Chapter 10

"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:

_À 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."