"You'll be glad to get back to Paris?" he asked.

"I shall, indeed—won't you?"

"I'm quite content anywhere, so long as I am working with you," he answered. It was much as a faithful dog would wag his tail and snuggle up for a pat of the hand.

She smiled straight into his eyes—a frank, appreciative smile, as though an intimate camaraderie existed between them, and would never be violated by either. She would have been in danger had she smiled that way at some men; they would not have remained quiescent. And a little more aggression by Marston might have been more conducive for success—less of the faithful dog and more of the independent subordinate and the equal human. As it was, he was only a plaything.

"Now, my friend, if you're done you may go," she said briskly. "I must dress, and you're rather de trop at such a time, however much you may be welcome at another. And, Marston, don't miss the copy of the letter; I'll expect you with it at seven; we'll make the translation together, either here or on the train to New York. You're to accompany me, you know. I've an appointment at one, and another at four, but I'll be here at seven. If I'm detained, wait."

When Marston had gone she turned over and composed herself for sleep—it was two hours until she had need to array herself for luncheon and Snodgrass.... Yes, Snodgrass was a very good-looking chap; her drive with him last night had been very satisfactory; he had the requisite wealth, so it might be just as well to let him become fascinated. It would be at least a momentary diversion; something to occupy her for the loss of Harleston. She closed her eyes—and shivered ever so little. Damn Mrs. Clephane! But for her she would not have lost him.

She flung off the cover and sprang up. There was a chance left and she would try it. If it failed, she would not lose more than she had already lost. If it won, she won Harleston!



XX

PLAYING THE GAME

She threw a kimono around her and hastened to the telephone.

"Get me," she said to the hotel central, "Mr. Harleston at the Collingwood, the Cosmopolitan Club, or the State Department."

"I'll call you," said the operator—and Madeline Spencer leaned back in her chair and waited.

Presently the call came.

"I have Mr. Harleston for you," said the operator and switched on the trunk.

"Where are you, Guy?—this is Madeline Spencer," said she.

"I'm at the Collingwood, Madeline. Anything I can do for you?" was the answer.

"Yes. Be here in an hour; I must see you."

"Important?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be there at ten-thirty."

"You're always good!" said she softly.

"Not always," he laughed, "but I will be this time."

She dressed in feverish haste, yet with great care and attention to effects. Her gown was a lustreless black silk, trimmed with gold and made as plain as her modiste would—and the styles permitted. Her hair was piled high, with an elongated twist; her dead-white complexion was unmarred by powder or rouge, and beneath the transparent skin the blood pulsed softly pink.

Her toilet finished, and passed upon in the mirror, she sent her maid on a shopping expedition which would occupy her until noon, and even hurried her off. She wanted no one about, not even Elise, when she made her last play at Harleston.

Elise gone five minutes before the hour, she compelled herself to outward tranquillity—while she strove for inward calm. And succeeding wonderfully well—so well, indeed, that none would ever have suspected the agitation seething under the cold placidity. Its only evidence was in the gentle swing of her narrow foot, and the nervous play of her slender fingers. And even these indications disappeared at the knock on the corridor door; and she went almost blithely and flung it back—to Harleston bowing on the threshold.

"Punctual as usual!" she greeted.

"Because I came to one who is always punctual," he replied, taking her hand, nor dropping it until they were well inside the reception room.

"Sit down, old enemy," said she, sinking into a chair and pointing to another—which she had been careful to place just within reach. "You've nothing much to do for a short while, have you?"

"I've nothing much to do any time except to keep an eye on you!" he laughed.

"Am I so difficult?" she asked.

"You keep me fairly occupied at all times—and sometimes rather more."

"At least I endeavour not to offend your eye!" she smiled, her head on her hand, her eyes on him.

"The only difficulty is that you are too alluring," he returned. "One is prone to forget that his business is not to admire but to observe dispassionately and to block your plans. You're much too beautiful, Madeline; you usually make monkeys of all of us, and while we're held fascinated by your loveliness you scoop the prize. It's not fair, my lady; you play with—loaded dice."

"Flatterer!" she said, melting into another pose.

"Flatterer!" he exclaimed. "If you could but see yourself now, you would confess the truth of the indictment. You're the loveliest thing, and you grow lovelier every day and younger. Positively, Madeline, you're a—" he paused for words and raised his hands helplessly.

"I'm a what?" she murmured, leaning a bit toward him.

"I haven't the word; there isn't one adequate to the—subject."

"You actually mean that?" she asked, gliding into another posture, even more alluring.

"You know I mean it," he declared. "Haven't we agreed to be honest with each other?"

"I've been honest!" she answered.

"Meaning that I've not been?"

"Have you?" she inflected, "I wonder, Guy."

She might just as well have asked direct his feeling for Mrs. Clephane—and he understood perfectly the question.

He nodded, slowly but none-the-less definitely.

She took a cigarette and lighted it with careful attention, then blew the smoke sharply against the incandescent coal.

"Guy," said she, "I'm about to speak plainly; please don't misunderstand; I'm simply a woman, now—a weak woman, perhaps; it will be for you to judge me at the end." She smiled faintly.

"Not a weak woman, Madeline," he replied. "Your worst enemy would not venture to call you that."

He wondered what more was coming, and at what directed. Her tone and attitude and deprecation of self were new to him. He had never seen her so; always she was the embodification of calm, self-reliance, poise, never flustered, never disturbed. A weak woman! It was so absurd as to be ridiculous, and she was aware of it. So what was the play with so bald a notice to beware?

"No, no, Guy," said she. "You think it's a play, but it isn't. It's the simple truth I'm about to tell you, and as truth I pray you take it."

"I'll take it as you wish it taken," he responded, more than ever mystified.

She carefully laid her cigarette on the receiver, then arose and leaned against the table, her hands behind her. He arose also, but she declined the courtesy.

"Keep your seat," she said, "and don't be alarmed, I'm not preparing to have you daggered or garroted. Entirely the reverse, Guy. I've decided to offer terms: to capitulate; to throw the whole thing over; to betray my mission and get out of the service forever. No, don't smile incredulously, I mean it."

"Good Lord!" thought Harleston. "What is coming and where do we go?" What he said, however, was:

"Wouldn't you be incredulous if our positions were reversed? Madeline Spencer, the very Queen of the Service, betray her trust? Impossible!"

"Thank you, Guy," said she. "I've never yet been false to the hand that paid me—and sometimes I've paid dearly for keeping faith. Now for the first time,—and the last time, too, for if successful the service will know me no longer—I am ready and willing deliberately to make a failure of my mission, if you will take that failure as conclusive evidence of my good faith." She bent a bit forward and threw into her words and tones and attitude every grace that she possessed. "Will you do it, Guy?"

"When you ask that way," said Harleston, "who of mankind would refuse you anything on earth."

She was alluring, wonderfully alluring. Time was, and that lately, when he would have succumbed. But that time was no longer; beside the raven-hair and dead-white cheek was now another face, with peach-blow cheek and the ruddy tresses—and the peach-blow cheek and ruddy tresses prevailed. And so he had responded, sincere enough, in tribute to her loveliness and in memory of what had been.

And Madeline Spencer detected the absent note; but she ignored it. She would go through with it—make her bid:

"Almost you say that as though you meant it!" she smiled, and forced his hand. Now he must either deny or affirm.

"I do mean it," he replied. It was all in the game, and he was obligated to be truthful only to Mrs. Clephane.

She looked at him contemplatively, trying to read behind his words.

"What is it, Madeline?" he asked.

"I wonder!" she said speculatively.

"Can't I answer?"

"Yes, you can answer—"

"Then ask me," he invited, seeking to get something that would afford him an inkling of her aim. Assuredly she had him guessing.

For a moment she looked him straight in the eyes; then suddenly her glance wavered, a faint flush crept from neck to cheek, and she smiled almost bashfully.

"Guy," said she, "I ask you to forget our profession if you can, and take what I am about to say as free from guile or expediency—and of supreme importance to me. I'm just a simple woman now, with a woman's desires and affection and hopes. I've come to the parting of the ways: on one side lie power, excitement, loneliness; on the other, contentment, peace, companionship. I'll choose the latter, if you're willing. You have but to say the word and I'll give up everything, confess what I'm here for, what I've done, and what is arranged for in the future."

"Upon what condition, Madeline?" he smiled, more puzzled than ever. He was almost ready to believe she meant it.

She caught her breath, hesitated, blushed furiously—and answered softly:

"Upon the condition that you marry me."

For the instant Harleston was too amazed for words; and, despite all his training in dissimulation, his surprise was evidenced in his face. Small wonder he had been unable to make out the play—it was not a play; she meant it. She was ready to throw her mission overboard to attain her personal end.

"Will you marry me, old enemy?" she whispered, putting out her hand to him and smiting him with a ravishing smile—a smile such as she had had for but one other man. It had been utterly lost on that other, but it had almost won with Harleston; and it might have won now with him but for another's smile, she of the ruddy tresses and peach-blow cheek.

"My dear Madeline," said he slowly, holding her hand with intimate pressure, "I cannot permit you to betray yourself for me. You are—"

"Quite old enough in the ways of the world," she interjected, "to know my own mind. I love you, Guy, and unless I've mistaken your attitude, you love me. When our minds meet in such a matter, why should anything be permitted to intervene?" Her hand still lay in his; her eyes held his; her personality fairly enveloped them. With lips a little parted, she bent toward him. "It's a bit unusual, dear, for the woman to propose, to the man, but we are an unusual two, and the business of life has shaken us free from the conventions of the drawing-room and frothy society. With us there need be no cant nor pretence nor false modesty, because there is not the slightest possibility of misunderstanding."

"And yet, Madeline, we may not defy the right and permit you to sacrifice yourself," he opposed. "There is a standard which neither cant nor pretence nor false modesty can affect—the standard of honour."

"Honour!" she inflected. "What is honour, such honour, when a woman loves."

"Nothing—and therefore must the love abide; honour can't abide once it is lost."

She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid it's not so much my honour as your love," she said. "A week ago, and I would have had a different answer—in fact, I would have been the one to answer and you the one to ask. You know it quite as well as I; for when you left me that afternoon in Paris, expecting to return in the evening, you were ready to speak and I was ready with the answer. Then fate, in the person of an unsympathetic Foreign Office intervened, and sent you on the instant to St. Petersburg. We never met again until in this hotel. I have not changed, but you have. I fear your answer does not ring quite true; it isn't like you. Why is it, Guy?"

Never a reference to Mrs. Clephane; never an intimation—and yet Mrs. Clephane might as well have been in the room, so living was her presence.

"Madeline," said he, lingeringly freeing her hand, "I hardly know what to say nor how to say it. I'm embarrassed, frightfully embarrassed; yet you have been frank with me so I must be frank with you—even though it hurts. I'm distressed to have been such a bungler, such a miserable bungler, such a blind fool, indeed. The false impression must be due to me; assuredly, without the most justifiable cause you would not have drawn the erroneous inference. And a man who is responsible for that inference with a woman of your experience and ability, Madeline, must be more or less a fool, even though his intentions have been absolutely correct."

"Which leads where, Guy?" she mocked.

"Nowhere," he replied, "I'm trying to say something, and can't say it. But you know what it is, Madeline. I'm sorry, supremely sorry. Let us forget this little talk, and go on as though it hadn't occurred—playing our parts in the present game and besting the other by every means in our power. I can't accept your offer, because I cannot pay the consideration. It still must be a outrance with us, Madeline; no quarter given and no quarter asked."

For a space she looked at him with cold repellence, eyes black as night. Then her eyes narrowed and she laughed, a mirthlessly sarcastic laugh, so low that Harleston barely heard it.

"Is red hair then prettier than black, Mr. Harleston?" she asked mockingly; "or is Mrs. Clephane's character whiter than mine?"

"That is not worthy of you, Madeline," Harleston reproved. "You're a good sport; hitherto you've taken the count, as well as given it, without the flutter of an eyelash—and over far more serious matters than your humble servant, who hasn't anything to give him value."

Again the sarcastic laugh. She knew he was playing the game, two games indeed, the diplomatic and his own. He had never forgot himself nor regarded her for one little instant.

"As a lecturer on morals, Mr. Harleston, you are a wonder," she mocked; "you have almost succeeded—nay quite, shall I say—in convincing yourself. And when you—a man—do that, what is to be expected of a woman—who is alone in the world? So I must accept your argument, and your conclusions, and be content with my duty—and"—with a sudden ravishing smile—"if I best you, Guy, you will have only yourself to blame. I won't send Mrs. Clephane a present, nor will I wish you joy of her, nor her of you; but you won't look for it, and she would think it somewhat presumptuous in me to assume to know you. These red-headed women are the very devil, Guy, after they've got you landed—also before, but in a different way."

"What's your game, Madeline?" he smiled. It had pleased her suddenly to veer around and resume the play; and far be it from him to balk her. "I'll admit you have me guessing."

"I thought you believed me, Guy. My game was you—and I've lost."

"Nonsense!" he replied. "I was inclined to think so at first; your fine acting and man's conceit, I reckon. But my conceit has been punctured, and you've slipped a bit in your acting; therefore, to descend to the extremely common-place, the jig is up."

"And the next lead is yours!" she laughed back.

"That is precisely why I asked you the game—so I could make an intelligible lead."

"Ask Mrs. Clephane!" she suggested.

"I'll do it," said he—and bowed himself out.

"Do it? Of course, you'll do it," Madeline Spencer gritted, as the door closed behind him. "I've no chance, it seems, against a red-haired woman. The other one also had red hair." She seized a vase from the table at her hand, and hurled it across the room. It crushed in fragments against the wall. "Damn Mrs. Clephane!" she said softly.



XXI

THE KEY-WORD

Promptly at ten o'clock Marston walked into Carpenter's office and sent in his card.

It found Carpenter pacing up and down, and frowning at a paper spread open on his desk. At the messenger's apologetically discreet cough, he glanced around and took the extended card.

"Show him in!" he snapped, and swept the paper from the desk and into a drawer.... "Good-morning, sir!" as Marston bowed on the threshold; then, without any preliminaries: "What success?"

"I have the French code-book," Marston replied.

"With you?"

Marston drew out the slender book. "It embraces all their codes, I believe," he remarked.

"H-u-m!" said Carpenter thoughtfully, retrieving the paper he had just swept into the drawer. "How are we to work it, Mr. Marston?"

"As allies," Marston replied. "I'm perfectly willing to let you have the book and everything in it, if you will let me have a copy of the letter. I'm confident that the key-word is here; I'm equally confident that the letter does not involve, either directly or indirectly, the United States. I understand that the letter is in the cipher of the Blocked-Out Square; in this book there are two pages and more of key-words to this Square, the last dozen or so of which are added in writing. If the letter is in that cipher, we should have no particular difficulty in finding the key-word. I would suggest, however, that we first try the last word on the list—maybe we won't have to go any farther."

"Very well," said Carpenter, briskly.

The advantage was all with him. If Marston thought the letter was only a line and that he could remember the letters used, he was in for a shock. No man living could remember twenty spilled alphabets; and if he attempted to make a copy it could easily be prevented. The Fifth Secretary spread the paper on the table.

"Here is a copy of the cipher letter in question—we had it made large for convenience," he explained. "The original is in the safe; you'll wish to compare it with the copy, so we'll have it here."

He gave the necessary order; when the letter was brought he passed it to Marston.

"I'll read the copy, if you'll hold the original," he said; and proceeded to call off the letters with amazing rapidity. "Correct, isn't it?" as he ended.

"Yes!" said Marston returning the original to Carpenter. He wanted in every way to disarm suspicion; moreover, a copy could be made more readily from a large typewritten edition than from the small, written original. "Now for the code-book and the last key-word—a l'aube du jour, I think it is ... yes, a l'aube du jour, it is," and he handed the book across. "Shall we try it first, Mr. Carpenter?"

"By all means," said Carpenter. "Shall I set it down, or will you?"

One would never have imagined from his expression or his intonation that he had already tried a l'aube du jour for the key-word and failed; nor that why he had failed he now knew. The book was right as to the word, and the slip that Harleston had taken from Crenshaw's pocket-book confirmed it. A l'aube du jour was not the key-word but the key-word was constructed from it by some arbitrary rule; and that rule was susceptible of solution. After he was free of this fellow Marston, he would solve the problem quickly enough. It was as sure as tomorrow. The prescience was come.

"About twenty letters should be enough for experiment?" he suggested, taking up a test card.

When he had written the key-word and the letters under it, he, scarcely without reference to the Blocked-Out Square, wrote the translation. Marston did the same, very much slower.

"It doesn't fit!" Marston announced. "You can't make anything out of AGELUMTONZN, and so forth."

"I can't!" Carpenter smiled—and waited. Would Marston suggest the transposed or elided word?

"I'm disappointed," Marston confessed, "I thought sure we had it. Let's try the next key-word in the book."

They tried it, and the next, and all the rest. None of them translated the letter.

It took more than an hour; at the end, as a full measure of good faith and because it was of no further use to him—he having preserved a copy—Marston insisted that Carpenter retain the original of the French code-book and have a copy made, after which the book could be returned to him at the Chateau. During this hour and more his hand was in and out in his side coat-pocket. When he left the room there went with him, in that pocket, a copy of the original letter—roughly made by the sense of touch alone, yet none the less a copy and sufficiently distinct to be decipherable. For years Marston had practised writing in the dark and under all sorts of handicaps. In his pocket, a number of small slips of paper and a pencil were concealed. He would write a line, then take his hand from his pocket; after a time he would shift the page of paper, write another line, and then another, and so on until the copy was made. And all the while he was so frankly communicative, with apparently not the slightest intent to obtaining a copy—even tearing up the paper on which were the various trial translations—that he completely deceived Carpenter. When he left, the latter went with him to the elevator and bowed him down.

"I don't quite understand their game," Carpenter chuckled, as he turned away, "but it's no matter. I took all the tricks this morning and still have a few trumps left. I thought he certainly would try for a copy of the letter, but he didn't even attempt it. He may have committed it to memory, but I'll chance it."

Returning to his office he gave the code-book another careful inspection and confirmed his impression as to its being authentic. Then he laid it aside, and took up the letter and a l'aube du jour!

First he tried it in reverse position: ruoj ud ebua'l a. The translation was gibberish. Then he wrote the first and last letters, the second and next to last, the third and the third from last, and so on. The result, too, was gibberish. Next he dropped the first word, 'a' and tried the rest—still gibberish. He dropped also the 'l'—still gibberish. Then, in turn, the 'a' of the third word the 'd' of the fourth, the 'j' of the last word—all gibberish. Next he wrote the key-word entire but transposed the 'a' from the first letter to the last—still gibberish. He began with the aube—still gibberish.

"Damn!" said he.

He was persuaded that the key-word was in the sentence before him; the code-book, Crenshaw's slip of paper, and his own hunch were convincing, yet the combination was slow in coming.

Du jour a l'aube was the next arrangement. He wrote it under the printed words and began to apply the Square.

The D and the A yielded A; the U and the B yielded V; the J and the C yielded E; the O and the D yielded R; the U and the E yielded T; the R and the F yielded I.

"Averti!"

Carpenter gave a soft whistle of satisfaction. French, it was—his hunch had not deceived him. The key-word was found!

Swiftly he worked out the rest of the cipher, setting down the letters of the translation without regard to words. "Averti" was evident because it was the first word. At the end, he had this result:

AVERTIQUELALLEMAGNEAENGAG EUNOFFICIERADECELERLAFORM ULESECRETEDESETATSUNISEMP LOYEEACOLLODONNIERLAFULMI COTONPOURLAPOUDRESANSFUME EALARTILLERIEDEGROSCALIBR EETQUEMADELINESPENCEREMIS SAIREDELALLEMAGNEAPARISPH OTOGRAPHIECIINCLUSEAETECH ARGEEDELARECEVOIRNESEPEUT DECOUVRIRLENOMDUTRAITRESP ENCERESTPARTIEPOURNEWYORK SURLALUSITANIAQUIDOITARRI VERLEQUATORZEATOUTEFORCEI NTERCEPTEZLAFORMULEOUEMPE CHEZAMOINSQUELALLEMAGNENE LOBTIENNESPENCERSIMPORTAN TEALAFRANCE

There was not the least doubt as to it being in French—the last three words, as well as the first, proved it; also that he had the correct key-word. It only remained now to separate the result into words. And this puzzle presented no difficulties to Carpenter; he quickly marshalled it into form:

"Averti que l'Allemagne a engage un officier a deceler la formule secrete des Etats-Unis employee a collodonnier la fulmi-coton pour la poudre sans fumeee a l'artillerie de gros calibre; et que Madeline Spencer, emissaire de l'Allemagne a Paris,—photographie ci, incluse—a ete de chargee la recevoir. Ne se peut decouvrir le nom du traitre. Spencer est partie pour New York sur la Lusitania qui doit arriver le quatorze. A toute force interceptez la formule; ou empechez a moins que l'Allemagne ne l'obtienne. Spencer pas importante a la France."

And under it he wrote the English translation: "Informed Germany has induced an officer to betray United States secret formula for colloding process of treating gun-cotton for smokeless powder for high power guns, and that Madeline Spencer, a German Secret agent in Paris, photograph enclosed herein, is delegated to receive same. Cannot ascertain name of traitor. Spencer sailed Lusitania, due New York, fourteenth. Take any means to intercept formula; or at least to prevent Germany obtaining it. Spencer not essential to France."

Spencer not essential to France! Surely this woman had great power, either of knowledge or of friends; she resided in Paris, yet France was reluctant to lift hand against her so long as she was on French soil. Well, he would turn the matter over to Harleston; let him decide whether it was to be thumbs up or thumbs down for her Alluringness. Furthermore, the meeting with Snodgrass now assumed much significance. Snodgrass was an ex-army officer. Harleston must be warned at once.

He tried for him at the Collingwood, the Cosmopolitan, the Rataplan, and finally at the Chateau. He got him there.

"Can you come here at once?" he asked.

"Not well," said Harleston, "I've an appointment."

"Forget it!" Carpenter exclaimed. "I've found the key-word and made the translation. It's serious—Very well, come right in; I'll be waiting."

Harleston scribbled a note to Mrs. Clephane and sent it up by a page; he would be back in half an hour; would she meet him in the Alley.



XXII

THE RATAPLAN

A moment before Harleston's return, Madeline Spencer, stepping out of the F Street elevator, was met by Snodgrass who had been walking up and down the lobby. They took a taxi and sped away; followed closely by another taxi, which their driver was most careful not to distance. A second later Harleston entered the corridor. As he was about to greet Mrs. Clephane, a man approached him and said:

"They have started, sir; Burke's just behind in a taxi—and both drivers are wise. They're bound for the Rataplan."

"Follow them and wait just outside," Harleston ordered—and turned to Mrs. Clephane. "I must go to the Rataplan at once," said he. "Let us lunch there. The end of the affair of the cab of the sleeping horse is in sight; I thought you might like to see it."

"I want to see it!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed. "Have you found the key-word?"

"Carpenter found it—I'll tell you about it on the way out. Come along, little lady."

* * * * *

"But why do you suspect Captain Snodgrass?" she inquired, when Harleston had finished his account. "He would not have access to the formula, would he?"

"The man that has access to such secrets never is the man who actually delivers," he explained; "he has a confederate. Snodgrass is the confederate, we think."

"Is this secret colloding process of gun-cotton so tremendously valuable?" she asked.

"It's a secret for which any nation would give millions of dollars. It's admittedly the most powerful explosive ever discovered, as well as the easiest handled. Temperature, weather, ordinary shock have absolutely no effect on it; in fire it simply chars and doesn't explode. Yet when it is exploded by the proper method, lyddite, dynamite, and all the other ites, are as a gentle zephyr in comparison. Now tell me about last night; where were you?"

"After you left," she explained, "I wrote some letters, and then went into the corridor to drop them in the chute beside the elevator shaft; as I approached, the car came down with Mrs. Spencer in it. Something impelled me to follow her; and running back I grabbed a cloak, and dashed for the elevator, catching it on the fly. She wasn't in the main corridor; on a chance, I hurried to the F Street entrance; I got there just as she stepped into a taxi and shot away. Instantly I called another taxi and told the driver to follow the car that had just departed. He did for a little way; but in a sudden halt of traffic at Vermont Avenue and H Street, where, you may remember, the street is torn up, we lost the other taxi; and though we drove around the north-west section for more than an hour on the chance that we'd come up with it—my driver knew the other driver—we never did come up with it. But as we rolled up to the Chateau, Mrs. Spencer was alighting from a limousine with a tall, fine-looking, fair-haired chap who had the walk of a military man."

"Snodgrass," Harleston observed.

"She saw me; and, with a maliciously charming smile, nodded and went on. In the corridor I came on some friends and we talked awhile. Then I went up to my apartment, got your message, and telephoned to you."

"Don't do it again," he cautioned. "It was very dangerous."

They turned in at the Rataplan and drew up at the carriage entrance. Harleston helped Mrs. Clephane from the taxi and they passed into the Club-House.

He inquired of the doorman whether Mr. Carpenter was in, and another servant, who overheard the question, added that Mr. Carpenter was in the dining-room. Harleston and Mrs. Clephane went directly in and to a table next to Carpenter's. Three tables away were Madeline Spencer and Snodgrass.

Harleston nodded to Mrs. Spencer and to Snodgrass, then spoke to Carpenter and invited him over.

"I don't know if you will remember me, Mrs. Clephane," said Carpenter, coming across. "I met you several years ago in Paris."

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Carpenter, I remember you!" Mrs. Clephane replied.

"Anything?" Harleston asked, without moving his lips.

"Nothing. I was here when they arrived," Carpenter replied in the same manner—and went back to his table.

"Who is the woman with Harleston?" Snodgrass asked Mrs. Spencer. "I've never seen her."

"A Mrs. Clephane," Madeline Spencer replied. "She's very good-looking, isn't she?"

"I'm perfectly satisfied with the lady immediately in my fore," he smiled. "I don't run to blondes—"

"When you're with a brunette!" she smiled back.

"I don't run to anyone when I'm with you," he replied with quiet earnestness, leaning toward her across the table.

She shot him a knowing glance. Last night she had held him to strict propriety. Today in the taxi she had deliberately set herself to fascinate him, and had succeeded well. She had been demurely tantalizing—holding him at a distance, letting him come a little nearer, bringing him up sharply; all the tricks of the trade executed with a perfection of technic and a mastery of effect. Snodgrass, with all his experience, was but a novice in her hands; she always struck directly at the affections—got them: and then the rest was easy. She never lost her head, nor allowed her own affections to become involved; save only twice—and both those times she had failed. Snodgrass, she had learned through inquiries, had quite sufficient money to make him worth her while; moreover, he was such a big, good-natured, dependable chap—and a gentleman. If he had not been a gentleman he would not have attracted Madeline Spencer for an instant. She dealt only in gentlemen.

She had not told Snodgrass of the Clephane letter, nor anything as to Harleston except to refer casually to him as the confidential emissary in delicate matters of the State Department. She had found that Snodgrass was not the actual man in the case; that he was simply a friendly confederate, or rather, to use his own words, "a friend of Davidson." She had expected that the package or letter would be delivered to her in the taxi; but Snodgrass had told her as soon as they were started that Davidson would forward it to him at the Rataplan by mail, not later than the two o'clock delivery. He would get it as they were leaving and transfer it to her, accepting the consideration as specified by Davidson, and receipting for it. He said flatly that he did not want to know the contents of the letter; he was doing this favour for Davidson. He understood that it was to be entirely sub rosa and that nothing must ever transpire as to it. Therefore he was prepared to forget the entire episode the moment it was over; the epochal meetings with her he would not forget, nor would he permit her to forget him if constant devotion and assiduous attention were of avail. To which she had made a most demurely fitting answer, and the conversation thereafter grew exceedingly confidential. Oh, they were getting on very well indeed when the Rataplan was reached. And they were still progressing very well—in a discreetly informal way.

The entrance of Mrs. Clephane and Harleston was unexpected to Mrs. Spencer; Carpenter was a stranger to her and she had thought nothing of him; but when he spoke to Harleston, and seemed to know Mrs. Clephane, she put him on the list of the enemy. She kept him there when Snodgrass told her his name and position in the Diplomatic Service and that it was reputed there was no cipher too difficult for him to solve.

"We would better be very circumspect," she said low. "I think that these two men are here to watch us; they know that I'm in the Secret Service, of Germany, and they're naturally suspicious of me."

"Carpenter was here when we came in," Snodgrass remarked. "He was sitting in the lobby. However, if you prefer, I'll let my mail go until evening."

"We can decide when we're through luncheon," she replied. "Haste is of vital importance, my instructions say. I had hoped to get away on the midnight train for New York, and to sail tomorrow for England."

"I had hoped to do the same!" he whispered.

"Really?" she asked.

"More than really! May I?" leaning forward.

"If you care to, Captain Snodgrass. It will be very pleasant to have you on board."

"And afterward?"

"You may not care for the afterward," she murmured.

"I'll risk it!" he exclaimed. "We'll sail tomorrow."

"And the letter?" she asked.

"I'll get it for you—or have it along!"

"What about the consideration?"

"Hang the consideration. I'll pay it myself, if need be."

"No, no, my friend!" she laughed. "I'm not worth so much, nor anything near it. And even though I were, I'd not permit the wasteful extravagance."

She might have added that she had no objection whatever to his wasteful extravagance, in fact, she would rather encourage it, if she were its object. Only that must come later—after the present business was finished, and they had sailed from New York. How long the extravagance would continue was dependent on the depth of his purse and his disposition.

"Wasteful extravagance does not apply where you are concerned," he replied. "However, we'll let Germany pay the consideration, and I'll have that much more to spend on you."

She rewarded him with one of her alluringly ravishing smiles and a touch of her slender foot. She had him—and she knew she had him. She would be Madeline Spencer once again—always having a victim, and always ready for a fresh one. Since she had failed with Harleston, what mattered it how many the victims, or what the price they paid.



XXIII

CAUGHT

"Mrs. Spencer and her friend have reached some sort of an understanding," Mrs. Clephane remarked. "She just smiled at him significantly and pressed his foot."

"I noticed the smile but not the foot business," Harleston chuckled. "It's something quite personal to them, I take it!"

"Exactly; but what's the effect on the matter in hand? Does not this personal understanding signify that the delivery of the formula has been arranged, maybe even effected."

Harleston nodded. With Madeline Spencer it was, he knew, business first and personal matters afterward.

"I think we shall see the end of the affair of your cipher letter and its ramifications before the afternoon is over," he replied.

"What about the French Embassy?" she asked.

"The Marquis has been advised that we have the translation. He will keep his hands off, you may believe."

"You think either that Captain Snodgrass has the document in his possession, or that he has given it to Mrs. Spencer?"

"Or that it will come into his possession before they leave the Rataplan, and be transferred to her here or in the taxi on their way back to town," he added.

"What if he transferred it to her on their way here?"

"Then she still has it—once she gets it in her possession she won't part with it, even in her sleep, until she places it in the hands of the official who sent her to America."

"And Mr. Carpenter was here to watch until you came?"

"Yes—and afterward; you see one of us might be called away. From the time she and Snodgrass met at the Chateau this morning, they have not been out of espionage and close espionage. So long as they are in a taxi, or at the Rataplan, there is no danger of the document getting away if either of them has it; but until we are certain that they have it, we won't detain them; we want the document to aid us in running down the traitor. I'm not at all sure that Snodgrass is aware of the character of the document. He probably stipulated not to know; he will be content with a division of the money—and with a chance to spend some of it on Spencer; which spending she is quite ready to facilitate, as witness the pleasant understanding they seem to have arrived at during luncheon."

"What are you going to do, Mr. Harleston?" Mrs. Clephane asked.

"I think you will enjoy it better if you're not wise, little lady!" he smiled. "Moreover, it depends on circumstances just how it's to be gone about—except that it ends in the office of the Secretary of State.—Hush!"

"The Secretary of State!" she exclaimed low.

"I've an appointment to take Mrs. Spencer to meet his Excellency at four o'clock."

"And what are you going to do with me, Mr. Harleston?" she smiled.

"You mean at four o'clock, or permanently?"

"At four o'clock, sir," with a charming lilt of the head.

"Take you along."

"With that woman? Thank you!"

"No, with me."

"Didn't you say you had an appointment to take Mrs. Spencer?"

"I did!"

"You intend to keep the appointment?"

"I do!"

"Surely, sir, you don't imagine for a moment that I would go anywhere with Mrs. Spencer!"

"No more than you imagine that I would ask it of you!" he smiled.

"It seems to me your meaning is somewhat obscure," she retorted. "However, whether you don't mean it, or do mean it, I'll trust myself to you because it's you, Mr. Harleston."

"Permanently, my lady?"

"Certainly not, sir. I refer only to this afternoon; I want to be in at the end of the game."

"For me," said Harleston slowly, "it's been a very fortunate game."

"Games are uncertain and sometimes costly," she shrugged.

"When played with Spencer, they are both and then some," he replied.

At that moment Carpenter pushed back his chair and arose, nodded pleasantly to Mrs. Clephane and Harleston as he passed, and went out.

"Will Mr. Carpenter be at the finish?" Mrs. Clephane asked.

"Probably; but he'll be in the lobby when we go through."

"They are going!" she whispered. "And they're coming this way."

As Mrs. Spencer and Snodgrass went by, the former with an intimate little look at Harleston, said confidentially:

"I'll be ready at half-past three, Guy."

"Very good!" Harleston answered promptly—when she was past, he looked at Mrs. Clephane.

"The cat!" she muttered; then smiled quizzically. "Such a pleasant air of proprietorship," she observed.

"Too pleasant," he returned. "I've something to tell you as to it and her, when the present matter is ended."

"Will it keep?"

He nodded. "I can tell it better then—and have more time for the telling."

The headwaiter approached casually, as though surveying the table.

"Well!" said Harleston.

"He went to the private mail boxes; she's waiting in the lobby," the man replied. "He received a small letter, which he opened; it enclosed only another envelope, which he put in his pocket without opening. He returned to the lobby and they left the Club-House."

Harleston nodded. "It's time for us to be moving," said he to Mrs. Clephane. "Will you trust me?" he asked as they passed into the lobby, at the far end of which Carpenter was sitting absorbed in his cigar.

"Absolutely!" she replied.

"And will you go with Carpenter; he understands? I'll be with you shortly. I must act quickly now."

Carpenter arose as they neared.

"Just started," said he, and bowed to Mrs. Clephane.

"Mrs. Clephane understands," Harleston explained "I confide her to your care. A bientot."

He hurried out. A taxi, waiting with power on, sped up; he sprang aboard and it raced away.

As it neared the Connecticut Avenue bridge, the taxi slowed down a trifle and the driver half-faced around.

"The other car is just ahead, sir," he reported.

"Very good," said Harleston. "Does the driver know we're behind him?"

"I've signalled, sir, and he's answered."

"Maintain the distance," Harleston directed.

"Yes sir," said the man.

Keeping about a hundred yards apart—the two cars sped down the hill and around Dupont Circle to Massachusetts Avenue, thence by it and Sixteenth Street to H. The one in the lead continued on toward Fourteenth. Harleston's shot down Fifteenth, flashed over the tracks at Pennsylvania Avenue, swung into F Street, and drew in at the Chateau just as the other came around the Fourteenth Street corner, and rolled slowly up to the curb.

As Snodgrass was assisting Madeline Spencer to alight—and taking his time about it—Harleston glanced at his watch, sprang from his car, and hastened over.

"This is fortunate, Mrs. Spencer!" he exclaimed. "Just after you left the Rataplan the Secretary of State telephoned that he was summoned to the White House at four, and I should bring you an hour earlier. On the chance of overtaking you, I beat it after you. Now if Captain Snodgrass will permit you, we have just time to get over to the Department."

"Will you excuse me, Captain Snodgrass?" she asked, with her compelling smile.

"A Secretary of State may not be denied," Snodgrass replied. "In this instance in particular I would I were his Excellency."

"Come and dine with me at eight," giving him her hand.... "Now, Mr. Harleston, I am ready."

"What did you do with Mrs. Clephane?" she asked, when they were started.

"I left her at the Rataplan," he replied.

"Alone?"

"Oh no—with Carpenter, who chanced to be handy."

"The bald-headed chap, who spoke to you in the dining-room?"

"Exactly!"

"Carpenter is the chief of the Cipher Division, I believe you said."

"I don't recall that I said it, Madeline, but your information is correct."

"I think I'll ask the Secretary for the letter," she remarked.

"Ask him anything you've a mind to!" Harleston laughed. "You've a very winning pair of black eyes et cetera, my lady."

"I've never seen the Secretary!" she smiled.

"Small matter. He'll see you, all right."

"I'll make an impression, you think?"

"If you don't, it will be the first failure of the sort you've ever registered."

"Except with you," she murmured.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "You've had me going many times."

"Yes, Guy—but not now," she whispered.

"Now, I'm strong!" he laughed, bluntly declining the overture.

"Hence you are willing that I try my smiles on the Secretary," she retorted.

"We are fellow diplomats," he countered. "You did me a good turn in the Du Plesis affair; I'm trying now to show my appreciation. Moreover, it will give Snodgrass an opportunity to reflect on your beauty and fascinating ways—and to look forward to eight o'clock."

"It is pleasant to have something agreeable to look forward to," she replied, ironically suggestive.

"Isn't it?" he approved. "I don't know anything more pleasant—unless it is the finishing stroke of an affaire Diplomatique."

"Do you anticipate the finishing stroke to the present affair?"

"In due time."

"Due time?" she inflected.

"Whatever is necessary in the premises," he explained.

"It hasn't then gotten beyond the premises?"

"No, it hasn't gotten beyond the premises," he replied—with an inward chuckle.

There was no occasion to explain that, by the latter premises, he meant herself. His whole scheme was dependent on her having the traitorous letter in her possession. He was quite sure Snodgrass had received it by mail at the Rataplan; and why had he put the unopened envelope in his pocket unless to give it to her on their way to the Chateau. And as he (Harleston) had caught her as she alighted from the taxi, and had hurried her off to the State Department, she must still have it. Of course, there was the possibility that Snodgrass had not yet delivered it; so Snodgrass was being looked after by others.

"Won't you give me a line on his Excellency, Guy?" she asked. "Is he easy, or difficult, or neither?"

"I may not betray the weak points of my chief!" Harleston smiled. "Moreover, here we are," as the taxi came to a stop on the Seventeenth Street side of an atrociously ugly, and miserably inadequate building that partially houses three Departments of the great American Government.

"Am I to be left alone with the great one?" she asked, as they went up the steps from the sidewalk.

"What do you wish me to do?" he inquired.

"Wait until I signal!"

"And if his Excellency signals first?"

"It will be for me to influence that signal," she replied.

They took the private elevator to the next floor. The old negro messenger was waiting at the door of the reception room and he bowed to the floor—a portion of the bow was for Harleston, but by far the larger portion was for Madeline Spencer.

"De Sec'eta'y, seh, am waiting for you all at onct, Mars Ha'lison," he said; and ushering them across the big room to the Secretary's private office he swung back the heavy door and bowed them into the Presence.

As she passed the threshold, Mrs. Spencer caught her breath sharply, and straightened her shoulders just a trifle. She saw where she stood, and what was coming. Very well—she would defeat them yet.



XXIV

THE CANDLE FLAME

The Secretary was standing by the window; with him were Mrs. Clephane and Carpenter.

"How do you do, Mrs. Spencer!" he said, without waiting for the formal presentation.

She dropped him—Continental fashion—a bit of curtsy and offered him her slender fingers; which, as well as the rest of her hand, he took and held. Its shapeliness together with her beauty of face and figure were instantly swept up by his appraising glance.

"Your Excellency is very gracious!" she murmured bestowing on him a look that fairly dizzied him.

Small wonder, he thought, that she was reputed the most fascinating and loveliest secret agent in Europe—and the most dangerous to the other party involved; it would be a rare man, indeed, who could withstand such charms, to say nothing of the alluring and appealing ways that must go with them. If he only might try them—just to test his own fine power of resistance and adamantine will! He shot a quick glance of suppressed irritation at Harleston—and Madeline Spencer saw it and smiled, turning the smile toward Harleston.

"I know what you are about to do," the smile said. "Now do it if you can. You were afraid to trust me alone with this man; you knew how easy he would be for me. Proceed with your game, Mr. Harleston—and play it out."

Meanwhile the Secretary, still holding her hand, was saying:

"Let me present the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State, Mr. Carpenter;—" and Carpenter received a smile only a little less dazzling than that bestowed on his chief—"I believe you have met Mrs. Clephane," he ended, and only then did he release her hand.

"Yes, I have met Mrs. Clephane," she replied indifferently, and without so much as a glance her way.

It was to be a battle, so why delay it?

"Your Excellency," said she, "when this appointment was made, some days ago, I thought that it was merely to enable an insignificant woman to say that she had met a great dignitary and famous man. I think so no longer. It has assumed an international significance. I am here not as plain Madeline Spencer but as Madeline Spencer of the German Secret Service. It seems that a certain letter intended for the French Ambassador has gone astray, and has come into your possession; therefore I am to be asked to explain the matter, though I've never seen the letter nor know the cipher in which, I am told by Mr. Harleston, it is written. So what is it you would of me, your Excellency?"

"My dear Madame Spencer," said the Secretary, "what you say as to the original reason for this little meeting, arranged by our mutual friend, Mr. Harleston, is absolutely correct—except that it was a mere man who was desirous of being presented to a beautiful and a famous woman. It seems, however, that certain circumstances have suddenly arisen that made it imperative for the meeting to be advanced half an hour—"

"What are those circumstances, may I ask?" she cut in.

"I shall have to request Mr. Harleston to answer. To be quite candid, Madame Spencer, I can only infer them; Mr. Harleston arranged them."

She turned to Harleston with a mocking smile.

"I am listening, monsieur," she inflected. "What is it you, or rather America, would of me?"

"The letter you have in your possession," said Harleston.

"The letter!" she marvelled. "Why, Mr. Harleston, you know quite well that I never had the Clephane letter."

"Very true; we have the Clephane letter, as you style it; and we have also a translation. What we want from you is the letter that Captain Snodgrass took from his mail box at the Rataplan this afternoon, and gave to you in the taxi on the way to the Chateau."

She smiled incredulously.

"Absurd, sir!" she replied. "Surely you are not serious!"

"Let me be entirely specific," he returned "I'll put all my cards on the table and play them open."

"Double dummy, by all means!" she laughed, perching her lithe length on the arm of a chair, one slender foot swinging slowly back and forth. "Your play, monsieur."

"There is no need to go back farther than this morning," he observed. "We knew that you were to meet Captain Snodgrass and lunch with him at one o'clock at the Rataplan. Your man Marston, when he visited Mr. Carpenter this morning, managed inadvertently to furnish the key-word of the Clephane letter. Do you see whither your meeting with Snodgrass, an ex-officer of the Army, in view of the translation of the letter leads, Madeline? Marston, I might remark, was quickly apprehended; if he made a copy of the letter, he had no opportunity to use it. Well, you went to the Rataplan with Snodgrass—every movement you two made, from the time you joined Snodgrass at the Chateau until I myself put you in my cab when you returned to the hotel, was observed by numerous and competent shadows. We were convinced that you were to receive the formula—"

"What formula, Guy?"

"The formula mentioned in the Clephane letter," he explained; "which formula you received from Snodgrass during the ride back from the Rataplan to the Chateau. He received it there by post, and got it from his box as you were leaving. He even was foolish enough to open the original envelope, and to put the one enclosed, unopened in his pocket. You immediately took a taxi for the Chateau. My taxi was close behind yours; and I caught you as you were alighting and hurried you off to—"

"This pleasant appointment!" she laughed. "I suppose, Guy, you want the envelope and contents—which you assume Captain Snodgrass transferred to me in the taxi; n'est-ce pas?"

"Exactly, Madeline."

"And it's three strong men and one woman against poor me," she shrugged—"unless Mrs. Clephane is merely a disinterested spectator."

"I am always interested in what Mr. Harleston does," Edith replied sweetly.

"Particularly when he is doing another woman," was the retort.

"It depends somewhat on the woman done," said Edith.

"Why are you here?" Mrs. Spencer laughed.

"To see the end of the affair of the cab-of-the-sleeping-horse."

Mrs. Spencer shrugged and turned to Harleston.

"Do you expect to end it, Guy?" she asked. "Because if you do, and this formulaic letter, that you think I have, will end it, I am sorry indeed to disappoint you. I haven't that letter, nor do I know anything as to it."

"In that event you have the consideration which you were to pay for the letter," Harleston returned.

"My dear Guy, where would I carry this consideration?" she laughed, with a sweeping motion to her narrow lingerie gown that could not so much as conceal a pocket.

"I don't imagine that you are carrying gold or even Bank of England notes. You're not so crude. The consideration is, most likely, a note to the German Ambassador, on the presentation of which the money will be paid in good American gold. And I'm so sure of the facts that it is either the formula or the consideration. The latter we shall not appropriate; the former we shall keep."

"And if I have neither?" she asked.

"Then we get neither—though that is a consummation most unlikely."

"And how are you to determine?"

"By your gracious surrender of it!"

She laughed softly. "But if I am not able to be gracious?"

"I trust that we shall not be obliged to go so far." And when she would have answered he cut her short, courteously but with finality. "You've lost, Madeline; now be a good loser. You've won from me, and made me pay stakes and then some—and I've paid and smiled."

"Exactly! You've paid; I can't pay, because one loses before one pays, and I haven't anything to lose."

"You will prove it?" he asked.

"Certainly," said she. "Do you wish me to submit to a search?"

"I don't wish it, but you have left no alternative."

"Burr!" went the telephone.

The Secretary answered. "Here is Mr. Harleston," he said and pushed the instrument over.

"This is Ranleigh," came the voice. "We've searched the man, also the cab, and found nothing beyond some innocent personal correspondence. We've retained the correspondence and let the man go."

"That, I suppose," Mrs. Spencer remarked as Harleston hung up the receiver, "was to say that Mr. Snodgrass and the cab have been thoroughly searched and nothing suspicious found."

"Your intuition is marvellous," Harleston answered. "Major Ranleigh's report was that exactly. Consequently, Madeline, the letter must be with you."

"How about the consideration that Captain Snodgrass received from me in return for the formulaic letter?" she asked. "He doesn't seem to have had it."

"Maybe you managed both to get the letter from him and to keep the consideration. It would not be the first time I have known you to accomplish it."

"Only once—against you, Guy!" she laughed.

Which was a lie; but scored for her—and, for the moment, silenced him.

She shot a glance at the Secretary. He was beating a tattoo on the pad before him and looking calmly at her—as impersonal as though she were a door-jamb; and she understood; however much he might be inclined to aid her, this was not the time for him even to appear interested. On another occasion, a deux, he would display sufficient ardour and admiration. At present it must be the impassive face and the judicial manner. The business of the great Government he had the honour to represent was at issue!

There being no help from that high and mighty quarter, she turned to Harleston.

"Well," with a shrug of resignation, "I've lost and must pay. Here," opening the mesh-bag that she carried, "is the—"

She threw up her hand, and a nasty little automatic was covering the Secretary's heart.

He gave a shout—and sat perfectly still. Mrs. Clephane, with an exclamation of fear, laid her hand on Harleston's arm. Carpenter was impassive. Harleston suppressed a smile.

"Tell them if I can shoot straight, Guy," Mrs. Spencer said pleasantly; "and meanwhile do you all keep your exact distance and position. Speak your piece, Mr. Harleston—tell his Excellency if I can shoot."

"I am quite ready to assume it without the testimony of Mr. Harleston, or ocular demonstration in this immediate direction," the Secretary remarked with a weak grin.

"Tell him, if I can shoot, Guy," she ordered.

"I've never seen her better," Harleston admitted "though I'm not at all fearful for your Excellency. Mrs. Spencer won't shoot; she's only bluffing. If you'll say the word, I'll engage to disarm her."

"Meanwhile what happens to his Excellency?" Madeline Spencer mocked.

"Nothing whatever—except a few nervous moments."

"Try it, Mr. Secretary, and find out!" she laughed across the levelled revolver.

"Train your gun on Mr. Harleston and test him," the Secretary suggested, attempting to be facetious and failing.

Mrs. Spencer might be, probably was, bluffing but he did not propose to be the one to call it; the result was quite too uncertain. He had never looked into the muzzle of a revolver, and he found the experience distinctly unpleasant—she held the barrel so steady and pointed straight at his heart. Diplomatic secrets were wanted of course, but they were not to be purchased by the life of the Secretary of State, nor even by an uncertain chance at it.

"Mr. Harleston's life isn't sufficiently valuable to the nation," she replied, "I prefer to shoot you, if necessary—though I trust it won't be necessary. What's a mere scrap of paper, without value save as a means to detect its author, compared to the life of the greatest American diplomat? Moreover, the letter would yield you nothing as to its meaning nor its author. The meaning you already know, since you have found the key-word to the cipher; so only the author remains; and as it is typewritten you will have small, very small, prospect from it." She had read the Secretary aright—and now she asked: "Am I not correct, your Excellency?"

"I think you are," the Secretary replied, "We all are obligated and quite ready to give our lives for our country, if the sacrifice will benefit it in the very least; yet I can't see the obligation in this instance, can you Harleston?"

"None in the least, sir, provided your life were at issue," Harleston answered. "For my part, I think it isn't even seriously threatened. If Mrs. Spencer will shift her aim to me, I'll take a chance."

Mrs. Clephane gave a suppressed exclamation and an involuntary motion of protest—and Mrs. Spencer saw her.

"Mrs. Clephane seems to be concerned lest I accept!" she jeered.

Mrs. Clephane blushed ravishingly, and Harleston caught her in the act; whereupon she blushed still more, and turned away.

"Play acting!" mocked Madeline Spencer—then, shrugging the matter aside, she turned to the Secretary. "Since we two are of one mind in the affair before us, your Excellency," she observed, "I fancy I may take it as settled. Nevertheless you will pardon me if I don't depress my aim until we have attended to a little matter; it will occupy us but a moment," making a step nearer the desk and away from the others, yet still holding them in her eye.

"What is it you wish, madame?" the Secretary inquired a trifle huskily; his throat was becoming somewhat parched by the anxiety of the situation.

"I see you have on your desk a small blue candle; employed, I assume, for melting wax for your private seal," she went on. "May I trouble your Excellency to light the aforesaid candle?"

The Secretary promptly struck a match, and managed with a most unsteady hand to touch it to the wick.

As the flame flared up, she drew a narrow envelope from her bag and tossed it on the desk before him.

"Now," said she, "will you be kind enough to look at the enclosure."

The Secretary took up the envelope and drew out the sheet. It was a single sheet of the thinnest texture used for foreign correspondence. He looked first at one side, then at the other.

"What do you see, sir?" she asked.

"The sheet is blank," he replied.

"Try the envelope," she recommended.

He turned it over. "It also is blank," he said.

"Sympathetic ink!" Carpenter laughed.

"Just what we are about to see, wise one!" she mocked. "Now, your Excellency, will you place the envelope in the candle's flame?"

The Secretary took the envelope by the tip of one corner and held it in the blaze until it was burned to his fingers—no writing was disclosed.

"Now the letter, please?" she directed. And when Carpenter would have protested, she cut him short with a peremptory gesture. "Don't interrupt, sir!" she exclaimed.

And Carpenter laughed softly and did nothing more—being, with Harleston, in enjoyment of their chief's discomfiture.

"The letter—see—your Excellency," she repeated with a bewildering smile.

And as the flame crept down the thin sheet, just ahead of it, apparent to them all, crept also the writing, brought out by the heat. In a moment it was over; the last bit of the corner burning in a brass tray where the Secretary had dropped it.

"Now, Mr. Harleston," said Madeline Spencer, lowering her revolver as the final flicker of the flame expired, "I am ready to submit to a search."

Harleston glanced inquiringly at the Secretary.

"The lady is with you," the Secretary remarked with a sigh of relief.

"Very well, sir," said Harleston. "Ranleigh has a skilled woman in the waiting-room, she will officiate in the matter. We're not likely to find anything, but it's to provide against the chance."—And turning to Madeline Spencer: "Whatever the outcome, madame, you will leave Washington tonight and sail from New York on the morrow; and I should advise you to remain abroad so long as you are in the Diplomatic Service."

And she—knowing very well that the search was necessary, and aware that while there was nothing incriminating upon her yet from that moment, until the ship that carried her passed out to sea, she would be under close espionage—answered, pleasantly as though accepting a courtesy tendered, and with a winning smile:

"I had arranged to sail tomorrow, Mr. Harleston so it will be just as intended. Meanwhile, I'm at the service of your female assistant. She will find nothing, I assure you."

"Give me the pleasure of conducting you to her," Harleston replied, and swung open the door.

"If Mrs. Clephane will trust you with me," she inflected, flouting the other with a meaning look; which look flitted across the room to the Secretary and changed to one of interrogation as it met his eyes—calm eyes and steady, and with never a trace of the interest that she knew was behind them, yet dared not show—yet awhile.

And Mrs. Clephane answered her look by a shrug; and Harleston answered that to the Secretary by a soft chuckle. As the door closed behind them, he remarked:

"At a more propitious time."

To which she responded:

"Which time may never come." Then she held out her hand. "Good-bye, Guy," she smiled.

"Good-bye, Madeline," said he; "and good luck another time—with other opponents."

"And we'll call this—"

"A stale-mate! I didn't win everything, yet what I lost was of no moment—"

"Do you think so?" she asked sharply.

"To my client, the United States," he added. "So far as I am concerned, Madeline, we still are friends."

He put out his hand again; she hesitated just an instant; then, with one of her rare, frank smiles, she laid her own hand in it.

"Guy," she whispered, "she wasn't as bad as she was painted; in fact, she wasn't bad at all—and I know."

* * * * *

"Your Secretary of State is a peculiar man?" Mrs. Clephane observed, as she and Harleston came down the steps into the Avenue.

Harleston leaned over. "I'll confide to you that he is an egotistical and insufferable old ass," he whispered.

"And yet he thinks he is a perfect fascinator with the ladies!" she laughed. "Even now he is contemplating what a conquest he made of Mrs. Spencer. It was great fun to watch her playing him; and then how suddenly he pulled himself up and assumed a judicial manner—which deceived no one. Certainly it didn't deceive her, for the flying look she gave him, as she went out, was the cleverest thing she did. It told him everything he wanted to know, and simply gorged his vanity. She may be, doubtless is, a bad, bad lot; yet nevertheless I can't help liking her—and for finesse and skill she is a wonder." Then she looked at him demurely. "You're fond of her, Mr. Harleston, are you not?"

"I'm fond of her," he replied slowly; "but not as fond as I once was, and not so long ago, I'll tell you more about it before we go in to dinner this evening."

"I wasn't aware that we were to dine together In fact, I was thinking of doing something else."

"But you will dine with me now, won't you?" he asked meaningly.

Her eyes hesitated, and fell, and a bewitching flush stole into her cheek; she understood that he asked of her something more than a mere dinner. And, after a pause, she answered softly, yet not so softly but that he heard:

"If you wish it, Monsieur Harleston."

THE END