his collar was a trifle crushed and his hair was awry; on the whole, he had come out of the fight very well.

He took up his stick and gloves, put on his hat so as to shade, as far as possible, the cheek-bone, and went down to the private office.

There was, of course, the chance that Mrs. Clephane had lured him into the trap, and had herself written the decoy note; but he did not believe her guilty. Even though Crenshaw had adroitly implicated her, he was not influenced. Indeed, he was convinced of just the reverse:—that she was honest and sincere and inexperienced, and that she had told him the true story of the letter and its loss. At least he was acting on that theory, and was prepared to see it through. Maybe he was a fool to believe those brown eyes and that soft voice and those charming ways; if so, he preferred to be a fool for a little while, to, if not, being a fool to her forever. He had, in his time, encountered many women with beautiful faces and compelling eyes and alluring voices and charming ways, but with none had they been so blended as in Mrs. Clephane.

He did not know a thing as to her history—he did not even know whether she was married, a widow, or a divorcee. Whatever she was, he was willing to accept her as genuine—until she was proven otherwise.

All of which would indicate that she had made something of an impression on Harleston—who was neither by nature nor by experience impressible and, in the diplomatic game, had about as much sentiment as a granite crag. In fact, with Harleston every woman who appeared in the diplomatic game lay under instant and heavy suspicion.

Mrs. Clephane was the first exception.



X

SKIRMISHING

On the slender chance of finding Mrs. Clephane, Harleston made another tour of the rooms and corridor on the first floor.

It was without avail—save that he noticed Madeline Spencer and her escort were still at dinner. They did not see him—and he was very well content. Later he would want a word with them—particularly with her; and he preferred to meet her alone. She was a very beautiful woman, and very alluring, and the time was, and not so long ago, when he would have gone far out of his way to meet her; but another face—and business—occupied him at present. Moreover, the business had to do with Mrs. Spencer, and that shortly. Therefore he was content to be patient. Mrs. Clephane first.

So he went on to the private office and the manager.

"I've just taken another look over this floor," he said; "Mrs. Clephane is not to be seen."

"We paged her, also," returned Banks; "and we've had every vacant room in the house examined without result. Here's the diagram; let us go over it, perhaps we can get a lead from it. About half of the guests are personally known to the hotel; they are either permanent guests or have been coming here for a long time. However, pick out any that you suspect and we'll try to find a way to get into their rooms. We are always at the service of the government, particularly the State Department."

Harleston ran his eyes over the diagram, searching for Madeline Spencer. It was barely possible that she was registered under one of her own names. He found it at last—or thought he had: No. 717:—Madame Cuthbert and maid.

"What do you know of her?" he asked, indicating No. 717.

"Nothing whatever, except that she seems to have plenty of money, and looks the lady."

"When did she come?"

"Three days ago."

"What is No. 717?"

"Two bedrooms, a parlour, and a bath."

"I should like to know if she has had callers, and who they are; also, if the house detective knows anything of her movements?"

"One moment, sir," said Banks—

"And you might inquire also," Harleston added, "as to the bald-headed man who is her companion this evening?"

"Very good, sir," said Banks, and went out.

"I tell you there are quite too many women in this affair," Harleston muttered—and went back to inspecting the chart.

And the more he inspected, the more hopeless grew his task. If Mrs. Clephane had been lured to one of the rooms, it would be next to impossible to find her. There were a hundred well-dressed and quiet-mannered guests who seemed beyond suspicion; and yet it was in the room of one of these unobtrusive guests, who had never so much as looked at Mrs. Spencer, that Mrs. Clephane was held prisoner. There was small hope—none, indeed—that a search of Madeline Spencer's apartment would yield even a clue. She was not such a bungler; though that she was the directing spirit in the entire affair he had not the least doubt. Her photograph fixed the matter on her; and while he was quite sure she was not aware of the photograph, yet she was aware of the letter, had made a desperate effort to prevent its delivery, and now was making a final effort to prevent Mrs. Clephane from advising the French Ambassador of its loss.

As to him, Mrs. Spencer was not concerned. His possession of the letter, under such circumstances, effectually closed his mouth; if he happened to know for whom the letter was intended, his mouth was closed all the tighter. It was a rule of the diplomatic game never to reveal, even to an ally, what you know; tomorrow the ally may be the enemy. Harleston might yield the letter to superior force or to trickery, but he would never babble of it.

The door opened to admit Banks.

"The detective has nothing whatever as to Madame Cuthbert," he explained. "He says she is apparently a lady, and nothing has occurred to bring her under his notice. For the same reason, no list of her callers has been made—though the desk thinks that they have been comparatively few. The man with whom she dined this evening is a Mr. Rufus Martin. He has been with her several times. He is a guest of the hotel—room No. 410."

"Can you have her apartment and Martin's looked over without exciting suspicion?"

"I think we can manage it," Banks responded. "Indeed, I think we can manage to have all the rooms inspected; I have already told the detective what we suspect, and he has put on an employee's uniform and with a basket of electric bulbs is now testing the lights in every occupied room. The moment he finds Mrs. Clephane, or anything that points to her, he will advise us."

"Good!" said Harleston. "Meanwhile, I'll have another look in Peacock Alley."

He was aware that he was acting on a pure hunch. He realized that his theory of Mrs. Clephane's imprisonment in the house was most inconsistent with the facts. Why did they release her last night, if they were fearful of her communicating to the French Ambassador the loss of the letter? And why should they take her again this evening? It was all unreasonable; yet reason does not prevail against a hunch—even to a reasoning man, who is also a diplomat.

He sauntered along the gay corridor bowing to those he knew. As he faced about to return, he saw Madeline Spencer, alone, bearing down upon him.

The moment their eyes met, she signalled a glad smile and advanced with hands extended.

"Why, Guy!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise this is!"

"And what a charming pleasure to me, Madeline," he added, taking both her hands and holding them. "I thought you were in Paris; indeed, I thought you would never leave the City of Boulevards."

"So did I, yet here I am; yet not for long, I trust, Guy, not for long."

"America's misfortune," he whispered.

"Or fortune!" she laughed. "It's merely a matter of viewpoint. To those who have knowledge of the comparatively recent past, Madeline Spencer may be a persona non. However—" with a shrug of her shapely shoulders and an indifferent lift of her fine hands. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Harleston; that is, if you're not afraid for your reputation. I assume that here you have a reputation to protect."

"I'm quite sure that my reputation, whatever it be, won't suffer by what you intimate!" he smiled, and handed her into a chair.

"You were much surprised to see me, n'est-ce pas?" she asked low, leaning close.

"Much more than much," he replied confidentially.

"Honest?" she asked, still low and close.

"Much more than honest," he answered. "It's been a long time since we met."

"Three months!"

"Three months is much more than long—sometimes."

She gave him an amused smile.

"I was thinking of you only last night," he volunteered.

"What suggested me?" she asked quickly.

"I suppose it must have been your proximity," he replied easily and instantly.

"Wireless," she laughed, "or community of interests?"

"I don't know—the impression was vivid enough, while it lasted, for you to have been in the room."

"Maybe I was—in spirit."

"I'm sure of it," he replied. "How long have you been in Washington, Madeline?"

"You should have felt my proximity as soon as I arrived," she responded.

"I felt it nearing when you left Paris—and growing closer as time went on. You see, I have a remarkable intuition as—to you."

"Charming!" she trilled. "Why not get a penchant for me, as well?"

"Maybe I have—and don't venture to declare myself."

"You!" she mocked

"Meaning that I can't get a penchant, or that I am not afraid to declare?"

"Both!" she laughed. "Now quit talking nonsense and tell me about yourself. What have you been doing, and what are you doing?"

"At the very profitable and busy occupation of killing time," he replied.

"Of course, but what else?"

"Nothing!"

"What, for instance, were you doing last night?"

"Last night? I dined at the Club, played auction and went home at a seemly hour."

"Home? Where is that?"

"The Collingwood."

"And what adventure befell you on the way—if any?"

"Adventure? I haven't had an adventure since I left the Continent."

"Sure?"

"Perfectly. I wish I had—to vary the monotony."

She traced a diagram on the rug with the tip of her slipper.

"It depends on what you regard as an adventure," she smiled. "I should think the episode of the cab, with what followed at your apartment, was very much in that line?"

"Oh, to be sure!" exclaimed Harleston, with an air of complete surprise. "However did—Great Heavens, Madeline, were you the woman of the roses and the cab?"

"You know that I wasn't!" she replied.

"Then how do you know of the cab of the sleeping horse, and what followed?" he inquired blandly.

"I dreamed it."

"Wonderful! Simply wonderful!"

She nodded tolerantly. "Why keep up the fiction?" she asked. "You know that I am concerned in your adventure—just as I know of your adventure. I was on the street, or in the house, or was told of it, whichever you please; it's all one, since you know. Moreover you have seen me with one of your early morning callers, as I meant you to do." She leaned forward and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "Will you believe me, Guy, when I say that the United States is not concerned in the matter—and that it should keep its hands off. You stumbled by accident on the deserted cab. A subordinate blundered, or you would not have found it ready for your investigation—and you've been unduly and unnecessarily inquisitive. We have tried to be forbearing and considerate in our efforts to regain it, but—"

"Regain, my dear Madeline, implies, or at least it conveys an idea of, previous possession. Did Germany—I beg your pardon; did your client in this matter have such—"

"I used regain advisedly," she broke in.

"Because of your possession of the lady, or because of your independent possession of the letter?"

"You're pleased to be technical," she shrugged.

"Not at all!" he replied. "I'm simply after the facts: whether the letter belongs to you, or to the mysterious lady of the cab?"

"Who isn't in the least mysterious to you."

"No!"

"Really, you're delicious, Mr. Harleston; though I confess that you have me mystified as to your game in pretending what you and I know is pretence."

"You're pleased to be enigmatic!" Harleston laughed.

"Oh, no I'm not," she smiled, flashing her rings and watching the flashes—and him. "You saw me, and you know that I saw you; and I saw you and know that you saw me. Now, as I've said it in words of one syllable, I trust you will understand."

"I understand," said he; "but you have side-stepped the point:—To whom does this lost letter belong: to you or to—"

"Mrs. Clephane?" she adjected.

"Exactly: to you, or to Mrs. Clephane?"

"What does that matter to you—since it does not belong to you?"

"I may be a friend of Mrs. Clephane? Or I may regard myself as a trustee for the safe delivery of the letter."

"A volunteer?"

"If you so have it!" he smiled.

She beat a tattoo with her slender, nervous fingers, looking at him in mild surprise, and some disapproval.

"Since when does sentiment enter the game?" she asked.

"Sentiment?" he inflected. "I wasn't aware of its entry."

She shrugged mockingly. "Beware, old friend and enemy! You're losing your cleverness. Mrs. Clephane is very charming and alluring, but remember, Guy, that a charming woman has no place in the diplomatic game—save to delude the enemy. She seems to be winning with you—who, I thought, was above all our wiles and blandishments. Oh, do not smile, sir—I recognize the symptoms; I've played the innocent and the beauty in distress once or twice myself. It's all in our game—but I'm shockingly amazed to see it catch so experienced a bird as Guy Harleston."

"I'm greatly obliged, Madeline, for your shocking amazement," Harleston chuckled. "Meanwhile, and returning to the letter; who has the better title to possession, Mrs. Clephane or yourself?"

"As I remarked before, either of us has a better title to the letter than yourself. Also—I have heard you say it many times, and it is an accepted rule in the diplomatic game—never meddle in what does not concern you; never help to pull another's chestnuts out of the fire."

"My dear lady, you are perfectly right! I subscribe unreservedly to the rule, and try to follow it; but you have overlooked another rule—the most vital of the code."

"What is it, pray!"

"The old rule:—Never believe your adversary. Never tell the truth—except when the truth will deceive more effectively than a lie."

"That is entirely regular, yet not applicable to the present matter. I'm not your adversary."

"You say you're not—yet how does that avoid the rule?"

"Won't you take my word, Guy?" she murmured.

"I am at a loss whether to take it or not," he reflected; "being so, I'm in a state of equipoise until I'm shown."

"Tell me how I can show you?" she smiled.

"I haven't the remotest idea. You know as well as I that if you were to tell me truthfully why you are here, and what you aim to accomplish, I couldn't accept your story; I should have to substantiate it by other means."

"You mean that I can't show you?" she said sorrowfully.

He nodded. "No more than I could show you were our positions reversed."

What her purpose, in all this talk, he failed to see—unless she were seeking to establish an entente cordiale, or to gain time. The latter was the likelier—yet time for what? They both were aware that all this discussion was twaddle—like much that is done in diplomacy; that they were merely skirmishing to determine something as to each other's position.

"I had hoped that for once you would forget business and trust me," she said softly; "in memory of old times when we worked together, as well as when we were against each other. We played the game then for all that was in it, and neither of us asked nor gave quarter. But this isn't business Guy,—" she had gradually bent closer until her hair brushed his cheek—"that is, it isn't business that concerns your government. You may believe this implicitly, old enemy, absolutely implicitly."

"With whom, then, has it to do?" he inquired placidly.

She sighed just a trifle—and moved closer.

"You will never tell, nor use the information?" she breathed.

"Not unless my government needs it?"

"Peste!" she exclaimed. "You and your government are—However, I'll tell you." Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. "It has to do with England, Germany, and France: at least, I so assume. It has to do with Germany or I wouldn't be in it, as you know."

"And what is the business?" he continued.

"I'm not informed—further than that it's a secret agreement between England and Germany, which France suspects and would give much to block or to be advised of. As to what the agreement embodies, I am in the dark—though I fancy it has to do with some phase of the Balkan question."

"Why would England and Germany conclude an agreement as to the Balkan question—or any question, indeed—in Washington?" Harleston asked.

"I do not know; I'm quite ready to admit its seeming improbability. Possibly Germany desired the experience of her new Ambassador, Baron Kurtz, and didn't care to order him to Europe. Possibly, too, they chose Washington in order to avoid the spying eyes of the secret service of the other Powers. At all events, I've told you all that I know."

"Why are you here?" he went on.

"I'm here to watch—and to do as I'm directed. I'm on staff duty, so to speak. I'm not quite in your class, Guy. I've never operated quite alone." She looked at him thoughtfully. "We two together would make a great pair—oh, a very great pair!"

"I'm sure of it," he replied. "Sometime, I hope, we can try it."

"Why not try it now?" she said gently.

"I'm in the American secret service—and, you said, America is not involved."

"Join with Germany—and me—for this once."

He shook his head. "I serve my country for my pleasure. Germany is another matter. If, sometime, in an affair entirely personal to you, Madeline, I should be able to assist you, I shall be only too glad for the chance."

"You don't trust me," she replied sadly.

"Trust is a word unknown in the diplomatic vocabulary!" he smiled. "Moreover, I couldn't do what you want even if I believed and trusted your every word. You want the letter—the Clephane letter. I haven't it—as you know. It's in the possession of the State Department."

"Then let it remain there!" she exclaimed.

"It probably will until it's translated," he replied.

"It's in cipher?"

Harleston nodded. "Do you know what it contains?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, I don't."

"You would like to know?"

"Above everything!"

"And until then you would not have the French Ambassador advised of the letter, nor of the adventure of the cab?"

"Precisely, old friend, precisely."

"How will you prevent Mrs. Clephane telling it?"

"We must try to provide for that!" she smiled.

"Why didn't you keep her prisoner, when you had her last night?"

"That was a serious blunder; it won't happen again."

"H-u-m," reflected Harleston; and his glance sought Mrs. Spencer's and held it. "Where is Mrs. Clephane now?" he demanded.

For just an instant her eyes narrowed and grew very dark. Then suddenly she laughed—lightly, with just a suggestion of mockery in the tones.

"Mrs. Clephane—is yonder!" said she.

Harleston turned quickly. Mrs. Clephane was coming down the corridor.



XI

HALF A LIE

"Somewhat unexpected, isn't it?" Harleston asked.

"To whom—you, her, or myself?" Mrs. Spencer inquired.

"To you."

"Not at all. I'm never surprised at anything!" Then just a trace of derision came into her face. "Won't you present me, Mr. Harleston?"

"Certainly, I will," he responded gravely, and arose.

"Another unexpected!" she mocked. "But she is good to look at, Guy, I must grant you that. Also—" and she laughed lightly.

"One moment," said he tranquilly, and turned toward Mrs. Clephane—who had caught sight of him and was undecided what to do.

Now, smiling adorably, she came to meet him.

"The two beauties of the season!" he thought; and as he bowed over her hand he whispered: "Not a word of explanation now; and play ignorance of everything.—Understand?"

"I don't understand—but I'll do as you direct," she murmured.

"I want to present you to Mrs. Spencer—the woman whom, you will recall, I asked you in the red-room if you recognized. Be careful, she is of the enemy—and particularly dangerous."

"Everyone seems to be dangerous except myself," she replied. "I'm an imbecile, or a child in arms."

"I'm not dangerous to you," he answered.

"That, sir, remains to be proven."

"And I like your idea of the child in arms—provided it's my arms," he whispered.

Her reply was a reproving glance from her brown eyes and a shake of the head.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Clephane," Mrs. Spencer greeted, before Harleston could say a word. She made place on the divan and drew Mrs. Clephane down beside her. "You're Robert Clephane's widow, are you not?"

"Robert Clephane was, I believe, a distant cousin," Mrs. Clephane responded. "De Forrest Clephane was my husband. Did you know him, Mrs. Spencer?"

"I did not. Robert—" with the faintest stress on the name—"was the only Clephane I knew. A nice chap, Mrs. Clephane; though, since you're not his widow, I must admit that he was a bit gay—a very considerable bit indeed."

"We heard tales of it," Mrs. Clephane replied imperturbably. "It is an ungracious thing, Mrs. Spencer, to scandalize the dead, but do you know anything of his gayness from your own experience?"

Harleston suppressed a chuckle. Mrs. Clephane would take care of herself, he imagined.

Mrs. Spencer's foot paused in its swinging, and for an instant her eyes narrowed; then she smiled engagingly, the smile growing quickly into a laugh.

"Not of my own experience, Mrs. Clephane," she replied confidentially, "but I have it from those who do know, that he set a merry pace and travelled the limit with his fair companions. It was sad, too—he was a most charming fellow. Rumour also had it that he was none too happy in his marriage, and that his Mrs. Clephane was something of the same sort. I've seen her several times; she was of the type to make men's hearts flutter."

"It's no particular trick to make men's hearts flutter," said Mrs. Clephane sweetly.

"How about it, Mr. Harleston?" Mrs. Spencer asked.

"No trick whatever," he agreed, "provided she choose the proper method for the particular man; and some men are easier than others."

"For instance?" Mrs. Spencer inflected.

"No instance. I give it to you as a general proposition and without charge; which is something unusual in these days of tips and gratuities and subsidized graft and things equally predatory."

Mrs. Spencer arose. "The mere mention of graft puts me to instant flight," she remarked.

"And naturally even the suggestion of a crime is equally repugnant to you," Mrs. Clephane observed.

"'As a general proposition,'" Mrs. Spencer quoted.

"And general propositions are best proved by exceptions, n'est-ce pas?" was the quick yet drawling answer.

The two women's eyes met.

"I trust, Mrs. Clephane, we shall meet again and soon," Mrs. Spencer replied, extending her hand.

"Thank you so much," was Mrs. Clephane's answer.

Mrs. Spencer turned to Harleston with a perfectly entrancing smile.

"Good-night, Guy," she murmured.—"No, sir, not a foot; I'm going up to my apartment."

"Then we will convoy you to the elevator. Come, Mr. Harleston."

"It is only a step," Mrs. Spencer protested.

"Nevertheless," said Mrs. Clephane, "we shall not permit you to brave alone this Peacock Alley and its heedless crowd."

And putting her arm intimately through Mrs. Spencer's she went on: with Harleston trailing in the rear and chuckling with suppressed glee. It was not often that Madeline Spencer met her match!

When the car shot upward with Mrs. Spencer, Harleston gave a quiet laugh of satisfaction.

"Now shall we go in to dinner?" he asked.

Mrs. Clephane nodded.

"The table in the corner yonder, Philippe," Harleston said.

"Who is Mrs. Spencer?" she inquired, as soon as they were seated.

"You've never heard of her?"

"No—nor seen her before tonight. One is not likely to forget her; she's as lovely as—"

"Original sin?" Harleston supplied.

Mrs. Clephane smiled.

"Not at all," said she. "Diana is the one I was about to suggest."

"She may look the Diana," he replied, "but she's very far from a Diana, believe me, very far indeed."

"I am quite ready to believe it, Mr. Harleston." She lowered her voice. "I have much to tell you—and," with a quick look at him, "also something to explain."

"Your explanation is not in the least necessary if it has to do with anything Mrs. Spencer said."

"Under the circumstances I think I should be frank with you. Mrs. Spencer said just enough to make you suspect me; then she dropped it—and half a lie is always more insidious than the full truth."

"My dear Mrs. Clephane," he protested, "I assure you it is not necessary—"

"Not necessary, if one is in the diplomatic profession," she cut in. "Murder and assassination both of men and of reputation, seem to be a portion of this horrible business, and perfectly well recognized as a legitimate means to effect the end desired. I'm not in it—diplomacy, I mean,—and I'm mighty thankful I'm not. Mrs. Spencer cold as ice, crafty as the devil, beautiful as sin, and hard as adamant, knowing her Paris and London and its scandals—I suppose she must know them in her profession—instantly recognized me and placed me as Robert Clephane's wife. For I am his wife—or rather his widow. I lied to her because I didn't intend that she should have the gratification of seeing her play win. She sought to distress and disconcert me, and to raise in your mind a doubt of my motives and my story. It may be legitimate in diplomacy, but it's dastardly and inhuman. 'Rumour also had it that he was none too happy in his marriage, and that his Mrs. Clephane was something of the same sort—she was of the type to make men's hearts flutter.' You see, I recall her exact words. And what was I to do—"

"Just what you did do. You handled the matter beautifully."

"Thank you!" she smiled. "Yet she would win in the end—with almost any other man than you. She plays for time; a very little time, possibly. I don't know. I'm new in this business—and can't see far before me. Indeed, I can't see at all; it's a maze of horrors. If I get out of this mess alive, I'll promise never to get mixed in another."

"Why not quit right now, Mrs. Clephane?" Harleston suggested.

"I won't quit under fire—and with my mission unaccomplished. Moreover, this Spencer gang have ruffled my temper—they have aroused my fighting blood. I never realized I had fighting blood in me until tonight. Mrs. Spencer's ugly insinuation, topping their attempted abduction of the evening, has done it. I'm angry all through. Don't I look angry, Mr. Harleston?"

"You're quite justified in looking so, dear lady; as well as in being so," Harleston replied. "Only you don't look it now."

"You're a sad flatterer, sir!" she smiled. "Believe me, had you seen me in the room to which they decoyed me with a false message from you, you would believe that I can look it—very well look it."

"So that was the way of it!" Harleston exclaimed "Tell me about it, Mrs. Clephane. I was sure that you were a prisoner somewhere in this hotel; to find you every room was being inspected."

"Why did you think I was a prisoner in the midst of all this gaiety?" she asked.

"Because I was lured by a message purporting to be from you to the ninth floor and garroted. I escaped. However, that is another story; yours first, my lady."

"You too!" she marvelled.

He nodded. "And now we are sitting together at dinner, looking at the crowd, and you're about to tell me your story."

"Thanks to you for having escaped and rescued me!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed.

"The management devised the way."

"But you prompted it—you are the one I have to thank."

"If you insist, far be it from me to decline! It's well worth anything I can do to—have you look at me as you're looking now."

"I hope I'm looking half that I feel," she replied instantly.

"A modest man would be more than repaid by half the look," he returned.

"Are you a modest man?" she smiled.

"I trust so. At least, I am with some people."

"You're giving every instance of it with me, though it may be a part of the game; even the rescue may be a part of the game. You may be playing me against Mrs. Spencer, and taking advantage of my inexperience to accomplish your purposes—"

"You don't think so!" he said, with a shake of his head.

"No, I don't. And maybe that only proves my inexperience and unfitness."

For a moment he did not reply. Was she playing him? Was it a ruse of a clever woman; or was it the evidence of sincerity and innocence? It had the ring of candour and the appearance of truth. No one could look into those alluring eyes and that fascinatingly beautiful face and harbour a doubt of her absolute guilelessness. Yet was it guilelessness? He had never met guilelessness in the diplomatic game, save as a mask for treachery and deceit. And yet this seemed the real thing. He wanted to believe it. In fact, he did believe it; it was simply the habit of his experience warning him to beware—and because it was a woman it warned him all the more.... Yet he cast experience aside—and also the fact that she was a woman—and accepted her story as truth. Maybe he would regret it; maybe she was playing him; maybe she was laughing behind her mask; maybe he was all kinds of a fool—nevertheless, he would trust her. It was—

"I'm glad you have decided that I'm not a diplomat—and that you will trust me," she broke in. "I'm just an ordinary woman, Mr. Harleston, just a very ordinary woman."

He held out his hand. She took it instantly.

"A very extraordinary woman, you mean, dear lady," he said gravely. "In some ways the most extraordinary that I have ever known."

"It's not in the line of diplomacy, I hope," she shrugged.

"Not the feminine line, I assure you; Madeline Spencer is typical of it, and the top of her class—which means she is wonderfully clever, inscrutable as fate, and without scruple or conscience. No, thank God, you do not belong in the class of feminine diplomats!"

"Thank you, Mr. Harleston!" she said gently, permitting him, for an instant, to look deep into her brown eyes. "Now, since you trust me, I want to refer briefly to Mrs. Spencer's insinuation."

"Robert Clephane was all that she said—and more. Middle-aged when he married me, before a year was passed I had found that I was only another experience for him; and that after a short time he had resumed his ways of—gaiety. Not caring to be pitied, nor to be so soon a deserted wife, nor yet to admit my loss of attraction for him, I dashed into the gay life of Paris with reckless fervour. I know I was indiscreet. I know I fractured conventionality and was dreadfully compromised—but I never violated the Seventh Commandment. Robert Clephane and I were not separated—except by a locked door.

"Then one day some two years back, dreadfully mangled, they brought him home. An aeroplane had fallen with him—with the usual result. That moment saw the end of my gay life. I passed it up as completely as though it had never been. The reason for it was gone. After a very short period of mourning, I took up the quietness of a respectable widow, who wished only to forget that she ever was married."

"I can understand exactly," said Harleston. "You shall never hear a word from me to remind you."

"I've never heard anything to remind me of the past until this alluring beauty's insinuations of a moment ago. That is why it hit me so hard, Mr. Harleston. And why did she do it? Is she jealous of you, or of me, or what?"

"She's not jealous of me!" he laughed. "I know her history; it's something of a history, too.... Sometime I'll tell you all about it; it's an interesting tale. Is it possible you've never heard in Paris of Madeline Spencer?"

"Never!"

"Nor of the Duchess of Lotzen?"

"Great Heavens!" she cried. "Is she the Duchess of Lotzen?"

"The same," Harleston nodded.

"H-u-m! I can understand now a little of her—No wonder I felt my helplessness before her polished poise!"

"Nonsense!" he smiled.

"Why should such an accomplished—diplomat want to injure me with you?" she asked.

"She was not seeking to injure you in the sense that you imply," he returned. "Her purpose was to put you in the same class as herself, so that I should trust you no more than I do her; to make you appear an emissary of France, in its secret service, playing the game of ignorance and inexperience for its present purpose. For you, as a personality she does not care a fig. To her you are but one of the pieces, to be moved or threatened as her purpose dictates. In the diplomatic game, my lady, we know only one side—all other sides are the enemy; and nothing, not even a woman's reputation, is permitted to stand for an instant in the way of attaining our end."

"Therefore a good woman—or one who would forget the past—has no earthly business to become involved in the game," Mrs. Clephane returned. "I shall get out of it the instant this matter of the letter is completed—and stay out thereafter. Even friendship won't lure me to it. Never again, Mr. Harleston, never again for mine!"

"I wish you would let it end right now," he urged.

"That wouldn't be the part of a good sport, nor would it be just to Madame Durrand. She trusts me."

"Then inform the French Ambassador of all the facts and circumstances and retire from the game," he advised.

"Shall I inform him over the telephone?" she asked.

"You would never get the Ambassador on the telephone, unless you were known to some one of the staff who could vouch for you."

"I don't know anyone on the staff, but Mrs. Durrand has likely communicated with the Embassy."

"If she has, she had given them a minute description of you, yet that can not be used to identify you over the telephone."

"I hesitate to go to the Embassy without the letter," she said.

"Why do you hesitate?" he smiled.

"Because I—don't want to admit defeat."

"Which of itself will serve to substantiate your story. One skilled in the game would have lost no time in informing the Embassy of the loss of the letter. He would have realized that, next to the letter itself, the news of its seizure was the best thing he could deliver—also, it was his duty to advise the Embassy at the quickest possible moment. You see, dear lady, personal pride and pique play no part in this game. They are not even considered; it's the execution of the mission that's the one important thing; all else is made to bend to that single end."

"Then I should go to the French Embassy tonight with my story?" she asked.

"You should have gone this morning—the instant you were returned to the hotel! Now, unless Madame Durrand had written about you, it's a pretty good gamble that the Spencer crowd has forestalled you."

"Forestalled me! What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Spencer admitted to me that your release was someone's blunder. The normal thing was to hold you prisoner and so prevent you from communicating with the Ambassador until they had obtained the letter or defeated its purpose. That was not done; but Spencer, you may assume, has attempted to rectify their blunder—possibly by impersonating you, and giving the Marquis d'Hausonville some tale that will fall in with her plans and gain time for her."

"Impersonating me!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes. She knows all the material circumstance—witness the telephone call that inveigled you into the drive up the Avenue, et cetera—and she'll take the chance that you are not known to the Marquis nor any of the staff, or even the chance that Madame Durrand has not yet informed them. Indeed she may have taken precautions against her informing them. A few bribes to the hospital attendants, carefully distributed, would be sufficient. It's not everyone who could, or would venture to, pull off the coup, but with Spencer the very daring of a thing adds to its pleasure and its zest."

"You amaze me!" Mrs. Clephane replied. "I thought also that diplomacy was the gentlest-mannered profession in the world—and the most dignified."

"It is—on the surface. Fine residences, splendid establishments, brilliant uniforms, much bowing and many genuflections, plenty of parade and glitter—everything for show. Under the surface: a supreme contempt for any code of honour, and a ruthlessness of purpose simply appalling—yet, withal, dignity, strained at times, but dignity none-the-less."

"Then it isn't even a respectable calling!" she exclaimed.

"It's eminently respectable to intimidate and to lie for one's country—and to stoop to any means to attain an end."

"And you enjoy it!" she marvelled.

"I do. It's fascinating—and I leave the disagreeable portion to others, when it has to do with those not of the profession."

"And when it has to do with those of the profession?"

"Then it's all in the game, and everything goes to win—because we all know what to expect and what to guard against. No one believes or trusts the enemy; and, as I said, everyone is the enemy but those who are arrayed with us."

"So instead of being the finest profession in the world—and the most aristocratic," Mrs. Clephane reflected, "a diplomat is, in truth, simply a false-pretence artist of an especially refined and dangerous type, who deals with the affairs of nations instead of the affairs of an individual."

"Pretty much," he admitted. "Diplomacy is all bluff, bluster, buncombe, and bullying; the degrees of refinement of the aforesaid bluff, et cetera, depending on the occasions, and the particular parties involved in the particular business."

"Again I'm well content to be simply an ordinary woman, whose chief delight and occupation is clothes and the wearing of clothes."

"You're a success at your occupation," Harleston replied.

"Some there are who would not agree with you," she replied. "However, we are straying from the question before us, which is: what shall I do about informing the Marquis d'Hausonville? Will you go with me?"

"My going with you would only complicate matters for you. The Marquis would instantly want to know what such a move on my part meant. I'm known to be in the secret service of the United States, you must remember. Furthermore your tale will accuse me of the taking of the letter—and you see the merry mess which follows. I cannot return the letter—it's in possession of the State Department. I'm far transgressing my duty by disclosing anything as to the letter. Indeed, I'm liable to be disciplined most drastically, even imprisoned, should it chance that the United States was involved."

"You've told me nothing more than you've already told the Spencer crowd," she objected.

"The difference is that the Spencer crowd are trying to obtain something to which they haven't the least right—and I'm playing the game against them. You see my peculiar position, Mrs. Clephane. I've told you what I shouldn't, because—well, because I'm sure that you will not use it to my disadvantage."

She traced the figures on her gown with the tips of her fingers, and for awhile was silent—

"It's all so involved," she reflected; "such wheels within wheels, I am completely mystified. I'm lost in the maze. I don't know whom to believe nor whom to trust—except," and suddenly she smiled at him confidently, "that I trust you."

He held her eyes with his own as he leaned forward across the table and answered very quietly:

"I shall try, dear lady, to be worthy."

"And now," she laughed, "may I tell you what happened to me when you were called to the telephone?"

"You may talk to me forever," he replied.

"And what as to the French Ambassador?" she asked.

"Bother the Marquis—he may wait until morning."

"Tomorrow, then, is beyond the forever?"

"Tomorrow may take care of itself!"

"Don't be sacrilegious, sir."

"I'll be anything you wish," he replied.

"Then be a good listener while I tell my tale. It was this wise, Mr. Harleston. Immediately after you were called away, indeed you were scarcely out of the room, a page brought a verbal message from the telephone operator that my maid had been found unconscious in the corridor of the eighth floor, and carried into 821. I hurried to the elevator. As I entered the door of 821, I was seized from behind and a handkerchief bound over my mouth and eyes. I then was tied in a chair, and a man's voice said that no further harm would come to me if I remained quiet until morning. I did not see the faces of my assailants; there were two at least, possibly three, and one I think was a woman. My feelings and thoughts until the electrician released me may be imagined. It seemed days and days—and was somewhat uncomfortable while it lasted. When released I hurried down to look for you—or to write you a note of explanation if I couldn't find you. I'm sort of becoming accustomed to being abducted and kindred innocent amusements. I suppose the only reason they didn't kill me is that they can't kill me more than once; and to kill me now would be too early in the game."

"Killing is rarely done in diplomacy," observed Harleston, "except in large numbers; when it ceases to be diplomacy and becomes war. In fact, only bunglers resort to killing; and if the killing be known it ends one's career in the service. To have to kill to gain an end is conclusive evidence of incompetency. I mean, of course, among reputable nations. There are some thugs among the lesser Powers, just as there are thugs among the 'oi polloi."

"Then Mrs. Spencer is an accomplished—diplomat," Mrs. Clephane remarked.

"She is at the top of the profession,—and as a directing force she is without a superior."

"You are very generous, Mr. Harleston!"

"I believe in giving the devil his dues. Indeed, in handling some affairs, she is in a class by herself. Her beauty and finesse and alluringness make her simply irresistible. It's a cold and stony heart that she can't get inside of and use."

"A man's heart, you mean?"

"Certainly. A man is in control of such affairs."

"Then Mrs. Spencer's presence here indicates that this letter matter is of the first importance to Germany."

"It indicates that her business is of the first importance to Germany; the letter may simply be incidental to that business, in that its delivery to the French Ambassador will embarrass or complicate that business. The latter is likely the fact."

"It grows more involved every minute," Mrs. Clephane sighed. "It's useless to try to make me comprehend. I want to hear what happened to you; such simple concrete doings are more adapted to my unsophisticated mind."

"When I returned to the telephone, you were gone," he said; "I waited awhile, then cruised through the rooms, then went back to our place and waited again. Finally I went in to dinner, leaving word to be notified the moment you returned. I was at my soup when a note was brought to me saying that you had just seen someone whom you wished to avoid, and asking me to dine with you in your apartment—and that you would explain your disappearance. I went up at once to No. 972; and there encountered pretty much similar treatment to yours,"—and he detailed the episode, down to the time she reappeared in the corridor.

She had heard him through without an interruption; at the end she said simply:

"I've absolutely no business in this affair, Mr. Harleston. When such things can happen in this hotel, in the very centre of the National Capital and among the throngs of diners and guests, it behooves an ordinary woman to seek safety in a hospital or a prison. It seems that the greater the prominence of the place, the greater the danger and the less liability to arrest."

"In diplomacy!" he acquiesced.

"Then again, I say, Heaven save me from meddling in diplomacy!"

"Amen, my lady! Moreover," he added, as they arose and passed into the corridor, "I want you as you are."

Once again their eyes met—she coloured and looked away.

"Play the game, Mr. Harleston," she reminded, "play the game! And thank you for a delicious dinner and a charming evening—and don't forget you've an appointment at ten."

"I had forgotten!" he laughed, drawing out his watch.

It was ten minutes of the hour.

"Take me to the F Street elevator and then hurry on," said she.

"And you will do nothing—and go nowhere until tomorrow?" he asked.

"I'll promise to remain here until—"

"I come for you in the morning?" he broke in.

"If I'm not abducted in the interval, I'll wait," and stepped into the car. "Good-night, Mr. Harleston!" she smiled—and the car shot upward.

"Hum!" muttered Harleston as he turned for his coat and hat. "I may be a fool, but I'll risk it—and I think I'm not."

It was but a step to Headquarters and he walked.

"The Superintendent," he said to the sergeant on duty in the outer office.

"The Chief has gone home, Mr. Harleston," was the answer.

"Home?"

"Yes, sir, two hours ago; he'll not be back tonight."

"Get him on the telephone," Harleston directed.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Harleston.... Here he is, sir—you can use the 'phone in the private office."

"Hello! Is that you, Ranleigh? Yes, I recognized the voice. Did you telephone me at the Chateau about six-thirty?... You didn't?... You were on your way home at that hour.... Yes, exactly; it was a plant.... Do you know Crenshaw escaped from my apartment.... Yes, I saw him in the Chateau this evening.... What?... Yes, better look up Whiteside at once.... Yes, in the Collingwood.... Very good; I'll meet you there.... All right, I'll tell the sergeant."



XII

CARPENTER

Harleston took a taxi to the Collingwood, arriving just as Ranleigh came up, and the two men went in together.

Whiteside was there; gagged and bound to the same chair that had held Crenshaw.

The rooms were in confusion. Everything had been gone through; clothes were scattered over the floor, papers were strewn about, drawers stood open.

They released Whiteside, and presently he was able to talk.

"When did it happen?" Ranleigh asked.

"About five o'clock this afternoon, sir," Whiteside replied, in a most apologetic tone. He knew there was no sympathy and no excuse for the detective who let his prisoner escape. "The bell rang. I went to the door—and was shot senseless by a chemical revolver. When I came to, I had exchanged places with the prisoner, and he and another man were just departing. 'My compliments to Mr. Harleston when he returns,' said Crenshaw, as he went out."

"Describe the other man!" said Ranleigh.

"Medium sized, slender, dark hair and eyes, good features, looked like a gentleman, wore a blue sack-suit, black silk tie, and stiff straw hat."

"It's Sparrow," Harleston remarked. "Did they take anything with them?"

"Nothing whatever that I saw, sir."

"You're excused until morning," said the Chief curtly.

The detective saluted and went out.

"I am exceedingly sorry I overlooked Whiteside when I escaped from Crenshaw's garrote in the Chateau," Harleston remarked. "The simple fact is, I clean forgot him until I was talking with you on the telephone."

"It's just as well, Mr. Harleston," Ranleigh replied. "It served him right. He will be fortunate if his want of precaution doesn't cost him his job."

"No, no!" Harleston objected. "Whiteside has been punished. I intercede for him. Let him continue in his job, please."

"Very good, sir," Ranleigh acquiesced. "But he'll be informed that he owes his retention entirely to you."

When Ranleigh departed, after hearing a detailed account of the evening's doings at the hotel, Harleston sat for a little while thinking; finally he drew over a pad and made a list of things that required explanation, or seemed to require explanation, at the present stage of the matter:

"(1) The translation of the cipher letter. This should explain Madeline Spencer's connection with the affair.

"(2) Did the following persons, incidents, or circumstances have any bearing on the affair.

"(a) The lone and handsome woman, who left the Collingwood at three that morning.

"(b) The note 'a l'aube du jour' (signed) 'M,' found in Crenshaw's pocket.

"(c) The telephone call of the Chartrand apartment at 12:52 A.M., by a man who said that he was 'here' and to meet him at 10 A.M.

"(d) The persons in the Chartrand apartment the previous night.

"(e) After 1 P.M. no one entered the Collingwood by the usual way, and no one telephoned; how, therefore, did anyone in the Collingwood know of the incident of the cab, and of my connection with it.

"(f) Who is Mrs. Winton of the Burlingame apartments?

"(g) Why was she in Peacock Alley, wearing black and red roses, at five o'clock this afternoon?"

Harleston read over the list, folded it, and put it in his pocket-book; then he went to bed. There was plenty for him to seek, in regard to the affair of the cab of the sleeping horse, but nothing more for the Spencer gang to inspect in his apartment. Crenshaw had made a thorough job of his investigation.

In the morning he took out the list and went over it again. They all were dependent on the translation of the letter; if it did not show that the United States was concerned in the matter, the rest became merely of academic interest—and Harleston had little inclination and no time for things academic. The difficulty was, that until the key to the cipher was found nothing was academic which appeared to have any bearing on the affair.

So he sent for the manager of the Collingwood, and asked as to the Chartrands. The manager's information, which was definite if not extensive, was to the effect that the Chartrands were people of means from Denver, with excellent social position there, and with connections in Washington. They had been tenants of the Collingwood less than a week, having sublet the Dryand apartment. It was a large apartment. Mr. Chartrand was possibly forty-five, his wife thirty-eight or forty and exceedingly good-looking. There was, of course, no record kept of their visitors, nor did the house know who they were entertaining the previous evening. He was entirely sure, however, that the Chartrands were above suspicion. Mrs. Chartrand was a blonde, petite and slender; Chartrand was tall and rather stout, with red hair, and a scar across his forehead. As for the tall, slender woman who left the Collingwood at three in the morning, he did not recognize her from the description; he would, however, investigate at once.

That it might be Madeline Spencer, now that her presence in Washington was declared, Harleston thought possible. "Slender, twenty-eight, walks as though the ground were hers," the telephone operator had said. He would get the photograph from Carpenter and let Miss Williams see it. If she recognized it as Spencer, much would be explained.

He stopped a moment at the Club, then went on to the State Department. As he turned the corner near the Secretary's private elevator, the Secretary himself was on the point of embarking and he waited.

"You want to see me?" he asked.

"Just a moment, Mr. Secretary, since you're here," Harleston responded. "I came particularly to see Carpenter. There has been a plenty doing in that matter, but nothing worthy of report to you—except one thing. Madeline Spencer is in town."

"The devil she is!" exclaimed the Secretary.

"And as beautiful, as fascinating, as sinuous, and as young as ever."

"She must be a vision."

"She is—and an extraordinarily dangerous vision."

"Only to you impressible chaps!" the Secretary confided. "She is not dangerous to me, be she ever so beautiful, and fascinating, and sinuous, and young. When will you present me?"

"When do you suggest?" Harleston asked.

"Tomorrow, at four?"

"If I can get the lady, certainly."

"Later she'll get me, you think!" the Secretary laughed.

"If she is so minded she'll get you, I have not the least doubt," Harleston shrugged.

"Then here is where you have your doubt resolved into moonshine."

"Very well; it won't be the first time I've had the pleasure of seeing moonshine. I'll try to make the appointment for tomorrow at four."

"Self-opinionated old mountebank," Harleston thought, as he went down the corridor to Carpenter's office. "I shall enjoy watching Spencer make all kinds of an ass of him. 'You impressible chaps!—not dangerous to me!' Oh, Lord, the patronizing bumptiousness of the man!... Have you anything for me, Carpenter?" he asked, as he entered the latter's office.

The Fifth Assistant was sitting with his feet on his desk, a cigar in his mouth, his gaze fixed on vacancy.

"Damn your old cipher, Harleston!" he remarked, coming out of his abstraction. "It's bothered me more than anything I've tackled for years. I can't make head nor tail of it. Its very simplicity—or seeming simplicity—is what's tantalizing. It's in French. Of so much I feel sure, though I've little more than intuition to back it. As you know, this Vigenerie, or Blocked-Out Square, cipher is particularly difficult. I've tried every word and phrase that's ever been used or discovered. We have a complete record of them. None fit this case. Can you give me anything additional that will be suggestive?"

"Here's what I've brought," Harleston replied—and related, so far as they seemed pertinent, the incidents of the previous afternoon and evening.

"A French message in an English envelope, inclosing an unmounted photograph of Madeline Spencer, a well-known German Secret Agent in Paris," Carpenter remarked slowly; "and the letter is borne by Madame Durrand to the French Ambassador. You see, my intuition was right? the letter is in French; and as it is of French authorship the key-word is French. That narrows very materially our search. Find the key-word to the Vigenerie cipher of the French Diplomatic Service and we shall have the translation."

"You haven't that word?" Harleston asked.

"We've got quantities of keys to French ciphers, and numerous ones to the Blocked-Out Square, but they won't translate this letter." He took up a small book and opened it at a mark. "Here are samples of the latter: ecclesiastiques, coeur de roche, a deau eaux, fourreau, chateau d'eau, and so on. But, alas, none of them fits; the French Government has a new key. Indeed, she changes it every month or oftener; sometimes she changes it just for a single letter."

"Then we must apply ourselves to obtaining the French key-word," Harleston remarked. "Can you—do it?"

"Maybe we can pilfer it and maybe we can't. At least we can make a brisk attempt. I will give orders at once. In the meantime, if you'll keep me advised of what happens, we may be able to piece your and my information together and make a word."

"I'll do it!" Harleston replied and started toward the door. Half-way across the room he suddenly whirled around. "Lord, Carpenter. what an imbecile I am!" he exclaimed. "I fancy I've had the key-word all the while and never realized it."

"There are too many petticoats in this case," Carpenter shrugged.

"Never mind the petticoats!" Harleston laughed. "Get out the letter and try this phrase on it: a l'aube du jour."

Without a word of comment, Carpenter set down the cipher message, letter by letter, and wrote over it a l'aube du jour. Then he took up a printed Blocked-Out Square and with incredible swiftness began to write the translation.

"Where did you get this 'at the break of day,' Harleston?" he asked as he wrote.

"Found it in Crenshaw's pocket-book when he returned to hold me up," Harleston replied.

"Only this isolated phrase?"

"Yes—and signed with the single initial 'M.'"

"Hump!" Carpenter commented. "Mrs. Spencer's name, I believe you said, is Madeline. I tell you there are too many women in this affair."

Suddenly he threw down the pen. "What's the use in going on with it. If you can supply a key to this key we may arrive. Such an array of unpronounceables may be Russian, it assuredly isn't French or English. Look at it!" and he handed the translation to Harleston, who read:

AGELUMTONZUCLPMUHRHUNBARGPUH PJICLWYIAOIWFPHLUOZFRXUFJWH WASNVDPS

"Good Lord!" said Harleston. "I pass. Did you ever see so many consonants. I reckon my key-word isn't the key."

"Try being held up again," Carpenter advised; "you may succeed the second time. If Madeline Spencer is the holdee, no telling what you'd find."

"I'd find nothing," Harleston rejoined.

"You'd be holding a particularly lovely and attractive bit of skirts!" Carpenter smiled.

"I don't want to hold that at present."

"Not even—Mrs. Clephane?"

Harleston raised his eyebrows slightly.

"What do you know about Mrs. Clephane?" he asked.

"That she's even lovelier and more attractive than Mrs. Spencer."

"You've seen her—you know her?"

"You told me," replied Carpenter.

"I told you!—I never referred to Mrs. Clephane's appearance."

"Exactly: your careful reticence told me more than if you had used tons of words. I'm a reader of secret ciphers; you don't imagine a mere individual presents much of a problem. I tell you there are too many petticoats mixed up in this affair of the cab of the sleeping horse," Carpenter repeated. "Be careful, Harleston. Women are a menace—they spoil about everything they touch."

"Marriage in particular?" Harleston inquired.

"Exactly!"

"A bachelor's wisdom!" Harleston laughed.

"Why are you a bachelor?" Carpenter shrugged.

"Because I never—"

"—found the woman; or have been adroit enough to avoid her wiles," Carpenter cut in. "And whichever it is, you've shown your wisdom. Don't spoil it now, Harleston, don't spoil it now. Millionaires and day-labourers are the only classes that have any business to marry; the rest of us chaps either can't afford the luxury, or are not quite poor enough to be forced to marry in order to get a servant."

"You would be popular with the suffragettes," Harleston remarked.

"Worldly wisdom of any sort is never popular with those against whom it warns."

"An aphorism!" Harleston laughed.

"Aphorism be damned; it's just plain horse sense. Don't do it, old man, don't do it!"

"Don't do what?"

"Don't fall in love with Mrs. Clephane."

"Good Lord!" Harleston exclaimed.

"Good Lord all you want, you're on the verge and preparing to leap in—and you know it. Let some other man be the life-saver, Harleston. You're much too fine a chap to waste yourself in foolishness."

"And all this," Harleston expostulated with mock solemnity, "because I neglected to include a description of Mrs. Clephane."

"Neglected with deliberation. And with you that is more significant than if you had detailed most minutely her manifold attractions. Look here, Harleston, do you want this translation for yourself or for Mrs. Clephane?"

"I want the translation because the Secretary of State wants it," Harleston replied quietly.

"Oh, don't become chilly," Carpenter returned good-naturedly. "If you permit, I'll tell you something about a Mrs. Clephane—queer name Clephane, and rather unusual—whom I used to see in Paris," glancing languidly at Harleston, "several years ago. Want to hear it?"

"Sure!" said Harleston. "Drive on and keep driving. You won't drive over me."

"It isn't a great deal," Carpenter went on, slowly tearing the consonant collection into bits, "and perchance it wasn't your Mrs. Clephane; but her name, and her beauty and charm, and Paris, and some other inferences I drew, led me to suspect that—" He completed the sentence by a wave of his hand. "She was Robert Clephane's wife—yes, I see in your face that she is your Mrs. Clephane—and he led her a merry life, though if rumour lied not she kept up with the pace he set. I saw her frequently and she was as—well you have not overdrawn the 'reticence picture.' Shall I continue?"

Harleston smiled and nodded.

"Doubtless you already know the tale," Carpenter remarked.

"I know only what Mrs. Clephane has told me," Harleston replied.

The Fifth Assistant Secretary picked up a ruler and sighted carefully along the edge.

"I seem to be in wrong, old man," he said. "Please forget that I ever said it or anything—you understand."

"My dear fellow, don't be an ass!" Harleston laughed. "I'm not sensitive about the lady; I never saw her until last night."

"Quite long enough for a man disposed to make a fool of himself—if the lady is a beauty."

"I'm disposed to hear more from you, if you care to tell me," Harleston replied. "However, jesting aside, Carpenter, what do you know? Mrs. Clephane is something of a puzzle to me, but I have concluded to accept her story; yet I'm always open to conviction, and if I'm wrong now's the time to enlighten me—the State comes first, you know."

"Are you viewing Mrs. Clephane simply as a circumstance in the affair of the cipher letter?" Carpenter asked.

"Certainly!" said Harleston.

"Then I'll give you what I heard. It's not much, and it may be false; it's for you to judge, in the light of all that you know concerning her, whether or not it affects her credibility. Mrs. Clephane went with a notoriously fast set in Paris, and her reputation was somewhat cloudy."

"I know of that," returned Harleston, "also that Clephane was a roue, and generally an exceedingly rotten lot."

"Precisely—and her conduct as to him may be quite justifiable; yet nevertheless it weakens her credibility; puts her story as to the letter under suspicion. And there is one thing more: Clephane, you know, was killed in an aeroplane smash. Did Mrs. Clephane tell you anything as to it?"

"Merely referred to it."

"Well, at a dinner the night before, he effervesced that his wife had repeatedly tried to poison him, and had told him only that evening that she hoped the flight of the morrow would be his last, and that he would fall so far it would be useless to dig for his remains. At the aviation field the following day he appeared queer, and his friends urged him not to try the flight; but he waved them aside, with the remark that maybe Mrs. Clephane had drugged him and at last would win out. His fall came a trifle later. Suspicion followed, of course."

"How do you know all this?" Harleston asked.

"From a man who was one of his intimates, and has reformed; and from having myself been in the aviation field the day of the tragedy."

"You heard Clephane's remark?"

"I did."

"Hum!" said Harleston slowly. "A man of Clephane's habits will accuse anyone of anything at certain times. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't blame Mrs. Clephane, nor any other woman, for chucking such a husband out of the boat. It's contrary to the Acts of Assembly in such cases made and provided, but it's natural justice and amply justifiable."

"You don't credit it?" Carpenter asked.

"I can't. Moreover, didn't she change instantly her course of life and disappear from the gay world?"

"I believe that is so."

"And hasn't she remained disappeared?"

Carpenter nodded.

"Then I'm inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. I'll trust her, until I've seen something to warrant distrust—bearing in mind, however, what you have just told me, and the possibility of my being mistaken. I reckon I can veer quickly enough if—"

The telephone rang. Carpenter picked up the receiver.

"Yes, Mr. Harleston is here," he replied, passing the receiver across.

"Yes," said Harleston. "Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Clephane.... Very nice, indeed.... Be delighted!... In ten minutes, I'll be there. Good-bye." He pushed back the instrument. "Mrs. Clephane has telephoned that she must see me at once. Meanwhile—the key-word, my friend."

Carpenter drummed on the table, and frowned at the door that had closed behind Harleston.

"The man's bewitched," he muttered. "However I threw a slight scare into him, and maybe it will make him pause; he is not quite devoid of sense. Bah! All women are vampires."



XIII

THE MARQUIS

"Mrs. Clephane will be right down, Mr. Harleston," said the telephone operator.

A moment later the elevator flashed into sight, and Mrs. Clephane stepped out and came forward with the languorously lithe step, perfectly in keeping with her slender figure. She wore a dark blue street suit, and under her small hat her glorious hair flamed like an incandescent aureole. She greeted Harleston with an intimate little nod and smile.

"You're good to come!" she said.

"To myself, I think I'm more than good," he answered.

"No, no, sir!" she smiled. "No more compliments between us, if we're to be friends."

"We're to be friends," he returned.

"Ergo," she replied. "Sit down just a minute, will you?"

"I'll sit down for a month, if you're—"

"Ergo! Ergo!" she reminded him.

"I had not gotten used to the unusual restriction" he exclaimed. "You're the first woman ever I met or heard of who dislikes compliments."

"I don't dislike compliments, Mr. Harleston; but compliments, it seems, are given in diplomacy for a purpose; and as I don't understand anything of diplomacy we would better cut them out—until we have finished with diplomacy. Then you may offer as many as you like, and I'll believe them or not as I'm minded."

"Have it as you wish!" he smiled, looking into the brown eyes with frank admiration.

"Compliments may be conveyed by looks as well as by words," she reproved.

"But of the feeling that prompts the look you can be in no doubt. Moreover, a look is silent."

"Nonsense," said she. "Besides, I want to ask you a favour. You see, I'm prepared to go out—and I want you to go with me. Will you do it?"

"It will have to be mightily against my conscience to make me refuse you," Harleston replied.

"I'm glad you recognize a conscience," she remarked.

"I refer to my diplomatic conscience."

"And a diplomatic conscience is a minus quantity," she observed.

"What is it you would of me, dear lady?" he asked.

"I would that you should go with me to the French Ambassador, and help me to explain the—now don't say you won't, Mr. Harleston—"