Chapter 13

"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: _à 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."

"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 _à 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--_à l'aube du jour_, I think it is ... yes, _à 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 _à 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. _À 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."