"My dear Mrs. Clephane, it is—" he began.

"It is not impossible!" she declared. "Why won't you do it?"

"For your sake as well as for my own," he explained. "America and France are not working together in this matter, and for me to accompany you would result simply in your being obliged to explain me as well as the letter, besides leading to endless complications and countless suspicions. Didn't I expound this last evening?"

"You did—also much more; but I've thought over it almost the whole night, and I simply must get this miserable letter off my mind. Perhaps Mrs. Spencer has forestalled me with the Ambassador and has given him such a tale as will insure my being shown the door; nevertheless I'll risk it."

"Why don't you get in communication with your friend Madame Durrand," Harleston suggested "and have her, if she hasn't done so already, identify you to the Marquis?"

"I shall, if the Marquis is sceptical. I'll admit that I'm pitiably foolish, but I don't want Mrs. Durrand to know how I've bungled her matter until the bungle is corrected."

"I can quite understand," said Harleston gently.

"Oh, I know you are right," she murmured, "yet I'm afraid to go alone."

"Take some other friend with you; some well-known man who can vouch for your identity."

"I know no one in Washington except the friends at the Shoreham, and they are not residents here."

"Are you acquainted with any prominent woman?"

"No! I've lived in Europe for years—and while I have met over there women from Washington it's been only casually. They won't recollect me, any more than I would them, for purposes of vouchment or identification."

"Then go alone."

"I will. It is the right thing to do. Yesterday I was thinking that you had the letter and could return it to me. I waited. Today I can appreciate your reason for withholding it—likewise the necessity for me to go to the Ambassador with my story. And I shall tell him the whole story; he may believe it or not as he is inclined. I'm only a volunteer in this affair, and I've decided that for me the course of discretion and frank honesty is much wiser than silently fighting back. Furthermore, it does not estop me from fighting the Spencer gang."

"You have made a wise decision," Harleston commented. "Tell the Ambassador, and be quit of the affair—and don't fight the Spencer gang, Mrs. Clephane; it is not worth while."

She arose, and he went with her down the corridor and up the steps to the entrance.

"Every action is suspected and distrusted in diplomacy," he said, "therefore I may not accompany you. Someone would be sure to see us and report to the Embassy that I had brought you—the natural effect of which would be to make the Marquis disbelieve your tale. For you see, until we have translated the letter, we cannot assume that America is not concerned."

"And you will not think ill of me for disclosing your part in the affair?" she asked.

"Quite the contrary," he smiled. "Moreover, it is the course for you to pursue; to hold back a single thing as to me will result only in distrust. Indeed, implicating me will help substantiate your story."

"You're very good and very thoughtful," she murmured—and once more suffered him to look deep into her eyes.

"I am very willing for you to think me both," he replied. "Now I'm going to call a taxi at the Fourteenth Street exit, and follow yours up Sixteenth Street until I see you at the French Embassy. Tell your chauffeur to drive down to Twelfth Street, up to H and then out to Sixteenth. My taxi will be loitering on Sixteenth and will pick up yours as it passes and follow it to the Embassy. Once there you're out of danger of the Spencer gang. And let me impress you with this fact: tell the story to someone of the staff. If you fail to get to the Ambassador, get a Secretary or an Attache."

"I'll try to find someone who will listen!" she laughed.

"And I rather fancy you will be successful," he smiled. "It would be a most unusual sort of man who won't both listen and look."

"Careful, Mr. Harleston!" she reminded.

He put her in the taxi; bowed and turned back into the hotel—wondering why he had ever fancied Madeline Spencer.

Mrs. Clephane gave her orders to the chauffeur, ending with the injunction to drive slowly.

As they swung into Sixteenth Street, a taxi standing before St. John's Episcopal Church followed them; and Mrs. Clephane recognized Harleston as its occupant.

At the French Embassy she descended and rang the bell, and was instantly admitted by a liveried footman.

"I wish to see his Excellency the Ambassador!" she said, speaking in French.

The flunky took her card and bowed her into a small reception room.

After a moment or so a dapper young man entered, her card in his fingers.

"Messes Cleephane?" he inquired.

"I am Mrs. Clephane," she replied in French. "I wish to see his Excellency the Ambassador on a most important matter."

"You have an appointment with his Excellency?" he asked, this time in French.

"You are—" she inflected.

"His secretary, madame," the young man bowed.

"No, I have not an appointment," she replied, "but I come from Madame Durrand who was the bearer of a cipher letter from the Foreign Minister. Madame Durrand was injured as she was about to take train in New York, and gave me the letter to deliver."

The secretary looked at her blandly and smiled faintly.

"You have the letter with you?" he asked.

"Again, no," she replied. "It is to explain its loss, and to warn the Ambassador that I am here."

"His Excellency is exceedingly busy—will you not relate the circumstances to me?"

"My instructions from Madame Durrand are most specific that I am to deal only with his Excellency," Mrs. Clephane explained—with such a dazzling smile that the secretary's eyes fairly popped. "Won't you please tell him I'm here, and that I have a luncheon engagement at one o'clock."

The secretary hesitated. Again the smile smote him full in the face—and he hesitated no longer.

"Come with me, Madame Clephane," he replied "His Excellency is occupied at present, but I'll deliver your message."

Once more the smile—as opening the door for her he bowed her into an inner office, and carefully placed a chair for her.

"A moment, madame," he whispered, disappearing through an adjoining doorway.

Whereat Mrs. Clephane sighed with amused complacency, and waited.

Presently the door opened and the secretary appeared. "His Excellency will receive you, Madame Clephane," he said.

"I thank you—oh, so much!" she whispered as she passed him—and the look that went with the words cleared all her scores—and almost finished him.

So much for a smile—when a beautiful woman smiles, and smiles in just the right way, and especially when the man smiled on is a Frenchman.

The Ambassador was standing by a large, flat-topped desk in the centre of the room, his back was to the light, which was generously given in all its effulgence to his visitors. He was a small man and slight of build, intensely nervous, with well-cut features, gray hair—what there was of it—and a tiny black moustache curled up at the ends but not waxed.

He came briskly forward and extended his hand.

"My dear Madame Clephane," he said in French, leading her to a chair, "how can I serve you?"

"By listening to my story, your Excellency, and believing it," Mrs. Clephane answered,—"and at the end not being too severe on me for my misfortune and ignorance."

"That will not be difficult," he bowed, with a frank look of admiration. "You come from Madame Durrand, I believe?"

"Yes—you know Madame Durrand?"

The Marquis nodded. "I have met her several times."

"I'm glad!" said she. "It may help me to prove my case."

"Madame is her own proof," was the answer.

For which answer he drew such a smile from Edith Clephane that in comparison the secretary's smile was simply as nothing.

"Your Excellency overwhelms me," she replied. "I'm positively trembling with apprehension lest I fail to—" she dropped into English—"make good."

He laughed lightly. "You will make good!" he replied, also in English, "Pray proceed."

And Mrs. Clephane told him the whole story, from the time she met Madame Durrand on the steamer to the present moment—omitting only the immaterial personal portions occurring between Harleston and herself, and the fact that his taxi had escorted hers until she was at the Embassy.

Her narrative was punctuated throughout by the Marquis's constant exclamations of wonder or interest; but further than exclaiming, in the nervous French way, he made no interruption.

And on the whole, she told her story well; at first she was a little nervous, which made her somewhat at a loss for words; yet that soon passed, and her tale flowed along with delightful ease.

"Now you have been a wonderfully gracious listener, your Excellency," she ended, "ask whatever questions you wish in regard to the matter; I shall be only too glad to answer if I am able."

"Madame's narrative has been most detailed and most satisfactory," the Marquis answered. "But let me ask you to explain, if you can, why Madame Durrand has not made a written report of this matter to the Embassy?"

"I have no idea—unless she is ill."

"Broken bones do not usually prevent one from writing, or dictating, a letter."

"It is peculiar!" Mrs. Clephane admitted.

"What is the name of the hospital?" the Marquis asked.

"In the hurry and excitement I quite forgot to ask the name," she replied. "The station officials selected it. I was thinking of her—Madame Durrand, I mean—more than the name of the hospital. I don't even know the street; though it's somewhere in the locality of the station. It is dreadfully stupid of me, your Excellency, not to know—but I don't."

"We can remedy that very readily," he said, and pressed a button. His secretary responded. "Telephone our Consul-General in New York to ascertain immediately from the railroad officials the hospital to which Madame Durrand, who broke her ankle and wrist in the Pennsylvania Station, at ten o'clock on Monday, was taken."

The secretary saluted and withdrew.

"Might not our friends the enemy have bribed someone to suppress Madame Durrand's letter or wire?" Mrs. Clephane asked.

"Very possibly. It is entirely likely that they wouldn't be apt to stop with the accident."

"You think they were responsible for Madame Durrand's fall?" she exclaimed.

"Have you forgotten the man who jostled Madame Durrand?" the Marquis reminded.

"To be sure! How stupid not to think of it. You see, your Excellency, I am not accustomed to the ways of diplomacy and to assuming every one's a rogue until he proves otherwise."

"You have a poor opinion of diplomats!" he smiled.

"Not of diplomats, only of their professional ways. And as they all have the same ways, it's fair, I suppose, among one another."

"Did you tell Monsieur Harleston your opinion of our vocation?" he asked.

"I did—somewhat more emphatically."

"And what, if you care to tell, did he say?"

"He quite agreed with me; he even went further."

"Wise man, Harleston!" the Marquis chuckled.

"Implying that he was not sincere?"

The Marquis threw up his hands. "Perish the thought! I imply that he is a man of rare discrimination and admirable taste."

"Now won't you please tell me, your Excellency, if you credit, no, if you believe, my story—and don't be a diplomat for the telling."

"My dear Madame Clephane, I do believe your tale—it bears the impress of truth in what you've not done, as well as in what you've done. Had you ever been in the service you would recognize my meaning. That the abductors did not triumph was due first to their carelessness, and second to chance, in the person of Monsieur Harleston. He plays the game; and is violating no rule of diplomacy by his course in the affair. Indeed he would be recreant to his country's service were he to do otherwise. And France would infinitely prefer the United States to have the letter rather than Germany. It's unfortunate, but it's not as unfortunate as it might be."

"You make me feel much, oh, so much better!" Mrs. Clephane replied. "I feared lest my blunder could never be forgiven nor forgotten; and that Madame Durrand would be held responsible and would never again be trusted."

The Ambassador smiled and shook his head. "I think you need not worry," he replied.

"And I'm perfectly sure, your Excellency, that if the United States is neither directly or indirectly concerned in the matter of the letter, and if you were to submit a translation of the letter to prove it, Mr. Harleston will deliver to you the original."

"Did Monsieur Harleston tell you so?" the Marquis smiled.

"No, oh, no! I only thought that—"

"—in this one instance diplomats would trust each other?" he interjected. "Alas, no! Monsieur Harleston would only assume the translation to be false and given for the sole purpose of deception. I should assume exactly the same, were our positions reversed."

"Couldn't you prove your translation by giving him the key to the cipher?" she asked.

"My dear madame," the Marquis smiled, "such a thing would be unprecedented—and would mean my instant dismissal from the service, and trial for treason."

She made a gesture of defeat. "Well, you can at least have the letter repeated by cable."

"Also we can cable the government to dispatch another letter," the Ambassador soothed. "There are plenty of ways out of the difficulty, so don't give yourself any concern—and the United States is welcome to the letter. It will be a far day, I assure you, ere its cipher bureau translates it."

He glanced at the clock. Mrs. Clephane arose.

"I'm sorry for the mess I have made," she said.

"Don't give it a thought," he assured her. "If you can help us, you will be where?"

"I will be at the Chateau until this matter is straightened out—and subject to your instant call."

"Good—you are more than kind; France appreciates it."

He took her hand, escorted her with gracious courtesy to the door, and bowed her out.

Then he stepped to his desk and rang twice.

The First Secretary entered.

"Did you hear her entire story?" the Marquis asked.

"I did, sir," the First Secretary replied.

"You believe it?"

"Absolutely."

"Then set Pasquier to work to ascertain what this Madame Spencer is about. Let him report as quickly as he has anything definite. I'll cable Paris at once as to the letter."



XIV

THE SLIP OF PAPER

Madeline Spencer, leaning languidly against the mahogany table in the corner of the drawing-room, drummed softly with her finger tips as she listened.

"What is the use of it all?" Marston was asking. "We can't get the letter. Harleston evidently told the truth; he has turned it over to the State Department, so why not be content that it's there, and let well enough alone?"

"I've been letting well enough alone by occupying them with the notion that the letter is the thing most desired," Mrs. Spencer returned. "Muddying the water, as it were, so as to obscure the main issue and get away with the trick. Direct your attention here, if you please, gentlemen! Meanwhile we escape from the other end."

"Mrs. Clephane was at the French Embassy this afternoon," he observed.

"At last she had a glimmering of sense!" Mrs. Spencer laughed. "Why she didn't beat it there direct from the train I can't imagine. Such ignorance is a large asset for those of us who know. I had thought of impersonating her and amusing myself with d'Hausonville, but I concluded it wasn't worth while. It riles me, however, that the affair was so atrociously bungled by Crenshaw and the others. What possessed them to release Mrs. Clephane once they had her?—and what in Heaven's name made them overlook the letter in the cab?"

"Search me!" Marston replied.

"There is no occasion to search you, Marston," she smiled, "I shouldn't find very much except—placidity."

"Placidity has its advantages," he smiled back.

"It has; that's why I asked the Chief for you. You were not as happy in your choice of assistants, Marston. They are a stupid lot. You may send them back to New York. We'll handle this matter ourselves, with Mrs. Chartrand's involuntary assistance."

"Very good, madame!" said Marston. "The trouble, you see, came with that chap Harleston's butting into the affair. Who would have foreseen that he would happen along just at that particular moment and scoop the letter without turning a hair. It was rotten luck sure."

"It was all easy enough if the blundering fools had only exercised an atom of sense," Mrs. Spencer retorted. "Mrs. Clephane couldn't deceive a normal two-year-old child; she is as transparent as plate glass."

"She was clever enough to get rid of the letter in the cab, and to give them the plausible story that it was locked in the hotel safe. And the hotel safe was the reasonable place for her to leave the letter until she had seen the Ambassador, and someone from the Embassy could return with her and get the letter."

"Granted—if Mrs. Clephane were a wise woman and in the service. She isn't wise and she isn't in the service; and both these facts are so apparent that he who runs may read. She played the Buissards for fools and won. If they had exercised the intelligence of an infant, they'd have known that she had the letter with her when she left the hotel. You got a glimmer of light when you thought of the cab—and Mrs. Clephane told you that Mr. Harleston had stopped and looked at the sleeping horse and then started him toward Dupont Circle. You came to me to report—and I, knowing Harleston, solved the remainder of the mystery. But with Harleston's entry the affair assumed quite a different aspect; and it is no reflection on you, Marston, that your expedition to his apartment didn't succeed; though somewhat later Crenshaw did act as a semi-reasonable man, and secured the letter—only to foozle again like an imbecile. The play in the hotel last night, as schemed by us, should have gone through and eliminated Clephane and Harleston for a time; but Harleston upset things by his quick action and sense of danger—moreover, he guessed as to Clephane, for the management got wise and made a search, and the dear lady found Harleston and me in Peacock Alley—and she pre-empted him."

Marston blinked and said nothing.

"Why don't you say something?" she asked sharply.

"What is there to say that you don't already know," he replied placidly.

"Very little, Marston, about the subject in hand," she replied curtly. "And now let us see how matters stand to date. First—the French Ambassador knows that a cipher letter to him from his Foreign Minister has been intercepted and is in the hands of the American State Department. Second—as it is in letter cipher, there isn't much likelihood of it being translated. Third—the matter covered by the letter must be something that they are reluctant to send by cable; for you know, Marston, that the United States, in common with European nations, requires all telegraph and cable companies to forward immediately to the State Department a copy of every cipher message addressed to a foreign official. Maybe they are not able to translate it, but of that the sending nation cannot be sure and it makes it very careful, particularly when the local government is affected. Fourth—France will have to choose between consuming a week in getting another letter from Paris to Washington, or she will have to chance the cable with the risk of America learning her message."

"What do you think France will do?" Marston asked.

"If the letter concerned my mission, she will risk the cable," Mrs. Spencer replied. "She would far rather disclose the affair to the United States, than to let Germany succeed."

"May she not be content now to warn the United States?" suggested Marston.

"It's quite possible. All depends whether the letter concerns my mission. We have been informed by the Wilhelm-strasse that it probably does, and directed to prevent its delivery to the French Ambassador. We've succeeded in preventing, but bungled it over to the United States—the one country that we shouldn't have aroused. What in the devil's name ails your assistants, Marston—particularly Crenshaw?"

"To be quite candid," Marston replied, "he had a grouch; he thought that Sparrow and I flub-dubbed the matter of the cab, and deliberately tried to lose him when we went to the Collingwood. And when he did come, he drew his gun on us until he understood."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"He thought that it was a scheme of Sparrow to injure him in your eyes. It seems that he and Sparrow are jealous of your beautiful eyes."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "What have I, or my beautiful eyes, to do with Crenshaw and Sparrow?"

"What usually happens to the men who are associated with you in any enterprise: they get daffy over you."

"Because they get daffy over me is no excuse for stupid execution of the business in hand," she shrugged. "You never have been guilty of stupidity, Marston."

"Because I've managed never to be a fool about you—however much I have been tempted to become one."

"Have been, Marston?" she inflected.

"Have been—and am," he bowed. "I'm not different from the rest—only—"

She curled herself on a divan, and languidly stretched her slender rounded arms behind the raven hair.

"Only what, Marston?" she murmured.

"Only I know when the game is beyond me."

"So, to you, I'm a game?"

"Of an impossible sort," he replied. "I admire at a distance—and keep my head."

"And your heart, too, mon ami?"

"My heart is the servant of my head. When it ceases so to be, I shall ask to be detached from the Paris station."

"Are you satisfied with your present assignment?"

"Much more than satisfied; very much more than satisfied."

She held out her hand to him, and smiled ravishingly.

"We understand each other now, Marston," she said simply; which tied Marston only the tighter to her—as she well knew. And Marston knew it, too. Also he knew that he had not the shade of a chance with her—and that she knew that he knew it. It was Madeline Spencer's experience with men that such as she tried for she usually got. There were exceptions, but them she could count on the fingers of one hand. Harleston—though for a time he was on the verge of submission—was an exception. And for that she was ready to rend him at the fitting opportunity; the more so because her own feelings had been aroused. As they were once before with Armand Dalberg—who had calmly put her in her place, and tumbled her schemes about her ears.

All her life there would be a weak spot in her heart for Dalberg; and, such is the peculiarly inconsistent nature of the female, a hatred that fed itself on his scorn of her.

She had dared much with Dalberg—and often; and always she had lost. The Duke of Lotzen was only a means to an end: money and exquisite ease. Left with ample wealth on his decease, she, for her excitement and to be in affairs, had mixed in diplomacy, and had quickly become an expert in tortuous moves of the tortuous game.

Then one day she encountered Harleston, and bested him. With a rare good nature for a diplomat, he had taken his defeat with a smile, at the same time observing her manifold attractions with a careful eye and an indulgent mind for the past. Which caused her to look at him again, and to think of him frequently; and at last to want him for her own—after a little while. And he had appeared not averse to the wanting—after a little while. Now, just as he was about to succumb, he was suddenly whisked away by another woman—that woman simply a later edition of herself: the same figure, the same poise, the same methods, the same allurements; but younger in years, fresher, and, she admitted it to herself, less acquainted with the ways of men. And now she had lost him; and never would she be able to get him back. Another woman had filched him from her—filched him forever from her, she knew.

Therefore she hated Mrs. Clephane with a glowing hate.

"Have you seen the—man?" Marston asked, when her attention came back to him.

She nodded. "I've had a communication from him."

"Anything doing?"

"Not yet. He will duly apprise me. Meanwhile we, or rather I, am to remain quiet and wait expectantly."

"He thinks you are alone?"

"Of course. He would be off like a colt if he thought that I had a corps of assistants."

"The longer the delay the more chance France has to repeat the letter by cable," Marston remarked.

"Certainly—but I shan't be fool enough to tell him so, or anything as to the letter. He would end negotiations instantly."

"When are you to see him?"

"This afternoon at three."

"At Chartrands?"

"No, in Union Station."

"It's a long way to go," Marston observed.

"So I intimated, but without avail."

"Is he afraid?"

"No, only inexperienced in deception and over cautious. Moreover, it is a serious business."

"Particularly since Harleston is on the trail?" Marston added.

Mrs. Spencer nodded again. "We'll pray that he does not uncover the matter until we are up and away."

"If we pray, it should be effective!" Marston laughed.

"It likely will be—one way or the other," she returned drily. "However, if we are careful, a prayer more or less won't effect much damage. It's really up to the—man in the case. If he can get away with it, we can manage the rest."

"And if he can't?"

"Then there will be nothing on us, unless the Clephane letter is translated and implicates me by name—or Paris resorts to cable. If it were not for France's meddling, it would be ridiculously simple so far as we are concerned; everything would be up to the man."

"And you do not know who the man is, nor what he is about to betray?" Marston asked.

"I do not—nor am I in the least inquisitive, despite the fact that I'm a woman. I haven't even so much as tried to guess. I was ordered here under express instructions; which are to meet someone who will communicate with me by letter in which a certain phrase will occur. Thereafter I am to be guided by him and the circumstances until I receive from him a certain package, when I am instantly to depart the country and hurry straight to Berlin. Whether I am to receive a copy of a secret treaty between our friends or our enemies, a diplomatic secret of high importance, a report on the fortifications or forces of another nation, or what it is, I haven't the slightest idea. It's all in the game—and the game fascinates me; its dangers and its uncertainty. Some other nation wants what Germany is about to get; some other nation seeks to prevent its betrayal; some other nation seeks to block us; someone else would even murder us to gain a point—and our own employer would not raise a hand to seek retribution, or even to acknowledge that we had died in her cause. They laud the soldier who dies for his flag, but he who dies in the secret service of a government is never heard of. He disappears; for the peace or the reputation of nations his name is not upon the public rolls of the good and faithful servants. It's risky, Marston; it's thankless; it's without glory and without fame; nevertheless it's a fascinating game; the stakes are incalculable, the remuneration is the best."

"You're quite right as to those high up in the service," Marston remarked, "the remuneration, I mean, but not as to us poor devils who are only the pawns. We not only have no glory nor honour, but considering the danger and what we do we are mightily ill paid, my lady, mightily ill paid. The fascination and danger of the game, as you say, is what holds us. At any rate, it's what holds me—and the pleasure of working sometimes with you, and what that means."

"And we always win when together because we are in accord," she smiled, holding out her hand to him. "Team work, my good friend, team work!"

He took the hand, and bending over raised it to his lips with an air of fine courtesy and absolute devotion.

"And we shall win this time, Marston," she went on, "we shall sail for Europe before the week is ended—I'm sure of it."

"I shall be satisfied if we never sail—or sail always," he returned, and slowly released her fingers and stepped back.

She paid him with a ravishing smile; and Madeline Spencer, when she wished, could smile a man into fire—and out again. It was too soon for the "out again" with Marston. He was very useful—he was not restless, nor demanding, nor sensitive, nor impatient of others, nor jealous. He was like a faithful dog, who adores and adores, and pleads only to be allowed to adore. Moreover, he was a capable man and trustworthy; dependable and far above his class. Therefore she took care that his chains should be silken, yet at the same time that he be not permitted to graze too far afield.

"I wonder," Marston was saying, after a little thought, "if Carpenter, the Chief of the Secret Bureau of their State Department, might be purchasable—if we made him a good stiff bid?"

"I don't know," she answered. "It isn't likely, however; he is too old and tried an official to be venal. Furthermore we haven't any money at hand, and my instructions are to act independently of the German Embassy, and under no circumstances whatever to communicate with it. In such business as we are engaged, the Embassy never knows us nor of our plans. They don't dare to know; and they will calmly deny us if we appeal to them."

"The money might be arranged," Marston suggested. "You could cable to Berlin for it—and have it cabled back."

"It might be done," said she thoughtfully. "You mean to try Carpenter for a copy of the cipher letter?"

"It won't do any particular harm, as I see it; it can't make us any worse off and it may give us the letter. It's worth the trial, it seems to me."

"But if Carpenter has not succeeded in finding the key-word, how will the letter help? Do you expect to bribe the French Embassy also?"

"It may not be necessary," he replied. "I know a number of keys of French ciphers; one of them may fit."

"Very well," said she quietly; "you are empowered to have a try at Carpenter."

"Good—I'll start after it at once. Any further orders, madame?"

"None till evening," again holding out her hand—and again smiling him into kissing it adoringly.

"A useful man, Marston!" she reflected when the door closed behind him. "And one who never presumes. A smile pays him for anything, and keeps him devoted to me. Yes, a very useful and satisfactory man. His idea of corrupting Carpenter may be rather futile; and he may get into a snarl by trying it, but," with a shrug of her shapely shoulders, "that is his affair and won't involve me. And if he should prove successful, the new French key-word which the Count, the dear Count, gave me just before I left Paris, may turn the trick."

The Count de M—— was confidential secretary to the Foreign Minister, and he had slipped her the bit of paper containing the key-word at a ball, two evenings before she sailed on her present mission. He was not aware that she was sailing, nor was she; the order came so suddenly that she and her maid had barely time to fling a few things in a couple of steamer trunks and catch the last train. She had fascinated the Count; for a year he had been one of her most devoted, but most discreet, admirers. He also was exceedingly serviceable. Hence she took pains to hold him.

Languidly she reached for her little gold mesh bag—the one thing that never left her—and from a secret pocket took several slips of paper.

"Why, where is it!" she exclaimed, looking again with greater care.... "The devil! I've lost it!"

However, after a moment of thought, she recalled the key-word, and the rule that he whispered to her—also the squeeze he gave her hand, and the kiss with the eyes. The Count had fine eyes—he could look much, very much.... She smiled in retrospection.... Yet how did she drop that bit of paper—and where?... Or did she drop it?... All the rest were there. It was very peculiar.... She had referred to the De Neviers slip on last Saturday—and she distinctly remembered that the Count's was there at that time. Consequently she must have dropped it on Sunday when she was studying the Rosny matter, and then she was in this room—and Marston and Crenshaw and Sparrow were in the next room.—H-u-m.... Well, the Count wrote in a woman's hand; and the finder cannot make anything out of the words:

A l'aube du jour.



XV

IDENTIFIED

So it happened, that on the same day and practically at the same hour Carpenter gave instructions looking to the pilfering of the French private diplomatic cipher, Marston began to lay plans to test Carpenter's venality, and Madeline Spencer betook herself to Union Station to meet the man-in-the-case, whose face she had never seen, and whose name she did not know.

She went a roundabout way, walking down F Street and stopping to make some trifling purchases in two or three shops. She could not detect that she was being followed, but she went into a large department store, and spent considerable time in matching some half-dozen shades of ribbon. On the way out she stepped into a telephone booth, and directed the dispatcher at the Chateau to send a taxi to Brentano's for Mrs. Williams. By the time she had leisurely crossed the street the taxi was there; getting in, she gave the order to drive to Union Station by way of Sixteenth Street and Massachusetts Avenue. As she passed the Chateau, she saw Mrs. Clephane and Harleston coming out; a bit farther on they shot by in a spanking car.

She drew back to avoid recognition; but they were too much occupied with each other, she observed, even to notice the occupant of the humble but high-priced taxi. At Scott Circle their car swung westward and disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue; she turned eastward, toward tomorrow's rising sun, Union Station, and the rendezvous—with hate in her heart for the woman who had displaced her, and a firm resolve to square accounts at the first opportunity. Mrs. Clephane might be innocent, likely was innocent of any intention to come between Harleston and her, but that did not relieve Mrs. Clephane from punishment, nor herself from the chagrin of defeat and the sorrow of blasted hopes. The balance was against her; and, be it man or woman, she always tried to balance up promptly and a little more—when the balancing did not interfere with the business on which she was employed. Madeline Spencer, for one of her sort, was exceptional in this: she always kept faith with the hand that paid her.

At Union Station she dismissed the taxi and walked briskly to the huge waiting-room. There she dropped the briskness, and went leisurely down its long length to the drug stand, where she bought a few stamps and then passed out through the middle aisle to the train shed, inquiring on the way of an attendant the time of the next express from Baltimore. To his answer she didn't attend, nevertheless she thanked him graciously, and seeing the passengers were beginning to crowd through the gates from an incoming train she turned toward them, as if she were expecting someone. Which was true—only it was not by train.

It had been five minutes past the hour, by the big clock in the station, when she crossed the waiting-room; by the time the crowd had passed the gates, and there was no excuse for remaining, another five had gone. The appointment was for three exactly. She had not been concerned to keep it to the minute, but the man should have been; as a woman, it was her prerogative to be careless as to such matters; moreover she had found it an advantage, as a rule, to be a trifle late, except with her superiors or those to whom either by position or expediency it was well to defer. With such she was always on time—and a trifle more.

As she turned away, a tall, fine-looking, well set-up, dark-haired, clean-cut, young chap, who had just rounded the news-stand, grabbed off his hat and greeted her with the glad smile of an old acquaintance.

"Why, how do you do, Mrs. Cuthbert!" he exclaimed. "This is an unexpected pleasure, and most opportune."

There was a slight stress on the last two words:—the words of recognition.

"Delightful, Mr. Davidson!" she returned—which continued the recognition—taking his extended hand and holding it.

"Can't I see you to your car, or carriage, or whatever you're using?" he asked.

"You may call a taxi," she replied; "and you may also come with me, if you've nothing else to do."

"I'm too sorry. There has been a—mixup, and it is impossible now, Mrs. Cuthbert. I have an important appointment at the Capitol." Which completed the recognition.

"When can you come to see me?" she asked. "I'm at the Chateau."

"I hope tomorrow, if I'm not suddenly tied up. You will be disengaged?"

"I've absolutely nothing on hand for tomorrow," she replied.

"Fine!" he returned. "I think I can manage to come about one and take you out for luncheon."

"That will be charming!" she smiled.

"Where would you like to go—to the Rataplan?"

"Wherever you suggest," she replied. "I'll leave it to you where we shall go and what we shall have."

"You're always considerate and kind," he averred. "If nothing untoward occurs, it will be a fine chance to talk over old times, to explain everything, and to arrange for the future."

"That will be charming!"

"And unless I am disappointed in a certain matter, I shall have a surprise for you."

"I shall welcome the surprise."

"We both shall welcome it, I think!" he laughed. "It seems a long time since I've seen you, Madeline," he added.

"It seems a long time to me, too, Billy. We must do better now, old friend. Come to Paris and we'll make such a celebration of it that the Boulevards will run with—gaiety."

"I shall come. Meanwhile—tomorrow." He raised his stick to the taxi dispatcher. "I'm sorry to leave you," he confided to her.

"Let me take you as far as the Capitol," she urged.

"Not today. Wait until I come to Paris—then you may take me where you will and how."

"I like you, Billy!" she exclaimed.

"And I've something more to tell you," he whispered, as he put her in and closed the door. "The Chateau!" he said to the driver then stepping back, he doffed his hat and waved his hand.

"Yes, I like you, Mr. Davidson," she smiled, as the taxi sped away, "but I'll like you better when the present business is completed and I'm in Paris—without you."

He was a handsome chap enough, and he would have considerable money when the present business was completed, yet, somehow he did not appeal, even to her mercenary side. Moreover she no longer dealt in his sort. Time was when he would have served admirably, but she was done with plucking for plucking's sake. She plucked still, but neither so ruthlessly nor so omnivorously as of yore. She did not need; nor was she so gregarious in her tastes. She could pick and choose, and wait—and have some joy of Him and take her time; be content not to pluck him clean, and so retain his friendship even after he had been displaced. With her now it was the man in high office or of high estate at whom she aimed—and her aim was usually true. Neither with one of her tastes and tendencies was monogamy apt to be attractive nor practiced—though at times it subserved her expediency. At present, it was the Count de M——, an English Cabinet Minister, and a Russian Grand Duke;—but discreetly, oh, so discreetly that none ever dreamed of the others, and the public never dreamed of them. To all outward appearances, she dwelt in the odor of eminent respectability and sedate gaiety.

"Drive slowly through Rock Creek Park until I tell you to return," she ordered the man when they had passed beyond the station; then withdrew into a corner of the taxi, and busied herself with her thoughts.

It was almost two hours later that she gave him the Collingwood as a destination.

At the Collingwood she dismissed the taxi, and without sending up her name passed directly up to Mrs. Chartrand's apartment.

Miss Williams, who was on duty at the telephone desk, saw her—and whistled softly. The instant the elevator door clanged shut, she rang Harleston.

"If you can come down a moment, Mr. Harleston," she said softly, "I have some interesting information for you; it may not be well to—you know."

"I'll be down at once," Harleston replied.

When he appeared, it was with his hat and stick, as though he were going out.

"If anyone calls, Miss Williams," he remarked, pausing by her desk, "I'll be back in about half an hour."

"Very well, Mr. Harleston," she replied. Then she lowered her voice. "Your slender lady of the ripples, of the other night, has just come in. She's young, and a perfect peach for looks."

"Who is she?" he asked.

"I don't know. She didn't have herself announced; she went straight on up. Ben!" motioning to the elevator boy, "where did the slender woman, you just took up, get off?"

"At the fou'th flo', Miss Williams," said Ben. "She went into fo' one."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yas, Miss," the negro grinned, "I waited to see."

Miss Williams nodded a dismissal.

"Four one is Chartrands' apartment," she remarked.

"Is this the lady of the ripples?" Harleston asked, handing her the photograph of Madeline Spencer.

"Sure thing!" she exclaimed. "That's she, all right. How in the world did you ever—pardon me, Mr. Harleston, I shouldn't have said that."

"You're not meddling, Miss Williams. But it's a long story—too long to detail now. Some day soon I'll confide in you, for you've helped me very much in this matter and deserve to know. In fact, you've helped me more than you can imagine. Meanwhile mum's the word, remember."

"Mum, it is, Mr. Harleston," she replied, "For once a telephone girl won't leak, even to her best friends."

"I believe you," Harleston returned. "Keep your eyes open, also your ears, and report to me anything of interest as to our affair."

Miss Williams answered with a knowing nod and an intimate little smile, then swung around to answer a call. Harleston returned to his rooms. The happenings of the recent evening were quite intelligible to him now:

When the episode of the cab of the sleeping horse occurred, Mrs. Spencer was in the Chartrand apartment. Marston, in some way, had learned of Harleston's participation in the cab matter, and with Sparrow had followed him to the Collingwood, entering by the fire-escape—with the results already seen. The noise on the fire-escape was undoubtedly made by them, and the long interval that elapsed before they entered his apartment was consumed in reporting to her, or in locating his number.

One thing, however, was not clear: how they had learned so promptly of Harleston's part in the affair, and that it was he who had taken the letter from the cab. Either someone had seen him at the cab and had babbled to the Marston crowd, or else Mrs. Winton or Mrs. Clephane had not been quite frank in her story. He instantly relieved Mrs. Clephane of culpability; Mrs. Winton did not count with him. Moreover, it was no longer of any moment—since Spencer's people knew and had acted on their knowledge, and were still acting on it—and were still without the letter. The important thing to Harleston was that it had served to disclose what promised to be a most serious matter to this country, and which, but for the trifling incident of the cab, would likely have gone through successfully—and America been irretrievably injured.

Madeline Spencer had assured him that the United States was not concerned; that the matter had to do only with a phase of the Balkan question. But such assurances were worthless and given only to deceive, and, further, were so understood by both of them. Maybe her story was true—only the future would prove it. Meanwhile you trust at your peril, caveat emptor, your eyes are your market, or words to similar effect. Of course he could cause her to be apprehended by the police, yet such a course was unthinkable; it would violate every rule of the game; it would complicate relations with Germany, and afford her adequate ground for reprisals on our secret agents. A certain code of honour obtained with nations, as well as with criminals.

As he opened the door, the telephone rang. He took up the receiver.

"Hello!" he said.

"Is that you, Mr. Harleston?" came a soft voice.

"It is Madame X!" he smiled.

"Still Madame X?" she inflected.

"Only to one person."

"And to her no longer," she returned. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking about coming down to dine with you."

"Just what I was about to ask of you. Come at seven—to my apartment. I have something important to discuss."

"So have I," he replied. "I'll be along in an hour, or sooner if you want me."

"I want you, Mr. Harleston," she laughed, "but I can wait an hour, I suppose."

"Which may mean much or little," he replied.

"Just so.—You may try your diplomatic methods on solving the problem."

"My methods or my mind?" he asked.

"Your mental methods," she replied.

"I pass!" he exclaimed. "You may explain at dinner."

"Meanwhile, I recommend you to your diplomatic mind."

"Until dinner?"

"Certainly—and forever after, Mr. Harleston, be an ordinary man with me, please."

"Do you fancy that a seeing man can be just an ordinary man when you are with him?" he asked.

"I'm not required to fancy you what you're not," she returned.

"In other words, I'm not a seeing man?"

"Not especially, sir.—And there's another problem, for your diplomacy. A bientot, Monsieur Harleston."

He telephoned to the Club for a taxi to be at the door at a quarter to seven; then dressed leisurely and descended.

"Any developments?" he inquired of Miss Williams.

"None," she replied. "Ripples hasn't come down yet."

"All right," said he. "Tell me in the morning—you're on duty then?"

She answered by a nod, the flash was calling her, and he passed on toward the door—just as the elevator shot down and Madeline Spencer stepped out.

"How do you do, Mr. Harleston?" said she, with a broad smile.

"Hello, Mrs. Spencer! I'm glad to see you," he returned. "If you're bound for the Chateau or downtown, won't you let me take you in my car? It's at the door."

"If you think you dare to risk your reputation, I'll be glad to accept," she replied.

"Is it a risk?" he asked.

"That is for you to judge," as he put her in.

"The Chateau?" he inquired;—and when she nodded he leaned forward and gave the order.

"I was surprised to see you—" he began.

"Why pretend you were surprised to see me?" she laughed. "You were not; nor am I to see you. We are too old foes to pretend as to the non-essentials—when each knows them. The cards are on the table, Guy, play them open."

"How many cards are on the table?" he asked.

"All of mine."

"Then it's double dummy—with a blind deck on the side."

"Whose side?" she flashed back.

"Yours!" he returned pleasantly.

"What am I concealing?" she demanded.

"I don't know. If I did—it would be easier for me."

"The one thing I haven't told you, I can't tell you: the precise character of the business that brings me here. I've told you all I know—and broken my oath to do it. I can't well do more, Guy."

"No, you can't well do more," Harleston conceded. "And I can't well do less under all the—admitted circumstances; inferentially and directly admitted."

"Why did you—butt in?" she asked. "Why didn't you let the cab, and the letter, and well enough alone?"

"It was so mysterious; and so full of possibilities," he smiled. "And when I did it, I didn't know that you were interested."

"And it would have made you all the more prying if you had known," she retorted.

"Possibly! I've never yet heard that personal feelings entered into the diplomatic secret service—and no more have you, my lady."

"Personal feelings!" she smiled, and shrugged his answer aside. "When did you first know that I was concerned in this affair?"

"When I saw you in the Chateau," he replied—there was no obligation on him to mention the photograph.

"Which was?" she asked.

"The evening I met you in Peacock Alley. How long then had you been here?"

"Two days!"

"And not a word to me?"

"'Personal feelings do not enter into the diplomatic secret service,'" she quoted mockingly.

"Precisely," he agreed, "We understand each other and the game."

It served his purpose not to notice the mock in her tones. He very well understood what it imported and what prompted it. For the first time the tigress had disclosed her claws. Hitherto it was always the soft caress and the soothing purr—and when she wished, her caress could be very soft and her purr very soothing. He had assumed that there were claws, but she had hidden them from him; and what is ever hidden one after a time forgets. And she had some justification for her resentment. He admitted to himself that his attitude and manner had been such as might cause her to believe that she was more to him than an opponent in a game, that he was about to forgive her past, and to ask her to warrant only for the future. And he had a notion that she was prepared to warrant and to keep the warrant—even as she had done with the Duke of Lotzen. Now it was ended. He knew it.

And she knew it, too. One sight of Mrs. Clephane with him and she realized that he was lost to her: Mrs. Clephane had all her outward grace and beauty, but not her past. Her woman's intuition had told her in the red-room of the Chateau; she knew absolutely when she saw his greeting to Mrs. Clephane in the corridor after her escape. She must go back to her Count de M——, her Cabinet Minister, and her Russian Grand Duke. The only two men she had ever cared for would have none of her, despite her beauty and her fascination. Dalberg ever had scorned her; Harleston had looked with favour, wavered, was about to yield, when another—outwardly her alter ego, save only in the colour of her hair—appeared and filched him from her. And whether Dalberg's scorn or Harleston's defection was the more humiliating, she did not know. Together they made a mocking and a desolation of her love and her life. And as she came to hate with a fierce hatred the Princess whom Dalberg loved, so with an even more bitter hatred she hated Mrs. Clephane who had won Harleston from her. For while with Dalberg she never had the slightest chance, and knew it perfectly, with Harleston there was the bitterness of blasted hopes as well as of defeat.

And Harleston, sitting there beside her, the perfume of her hair and garments heavy about him, read much that was in her thoughts; and some remorse smote him—a little of remorse, that is—and he would have said something in mitigation of her judgment. But a look at her—and the excuse was put aside and the subject ended before it was even begun. She was not one to accept excuses or to be proffered them, it were best to let the matter rest. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clephane must be warned of the danger confronting her.

He glanced again at her—and met her subtle smile.

"This Mrs. Clephane," she remarked with quiet derision, "wherein is she different from the rest of us?"

"By 'us' you mean whom?" he asked.

"The women you have known."

"And seen?"

"And seen."

"You're exceedingly catholic!" he smiled.

"You're exceedingly exclusive—and precipitate; and you haven't answered my question. Wherein is Mrs. Clephane different from the rest of us?"

"At the risk of being personal," he replied, "I should say that she is very like you in face and figure and manner. If her hair were black, the resemblance would be positively striking."

"Then, since we're on the personal equation, the difference is where?"

He threw up his hands and laughed to avoid the obvious answer, an answer which she knew, and knew he wished to avoid.

"The difference is where?" she repeated.

"I shall let you judge if there is a difference, and if there is, what it is," he replied.

"I wish to know your mind, Mr. Harleston—I already know my own."

"Good girl!" he applauded.

"Please put me aside and consider Mrs. Clephane," she insisted. "Is she cleverer than—well, than I am?"

"You are the cleverest woman that I have ever known."

"Is she more intellectual?"

"Preserve me from the intellectual woman!" he exclaimed.

"Is she more travelled?"

"I think not."

"Is she superficially more cultured?"

"I should say not."

"Has she a better disposition?"

"No one could have a better disposition than you have ever shown to me."

"Is she more fascinating in manner?"

"She couldn't be!"

"She is younger?" tentatively.

Harleston did not reply.

"But very little—two or three years, maybe?" she added.

Again Harleston did not reply.

"Is her conversation more entertaining?" she resumed.

"Impossible!"

"Or more edifying?"

"Excuse me again!" he exclaimed. "Edifying is in the same class as intellectual."

"Then all Mrs. Clephane has on me is a few years?"

He nodded.

"Other things don't count with you, I assume—when they're of the past, and both have been a trifle tinctured."

She said it with affected carelessness and a ravishing smile; but Harleston was aware that underneath there was bitterness of spirit, and cold hate of the other woman. She had touched the pinch of the matter. Both knew it, and both knew the answer. Yet she was hoping against hope; and he was loath to hurt her needlessly, because Mrs. Clephane would be sure to catch the recoil, and because he himself was very fond of her—despite all and Mrs. Clephane. He had seen his mistake in time, if it was a mistake, but that did not blind him to Madeline Spencer's fascinating manner and beautiful person, and to the fact that she cared for him. However, neither might he let pass the charge she had just made against Mrs. Clephane. Yet he tried to be kind to the woman beside him, while defending the woman who was absent, and, as is often the case under such circumstances he played for time—the hotel was but a block away—and made a mess of it, so far as the woman beside him was concerned.

"Who are a trifle tinctured—and with what?" he asked.

She smiled languidly.

"That is scarcely worthy of you, Guy," she remarked. "You are aiming at—windmills; at least, I think you are not suddenly gone stupid. However, you do not need to answer. Mrs. Clephane, you think, is not tinctured, and you know that I have been—several shades deep. In other words, she surpasses me in your estimation in the petty matter of morals. So be it; you're no fool, and a pretty woman cannot blind you to the facts for long. Then we shall see which you prefer. The woman who is honest about the tincture, or the woman who is not. Now let us drop the matter, and attend strictly to business until such time as the present business is ended,—and Mrs. Clephane appears as she is."

"So be it!" Harleston replied heartily, "We understand each other, Madeline."

"Yes, we understand each other," she said laconically, as the car drew in to the curb.

"So well, indeed," he continued, as he gave her his hand to the sidewalk, "that I have to arrange for you to meet the Secretary of State at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

"Where?" said she, looking at him narrowly.

"In his office. You would like to meet him, Madeline?"

"I don't know what your play is," she laughed, "but I'll meet him—and take my chances. From all I can learn, the gentleman isn't much but bumptiousness and wind. To either you or me, Guy, he should be easy."

"The play," Harleston explained, "is that the Secretary has heard of you and wishes to see the remarkable woman who—almost upset a throne."

"His wish shall be gratified," she shrugged. "Will you come for me, or am I to go to him—a rendezvous a deux?"

"I'll escort you to him—afterward it will depend on you."

"Very good!" she replied—"but all the same I wonder what's the game."

"The Secretary's wish and curiosity is the only game," he replied.

"Far be it from me to balk either—when something may result of advantage to your—"

"—beautiful and fascinating self," he interjected.

She raised her eyebrows and laughed scornfully, as the lift bore her upwards.



XVI

ANOTHER LETTER

Harleston sauntered through Peacock Alley; not finding Mrs. Clephane, he had himself announced and went up to her apartment.

Outwardly he was impassive; inwardly there was the liveliest sensation of eagerness and anticipation. He could not recall a time when he had so much joy in living, and in the expectation of the woman. And when he felt Mrs. Clephane's small hand in his, and heard her bid him welcome, and looked into her eyes, he was well content to be alive—and with her.

"I've quite a lot to tell you," she smiled. "I'm so glad you could dine with me—it will give us much more time."

"Time is not of the essence of this contract," he replied.

"What contract?" she asked, with a fetching little frown of perplexity.

"The contract of the present—and the future."

"Oh, you mean our friendship—and that you won't doubt me ever again?"

"Precisely—and then some," he confided.

"What is the 'some', Mr. Harleston?" frowning again in perplexity.

"Whatever may happen," he said slowly.

"You mean it?" she asked.

"I mean it—and more—when I may."

"The 'more' and the 'may' are in the future," she remarked. "Meanwhile, what have you to report?"

"Very considerable," said he. "Mrs. Spencer was in the Collingwood, this afternoon—in the Chartrands' apartment. And the telephone girl recognized her as the woman who left the building on the night of the—cab."

"That explains a lot to you!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed.

"The explanation isn't necessary, except to complete the chain of events," he replied. "We know the later and essential facts as to the letter. There is just one earlier circumstance that isn't clear to me; and while, as I say, it's immaterial yet I'm curious. How did the Spencer gang know that I had taken the letter from the cab?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Clephane cried. "I fancy I can explain. You know I saw you at the cab. Well, when they released me, I concluded I'd give them something to think about, and I remarked that Mr. Harleston, of the United States Diplomatic Service, had stopped at the cab, looked inside, and then started the horse out Massachusetts Avenue. I thought I had told you."

"You didn't tell me, but it's very plain now. Madeline Spencer inferred the rest and instructed them how to act. And they came very close to turning the trick."

"You mean to getting the letter?" she cried.

He nodded. "I had gone to bed, when something told me to take precautions; I carried the letter across the corridor and gave it to a friend to keep for me until morning. A short time after, the three men called."

"Good Heavens!" she breathed. "What if they had gotten the letter."

"Unless they knew the key-word, they wouldn't have been any better off than are we—I mean than is the United States."

"I'm France, am I?" she smiled.

"For only this once—and not for long, I trust," he replied.

"Amen!" she exclaimed, "Also for ever more. I'll be so relieved to be out of it and back to my normal ways that I gladly promise never to try it again. I'm committed to seeing this affair through and to aiding the French Embassy in whatever way I can, both because I must keep faith with Madame Durrand, and because my inexperience and credulity lost it the letter. That done, and I'm for—you, Mr. Harleston!" she laughed.

"And I'm for you always—no matter whom you're for, nor what you may do or have done," he replied.

For just an instant she gave him her eyes; then the colour flamed up and she turned hastily away.

"Sit down, sir," she commanded—most adorably he thought; "I had almost forgotten that I have something to tell you."

"You've been telling me a great deal," he confided.

She shrugged her answer over her shoulder, and peremptorily motioned him to a chair.

"Madame Durrand has been located," she began. "The Embassy telephoned me that she is in Passavant Hospital, getting along splendidly; and that she duly wired them of her accident and of my having the letter, with an identifying description of me. The wire was never received."

"It was blocked by a present," he remarked. "The wire never left the hospital."

"So the Marquis d'Hausonville said. He also assured me that the letter was of no immediate importance, and that steps were being taken to have it repeated."

"Which may be true," Harleston smiled, "but it is entirely safe to assume that he is acting precisely as though the letter was of the most immediate importance. You may be sure that the moment you left him he dispatched a cable to Paris reciting the facts, so that the Foreign Office could judge whether to cable the letter or to dispatch it by messenger. And he has the reply hours ago."—("Also," he might have added, "our State Department—only it may not be able to translate it.") "I should say, Mrs. Clephane, that your duty is done now, unless the Marquis calls on you for assistance. You have performed your part—"

"Very poorly," she interjected.

"On the contrary, you have performed it exceptionally well. You, a novice at this business, prevented the letter from falling into Spencer's hands, and so you blocked that part of their game. No, no, Mrs. Clephane, I regard you as more than acquitted of blame."

"You're always nice, Mr. Harleston!" she responded.

"Nice expresses very inadequately what I wish to be to you," he said slowly.

Again the flush came—and her glance wavered, and fled away.

"Meanwhile," he went on, "I am quite content to know that you think me nice to you."

She sprang up and moved out of distance, saying as she did so, with a ravishing smile:

"Nice is comprehended in other pleasant—adjectives."

"It is?" said he, advancing slowly toward her.

"But you, Mr. Harleston, are forbidden to guess how pleasant, or the particular adjective, until you're permitted."

"And you'll permit me to guess some day—and soon."

"Maybe so—and maybe not!" she laughed. "It will depend on the both of us—and the business in hand. Diplomats, you are well aware, are given to very disingenuous ways and methods."

"In diplomacy," he appended. "A diplomat, as a rule, is merely a man of a little wider experience and more mature judgment—the American diplomat alone excepted, save in the secret service. Therefore he knows his mind, and what he wants; and he usually can be depended upon to keep after it until he gets it."

"And to want it after he gets it?" she inquired.

"Don't be cynical," he cautioned.

"I'm not. The world looks good to me, and I try to look good to the world."

"You have succeeded!" he exclaimed.

"I've about-faced," she went on. "Now I presume everybody trustworthy until it's proven otherwise. Time was, and not so long ago, when I was more than cynical; and I found it didn't pay in a woman. A man may be cynical and get away with it; a woman only injures her complexion, and makes trouble for herself. Me for the happy spirit, and side-stepping the bumps."

"Good girl!" Harleston applauded—thinking of her unhappy spirit, and the hard bumps she must have endured during the time that the late deceased Clephane was whirling to an aeroplane finish. "You're a wonder, Mrs. Clephane," he ended.

"Aren't you afraid you'll make me vain?" she asked.

"It can't be done," he averred. "You simply can't be spoiled; you're much too sensible."

"La! la!" she trilled. "What a paragon of—"

—"everything," he adjected.

"Everything that I must be, if you so wish it."

"Just so!" he replied.

"Aren't you afraid of a paragon, Mr. Harleston?"

"Generally, yes; specifically, no."

"La! la!" she trilled again. "You're becoming mystic; which means mysterious, which means diplomatic, which means deception—which warns us to get back to the simple life and have dinner. Want dinner, Mr. Harleston?"

"With you, yes; also breakfast and luncheon daily."

"You couldn't do that unless you were my husband," she replied tantalizingly and adorably.

"I'm perfectly aware of it," he responded, leaning forward over the back of the chair that separated them.

"But I'm not ready to take a husband, monsieur," she protested lightly.

"I'm perfectly aware of that also. When you are ready, madame, I am ready too. Until then I'm your good friend—and dinner companion."

He had spoken jestingly—yet the jest was mainly pretence; the real passion was there and ready the instant he let it control. As for Mrs. Clephane, Harleston did not know. Nor did she herself know—more than that she was quite content to be with him, and let him do for her, assured that he would not misunderstand, nor misinterpret, nor presume. So, across the chair's back, she held out her hand to him; and he took it, pressed it lightly, but answered never a word.

"Now you shall hear the special matter I've got bottled up," said she. "Whom do you think was here late this afternoon?"

"The Emperor of Spain!" he guessed.

"A diplomatic answer!" she mocked. "There is no Emperor of Spain; yet it's not absolutely wide of the diplomatic truth, for it was Mrs. Buissard—she of the cab, you'll remember."

"So!" Harleston exclaimed. "What's the move now; I fancy she was not paying a social visit."

"You fancy correctly," Mrs. Clephane replied. "She came to the apartment unannounced; and when I, chancing to be passing the door when she knocked, opened it, and saw who was without, I almost cried out with surprise. I didn't cry out, however. On the contrary, remembering diplomatic ways, I most cordially invited her in. To do her justice, Mrs. Buissard, beyond expressing hope that I had experienced no ill effect from the occurrence of the other night, wasted no time in coming to business."

"'Mrs. Clephane,' she said, sitting on the corner of the table just where you are sitting now, 'I have a proposition to make to you—may I make it?'

"I could see no reason to forbid, so I acquiesced.

"'And if you cannot accept straightway, will you promise to forget that it was made?' she asked.

"Again I acquiesced. I admit, I was curious.

"'We assume,' said she, 'that between France and Germany you are indifferent.'

"'Paris and Berlin have each their good points,' I replied.

"'Quite so,' she acquiesced; 'just now, however, we ask you to favour Berlin and for a consideration.'

"'I don't want a consideration,' I smiled; 'tell me what's the favour you seek?'

"'We ask you,' she replied instantly, 'to take a letter to the French Ambassador and tell him that it is the letter Madame Durrand gave you in New York, and that it has just been returned to you by the American State Department.'

"'Have you the letter with you?' I asked.

"'I have,' she replied, producing it from her bag. 'It may not exactly resemble the original.'

"'It doesn't,' said I.

"'But the French Ambassador won't know it,' she smiled. 'Further, so as to make the matter entirely regular with you, you will receive an appointment in the German Secret Service and five thousand dollars in advance.'

"'Is it usual to—change sides so suddenly?' I asked.

"'You're not changing sides,' she explained. 'You've never had a side, in the diplomatic sense. It is entirely regular in diplomacy for you to take such a course as is proposed; there is nothing unusual about it. And, my dear Mrs. Clephane, a position in the German Foreign Secret Service is a rare plum, I can assure you, even though you may not care to be—active in it.'

"Naturally, I understood. Mrs. Spencer thinking me the same type as herself, without conscience, character, or morals, had evolved this plan either to test me or to ensnare me. To test me, because she is jealous of you; or to ensnare me because she wants to win out diplomatically—or both, it may be. I am a poor hand at pretence; but I played the game, as you would say, to the best of my ability. So I seemed to fall in with her scheme; France was nothing to me; I had been given no option in the matter of accepting the letter and attempting its delivery; I had done all and more than could be expected of a disinterested person; I had lost the letter but through no fault of mine. I was acquitted of further responsibility; was at liberty to choose. And Mrs. Buissard agreed with me in everything. In the end, I accepted the spurious letter for delivery to the French Ambassador."

"Good!" Harleston applauded. "You're learning the method of diplomacy very rapidly; fire with fire, ruse with ruse, deceit with deceit—anything for the object in hand."

"It went against me to do it," she admitted, "but I'll pay them in their own coin—or something to that effect. Of course, I've no intention of delivering the letter to the French Embassy. I'll deliver it to you instead."

"Delightful!" Harleston exclaimed. "You're a bully diplomat. However, I'm not so sure that Spencer ever imagined her letter would reach the Marquis. She's playing for something else, though what is by no means clear. Let us have a look at the letter; maybe it will help."

She stood beside him as he cut the envelope and he took out the single sheet of paper—on which was an assortment of letters, set down separately and without relation to words.

"What is it," said she, "a scrambled alphabet?"

"Looks like it!" he smiled. "As a matter of fact, however, it's in the Blocked-Out Square cipher—like the original lett—"

"Then they could read the original?" she cut in.

"Not unless they have its particular key-word—"

"Oh, yes; I remember now," said she. "Go on!"

"There's no 'go on,'" he explained. "Nor would it help matters if there were. This letter is spurious; there is nothing to find from it, even if we could translate it. It's intended as a plant; either for us or for the Marquis; but I fancy, for us—so with your permission we will waste no time on it further than to keep alert for its purpose. When were you to receive the five thousand dollars?"

"I don't know!" she laughed.

"And the appointment to the German Secret Service?"

"I don't know; she didn't say and I didn't ask. I was too much occupied with meeting her on her own ground and playing the game. I was crazy to get the letter so I could show it to you."

"Which doubtless was what she too wanted; I can't see through her scheme—unless it is to muddy the water while the main play is being pulled off. And our men haven't discovered a single material thing, though they have had Spencer and all the rest of the gang under shadow since the morning after the cab affair."

The telephone buzzed. Mrs. Clephane answered it.

"Yes, Mr. Harleston is here," she said, passing the receiver to him.

"Hello!" said Harleston.

"Can you make it convenient to drop around here sometime this evening?" Major Ranleigh inquired.

"Will ten o'clock do?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there," said Harleston.



XVII

IN THE TAXI

At ten o'clock Harleston walked into Ranleigh's office.

"I just wish to ask," said the Major, "if you want us to pick up the man who met Mrs. Spencer this afternoon. It's against your orders, I know, but this chap can be arrested without resulting complications, I think. He's an American."

"Who is he?" Harleston asked.

"Snodgrass, an ex-Captain in the Army; a man of seeming independent means, who lives at the Boulogne."

"I'm acquainted with him," returned Harleston. "I can't think that he's crooked. I reckon Spencer's figure and face attracted him—or probably he has known her in Europe."

"I'm only giving you the facts: he's the first man, other than those of her entourage, that she has met since we've had her under surveillance. It was at Union Station, this afternoon. She went there alone, after loitering for an hour through the shops of F Street. In the train-shed she chanced, seemingly by the veriest accident, upon Snodgrass. He almost bumped into her as they rounded the news-stand. From their gaiety they are old acquaintances; and after a word he turned and accompanied her to the cab-stand and put her in a taxi. As far as the shadow saw, there was no letter or papers passed—only conversation. And what he managed to overhear of it was seemingly quite innocent of value to us. He called her Madeline and she called him Billy, which isn't his name, and invited him to Paris; so they must be pretty well acquainted. They are to meet at one o'clock tomorrow. That's the first matter to report. The second is that Marston is spying around the French Embassy. He has walked up Sixteenth Street frequently since four o'clock, and never once glanced at the big marble mansion when he thought anyone was looking. His eyes were busy enough other times. Also he visited, after dark, Paublo's Eating-House in the Division, and had a talk with Jimmy-the-Snake—a professional burglar of the best class. We are watching The Snake, of course. Something will be done at the French Embassy tonight, I imagine. Finally, at nine o'clock, Marston went to Carpenter's residence and was admitted. He came out fifteen minutes later, and returned to the Chateau. I assume that Carpenter will tell you of this errand."

Harleston nodded.

"What shall be done as to Snodgrass—also as to Mrs. Spencer and one o'clock tomorrow?" Ranleigh asked. "Do you wish me to prevent the meeting?"

"No," said Harleston, after a little consideration; "simply keep them in view and follow them. I can't imagine Snodgrass being concerned in this affair. It's the lady he's after, not her mission. It's likely he doesn't even know she's in the Secret Service. However, keep an eye on them; I may be mistaken."

The telephone buzzed. Ranleigh answered, then passed the instrument across to Harleston.

"Is that you, Harleston?... This is Carpenter. I've just had a most amazing proposition made to me. It will keep until morning, but drop around at the Department about nine-thirty and I'll unburden myself."

"Is it Marston?" Harleston asked.

"Exactly; however did you guess it?"

"However did you guess I was with Ranleigh?" Harleston laughed.

"I didn't guess; I called Mrs. Clephane, told her I wanted you—and presto! There's small trick about that, old fox—except in knowing your quarry. So long—and don't!"

"If you don't mind, Carpenter, I'll stop on my way home. I'm just beginning to be interested."

"Come along!" was the answer.

"Carpenter—to explain a Marston proposition," Harleston remarked, pushing back the instrument.

"They are muddying the water all around," Ranleigh commented. "So I imagine they are about to make a get-away with the goods."

"Try to, Ranleigh, try to," Harleston amended. "They won't make a get-away so long as we have Madame Spencer in our midst. Keep your eye on the dark-haired loveliness; with her in the landscape the goods are still here. Now for Carpenter."

"Permit me to suggest a taxi!" Ranleigh observed. "It's just as well that you shouldn't wander about alone on the well-lighted streets of the National Capital—"

"You think I might be suspended by the Interstate Commerce Commission, or enjoined by the Federal Trades Commission, or be violating the Clayton Anti-Trust Act?"

"You might be any and all of them, God knows—as well as contrary to some paternal act of a non-thinking, theoretical, and subservient Congress. However, I'm pinning my faith to you and hoping for the best; Jimmy-the-Snake is cruising whether and whence and wherefore."

"Also besides and among!" Harleston laughed.

"Seriously, I mean it about The Snake," Ranleigh repeated; "and you'd better have this with you also," taking a small automatic from a drawer of his desk and handing it across. "You may have need of it; if you do, it will be very convenient."

Harleston, descending from the taxi, found Carpenter waiting for him on the front piazza.

"Your friend Marston is a very pleasant chap," he remarked; "also he has a most astonishing nerve. He actually tried to bribe me for a copy of the Clephane letter."

"How did you meet it?" Harleston asked.

"I was at a loss how to meet it—whether to be indignant and order him out, or to be acquiescently non-committal. I chose the latter course; and after a few preliminary feelers he came out with his offer: five thousand dollars for liberty to make a copy of the original letter. I thought a moment, then came back at him with the counter proposition: if he would secure the key-word from the French Embassy, I would obtain the letter; then together we would make the translation."

"Delightful!" Harleston applauded. "What did he say to that?"

"What could he do but accept? It was fair, and he had premised his offer by a solemn assurance that the United States was not involved!"

"Delightful!" said Harleston again. "I reckon you've seen the last of Marston."

"He said he would have the key-word by tomorrow night or sooner," Carpenter remarked.

"I suppose you parted like fellow conspirators," Harleston laughed.

"Yes; suspicious of each other and ready for anything. We were strictly professional. Diplomatic manners and distrustful hearts."

"Do you think that Marston will try for the key-word?" Harleston asked.

"I do! He probably has it, or rather Spencer has it. Also I think he will submit it for a test with the letter. He knows his attempt to bribe me failed, and that the only way he can have access to the letter is to come with the key-word. And you need not fear that I shall let him copy the letter until after I've tested the key-word and found it correct."

"Where is the letter?" Harleston asked.

"Locked in the burglar-proof safe in my office."

"Who knows the combination?"

"Spendel, my confidential clerk."

"Trustworthy?"

"I would as soon suspect myself."

"Very good! Now, another thing: do you know Fred Snodgrass, an ex-Captain of the Army, who lives at the Boulogne?"

"Casually," said Carpenter.

"Ever suspect him of being in the German pay?"

"No. However, he is an intimate friend of Von Swinkle, the Second Secretary—if that's any indication."

"Rather the reverse, I should say. However, he met Madeline Spencer yesterday in Union Station. The meeting was apparently accidental, and so far as his shadow could see or hear was entirely innocent."

"I distrust the apparently accidental and the entirely innocent—in diplomacy," Carpenter remarked. "We should keep an eye on Snodgrass."

"Meanwhile what are you doing as to the French key-word—trying for it?" Harleston asked, going toward the door.

Carpenter nodded. "I've got my lines out. I hope to land it in a few days. If Marston has it, or gets it earlier, so much the better for us."

Harleston had walked a block before he recollected that he was obligated to Ranleigh to go in a taxi. The one in which he had come from Headquarters he had dismissed, not knowing how long he would be at Carpenter's, and he had neglected to telephone for another. He would not go back to Carpenter's; and, anyway, it was nonsense always to be guarding himself from the enemy.

He had not a thing they wanted, nor did he know aught that would be of use to them; and his directorship of the affair was not of great importance; another, if he knew the facts, could take his place and see the matter through. That was the important point, however. Time was exceedingly material; and if the Spencer gang caused him to disappear for a few days, they would have a free hand until Ranleigh or Carpenter awoke to the situation. It was not exactly just to the cause for him to take unnecessary chances. A drug store was but a short distance up the street, on the other side; he would telephone from it for a taxi.

A moment later, with the honk of a horn, a yellow taxi rounded the corner and bore his way.

He raised his stick to the driver, in event of him being free—and stepped out from the sidewalk.

The man shook his head in negation and the machine flashed by—leaving Harleston staring after it with a somewhat surprised and very much puzzled frown.

Madeline Spencer was in the taxi—alone. Furthermore, she had not seen him.



XVIII

DOUBT

At N, the next cross-street, the taxi turned west. Instantly Harleston made for the corner. When he got there, the machine was swinging north into Connecticut Avenue. He ran down N Street at the top of his speed. When he reached the avenue the car was not in sight, nor was there any one on the street as far as Dupont Circle; and as thoroughfares radiate from the Circle as the spokes of a wheel from the hub, the taxi could have gone in practically any direction.

So he gave over running—running after a taxi-cab was not in his line—and resumed his walk northward. At Dupont Circle he found a lone cab with a drowsy negro on the box; who came quickly to life, however, at his approach.

"Cab, seh, cab?" he solicited.

"Which way did the yellow taxi go that just came up Connecticut Avenue?" Harleston asked.

"Out Massachu'ts abenu', seh, yass seh.—Cab, seh?"

"Drive out Massachusetts Avenue," Harleston directed, getting in. "If you see a taxi, get close to it."

"I'll do hit, seh, yass seh!" said the negro, as he climbed on the box and jerked the lines.

But though they went out the avenue to beyond Sheridan Circle, and back again, and along the streets north of P and west of Twentieth, no taxi was seen—nor any trace of Madeline Spencer. They drove over the route for more than an hour—and never raised a yellow taxi nor a skirt. Finally Harleston abandoned the search and headed the cab for the Collingwood.

Miss Williams was on duty when he entered, and she signalled him to the desk.

"The Chateau has been trying to get you for the last half-hour," said she. "Shall I call them?"

"If you please," he replied, "I'll wait here."

Presently she nodded to Harleston; he stepped into the booth and closed the door.

"This is Mr. Harleston," said he.

"I recognize your voice, Guy, dear," came Madeline Spencer's soft tones. "I'd know it anywhere, indeed."

"The same to you, my lady," Harleston returned. "Was that what you were calling me for?"

"No, no!" she laughed. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm back at the Chateau. I thought you might be interested, you know; you sprinted so rapidly up N Street, and spent so much time driving around in a cab searching for me, that I assume it will be a very great relief to you to know that I am returned. It was such a satisfaction, Guy, to feel that you were so solicitous for my safety, and I appreciate it, my dear, I appreciate it. Meanwhile, you might wish to get busy as to my alter ego. I saw her going up Sixteenth Street, as I was returning—a little after eleven o'clock. Maybe she needs assistance, Guy; you never can tell. See you tomorrow, old enemy. Good-bye for tonight."

"I say—are you there, Madeline?" Harleston ejaculated; then asked again. When no one answered he hung up the receiver and came from the booth. Spencer, that time, had put one over him; two, maybe, for he was concerned about Mrs. Clephane. Spencer had gone without her shadow, been free to transact her business, and returned—and all the time she knew of passing him and his pursuit of her, and was enjoying his discomfiture. To add a trifle more uneasiness, she had thrown in the matter of Mrs. Clephane. Probably it was false; yet he could not be sure and it troubled him. All of which, he was aware, Mrs. Spencer intended—and took a devilish joy in doing.

Harleston made a couple of turns up and down the room; then he sat down and drummed a bit on the table; finally he reached for the telephone. It was very late, but he would call her—she would understand.

He got the Chateau and, giving his name, asked whether Mrs. Clephane was on the first floor of the hotel. In a few minutes the answer came: she was not; should they give him her apartment? He said yes. Presently a sleepy voice answered. He recognized it as Marie—the maid—and had some difficulty in convincing her of his identity. He did it at last only by speaking French to her—which, as he had hitherto addressed her only in French, was not extraordinary.

And, being convinced, she answered promptly enough that Mrs. Clephane was not in—she had gone down-stairs about two hours ago telling her not to wait up. She had no idea where Mrs. Clephane went; she had said nothing about leaving the hotel.

"Ask her to call me at the Collingwood the moment she comes in," said Harleston.

Then he got Ranleigh and told him of the Spencer episode and of Mrs. Clephane's disappearance.

"You would better put Mrs. Clephane under lock and key—or else stay with her and keep her from rash adventures," Ranleigh commented.

"I quite agree with you," said Harleston. "Meanwhile I might inquire where was Mrs. Spencer's shadow while she was taxiing up the avenue?"

"I fancy he was on his job, though you may not have seen him," Ranleigh replied. "His report in the morning will tell."

"I would sooner have a report as to Mrs. Clephane's whereabouts," Harleston remarked.

"I can't see what good she would be to them now?" said Ranleigh. "She hasn't a thing they want."

"Granted; yet where is she? moreover, she promised me to do nothing unusual and to beware of traps."

"She has the feminine right to reconsider," Ranleigh reminded him. "However, I'll instruct the bureau to get busy and—"

"Wait until morning," Harleston interjected. "If Mrs. Clephane hasn't appeared by nine o'clock, I'll telephone you."

Harleston leaned back in his chair frowning. Washington was not a large city, yet under certain circumstances she could be lost in it—and stay lost, with all the efforts of the police quite unavailing to find her. It seemed improbable that she had been abducted; as Ranleigh had said, they had nothing to gain from her. She could neither advance their plans nor hinder them; she was purely a negative quantity. Spencer might be striking at him through Mrs. Clephane, intending to hold her surety for his neutrality, or to feed her own revenge, or maybe both. Yet, somehow, he could not hold to the notion; it was too petty for their game. Moreover, Spencer knew that it would be ineffective, and she was not one to waste time in methods, petty or inefficient. Of course, it might be that she had merely twitted him about the episode, as a jealous woman would do.

And yet what could have taken Mrs. Clephane from the hotel at such an hour, and without apprising her maid; and why was she driving up Sixteenth Street? Or was Spencer's talk just a lie; intended to throw a scare into him and give him a bad quarter of an hour—until he would venture to call up Mrs. Clephane's apartment? And if he did not venture, the bad quarter would last the balance of the night. At all events and whatever her idea Madeline Spencer had succeeded in disturbing him to an unusual degree—and all because of Mrs. Clephane.

At last he sprang up, threw on a light top-coat, grabbed a hat, and made for the door. He would go down to the Chateau and investigate. Anything was preferable to this miserable waiting.

The corridor door was swinging shut behind him, when his telephone buzzed. He flung back the door and reached the receiver in a bound.

"Yes!" he exclaimed.

"I forgot to say, Guy," came Madeline Spencer's purring voice, "that I'll tell you in the morning, if you care to pay me a visit, how my alter ego came to be on Sixteenth Street at so unusual an hour. It's rather interesting as to details. By the way, you must be sitting beside the receiver expecting a call; you answered with such amazing promptness!" and she laughed softly. "Shall I expect you at eleven, or will you be content to wait until we go to the Department at four?"

"I had just finished talking with Mrs. Clephane when you called," Harleston replied imperturbably, then laughed mockingly. "I'll be at the Chateau for you at half-after-three; you can give me the details then. I shall be delighted, Madeline, to compare your details with hers."

"I wonder!" said she.

"What do you wonder?" said he.

"Whether you are—well, no matter; we'll take it up this afternoon. Tout a l'heure, Monsieur Harleston!"

He was turning once more toward the door, when the telephone rang again.

"Is that Mr. Harleston?" said Mrs. Clephane's lovely voice—and Harleston's grin almost flowed into the transmitter.

"It is indeed!" he responded—then severely: "Where have you been, my lady? You have given me a most horrible fright."

"I cry your pardon, my lord; I'll not transgress again," she laughed. "And if you don't scold me I'll tell you something—something I'm sure will be worth even a diplomat's hearing."

"Anything you would tell would be well worth any diplomat's hearing," said he; "only I shall always prefer to be the diplomat on duty when you are doing the telling!"

"That's deliciously nice, Mr. Harleston; I—"

"Where are you now?" he demanded.

"At the Chateau—in my apartment. Anything more?"

"Nothing; except to pray you to be prudent and not do it again."

"I'll promise—until I see you." She lowered her voice—"Are you there, Mr. Harleston?"

"I'm here—since I can't be with you there," he replied.

"Assuredly not! I'm not exactly in receiving attire. Meanwhile the morning—and Madame Brunette's doings. Good-night, Mon camarade."



XIX

MARSTON

At nine o'clock the next morning, Marston tapped gently on the door of Madeline Spencer's apartment, and was immediately admitted by the demure maid; who greeted him with a smile, which he repaid with a kiss—several of them, indeed—and an affectionate and pressing arm to her shapely and slender waist.

"I suppose monsieur wants to see my mistress," said she.

"Now that I've seen you, yes, little one," Marston returned, with another kiss.

"Have you seen me, monsieur?"

"Not half long enough, my love; but business before pleasure. There's another now, so run along and do your devoir."

She fetched him a tiny slap across his cheek, for which she was caught and made to suffer again; then she wriggled loose, and, with a flirty backward kick at him, disappeared through the inner doorway.

In a moment she returned, dropped him a bit of curtsy, and informed him that her mistress would receive him.

He rewarded her with another caress, which she accepted with assumed shyness—and a wicked little pinch.

"I'll pay you later for the pinch!" he tossed back, softly.

She answered with an affected shrug and a wink.

"Elise is remarkably pretty!" Madeline Spencer remarked when he entered the boudoir. She was sitting up in bed, eating her rolls and coffee—a bewildering negligee of cerise and cream heightening the effect of her dead-white colouring and raven-black hair.

Marston drew in his breath sharply, then sighed.

"And you are ravishingly beautiful, my lady," he replied.

"You like this robe?" she asked.

"I—like you; what you may wear is incidental. It merely increases the effect of your wonderful personality."

"My good Marston!" she smiled. "What a faithful friend you are; always seeing my few good points and being blind to my many bad."

"And being always," he added, bowing low, "your most humble and loving servant."

"I know it—and I am very, very grateful." She put aside the tray and languidly stretched her lithe length under the sheet. "What have you to report, Marston?" she asked.

"I have to report, madame," said Marston, with strict formality of a subordinate to his chief, "that I have procured the French code-book."

"Good work!" she exclaimed, sitting up sharply. "However did you manage it?"

"By the assistance of one Jimmy-the-Snake. He visited the French Embassy last night, and persuaded the safe to yield up the code. It would have been better, I admit, to copy the code and then replace it, but it wasn't possible. He had just sufficient time to grab the book and make a get-away. Someone was coming."

"You've accomplished enough even though we don't obtain the letter" she approved. "I shall recommend you for promotion, Marston."

She took the thin book and glanced through it until she came to the key-words of the Blocked-Out Square—the last key-word was the one the Count de M—— had given her. After all, the Count was not so bad; and he was handsome; thus far dependable; and he was, seemingly at least, in love with her. She might do worse.... Yet he was not Harleston; there never was but one equal to Harleston, and that one was lost to her. She shut her lips tightly and a far-away look came into her eyes. And now Harleston, too, was lost to her; and—she lifted her hands resignedly, and laughed a mirthless laugh. As she came back to reality, she met Marston's curiously courteous glance with a bit of a shrug.

"Pardon my momentary abstraction," she said softly; "I was pursuing a train of thought—"

"And you didn't overtake it," he remarked.

"I can never overtake it. I haven't the requisite speed. Did you ever miss your two greatest opportunities, Marston?"

"I've missed my greatest," Marston replied instantly. "Oh—it was out of my class, so I never started."

"It may have been a mistake, my friend," she observed; "one never can tell until he's tried it—and failed. I mightn't have missed had I gone on another schedule. However, the past is to profit by, and to forget if we can't remember it pleasantly. So let us return to the business in hand, Marston; it's a rattling business and a fascinating, and at it you and I are not to be altogether despised," throwing him a bewitching smile.

"Don't!" he exclaimed. "I'm not stone."

"Forgive me, my friend!" putting out her hand to him.

Marston simply bowed, "I think it wiser to refrain," he said gently, and bowed again. "By all means let us to the business in hand."

He understood her nature better than she thought. The sympathy in her was, for the moment, real enough, but it was only for the moment; the love of admiration was the controlling note—what she sought and what she played for. She felt the sympathy while it lasted, but it was the effect as to herself, the selfish effect, that inspired the sensation. When a beautiful woman stoops to sympathy, it is rare indeed that she does not thereby arouse admiration for herself. Madeline Spencer may have been cold and shrewd and selfish and calculating, yet with it all she was warm-hearted; but the warm heart never got away with the cool head—unless it was with that head's permission and for its benefit. She played men—and men played her—but the man that had won was not yet to be found. Two only of those whom she tried had failed to succumb to her fascinating alluringness—and these two she had loved, and still did both love and hate.

"Returning then to the code-book and the letter," said she. "How about the latter; have you found Carpenter susceptible to persuasion?"

"To persuasion, no; to exchange, yes. Our agreement is that if I provide the key-word, he will provide the letter in question. At ten o'clock this morning the trick is to be turned."

"And if the translation concerns the United States, he simply would turn the key upon you and hold you prisoner until the matter is cleared up."

"One must take some risks," Marston observed.

She nodded slightly.

"Which of these do you fancy is the key-word?" she asked.

"We shall try them in turn, beginning with the last: a l'aube du jour. I've a hunch that we'll end there."

"And that you'll go into temporary confinement?" she smiled.

"My hunch stops with the key-word!" he smiled back.

"Your hunch as to the key-word is partially correct," she replied slowly, "but it does not, however, reach quite to the last conclusion. I may not explain now, Marston. Do you go to the meeting, with the code-book as your only exhibit. It should be indisputable proof of your good faith, and our honest belief that the letter does not concern the United States. Moreover, you run no danger of imprisonment, for you'll not effect a translation. But you must obtain a copy of the letter; it's but a fair exchange for the French code, you know; and you're permitted—nay you're authorized, in the interest of the service—to allow Carpenter to copy the book if he will give you the letter to copy. Furthermore, you may proceed leisurely in the process; there is no particular haste; while they are occupied with the letter matter, there is apt to be less activity along other lines. Only get a copy of the letter; I have the key-word."

"You have the key-word!" Marston exclaimed.

She nodded. "I'm quite sure of it; and the code-book confirms me. It is up to you to procure the letter; I'll do the rest, if any rest is necessary. We may be headed for Europe by evening, Marston; in which event, the cipher letter is of no consequence to us."