Chapter 3

"No. The very vagueness of the talk made its impression on me at that time of night. In the daytime, I would not have even listened."

"I understand," said Harleston. "Call me up, will you, if there are any developments as to the men I've described--or the conversation. Meanwhile, Miss Williams, not a word."

"Not a word, Mr. Harleston--and thank you."

"What for?"

"For treating me as a human being. Most persons treat me like an automaton or a bit of dirt. You're different; most of the men are not so bad; it's the women, Mr. Harleston, the women! Good-night, sir. I'll call you if anything turns up."

"All of which shows," reflected Harleston, as he returned to bed, "that the telephone people are right in asking you to smile when you say 'hello.'"

It was a very interesting condition of affairs that confronted him.

The episode of the cab of the sleeping horse was leading on to--what?

Three men in the Collingwood knew of the occurrence, yet no one had come in or gone out, and no one had telephoned. Moreover, they also knew of Harleston's part in the matter. The girl had not lied, he was sure; therefore they must have gained entrance from the outside; and, possibly, were now hiding in the Chartrand apartment--if the telephone message to No. 401 had to do with the occupant of the deserted cab and the lost letter. Yet how to connect things? And why bother to connect them?

He did not care for the vanished lady of the cab--he had the letter and the photograph; and because of them he was to have a talk with an interesting young woman at five o'clock that afternoon. The cipher letter, which was the much desired quantity, was safely across the hall, waiting to be turned over to Carpenter, the expert of the State Department, for translation. Meanwhile, what concerned Harleston was the photograph of Madeline Spencer and her connection with the case--and to know if the United States was concerned in the affair.

At this point he turned over and calmly went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.

He was aroused by a vigorous pounding on the corridor door. It was seven-thirty o'clock. He yawned and responded to the summons--which grew more insistent with every pound.

It was Stuart--the envelope and the flowers in his hand.

"Scarcely heard your gentle tap," Harleston remarked. "Why don't you knock like a man?"

"Here's your damn bouquet, also your envelope," said Stuart, "You probably don't recall that you left them with me about two this morning. I _do_."

"I'm mighty much obliged, old man," Harleston responded. "You did me a great service by taking them--I'll tell you about it later."

"Hump!" grunted Stuart. "I hope you'll come around to tell me at a more seasonable hour. So long!"

Harleston closed the door, and was half-way across the living-room when there came another knock.

Tossing the envelope and the faded roses on a nearby table, he stepped back and swung open the door.

Instantly, a revolver was shoved into his face, and Crenshaw sprang into the hall and closed the door.

"I thought as much!" he exclaimed. "I'll take that envelope, my friend, and be quick about it."

"What envelope?" Harleston inquired pleasantly, never seeming to notice the menacing automatic.

"Come, no trifling!" Crenshaw snapped. "The envelope that the man from the apartment across the corridor just handed you."

Harleston laughed. "You are obsessed with the notion that I have something of yours, Mr. Crenshaw."

"_The letter!_" exclaimed Crenshaw.

"That envelope is addressed to me, sir; it's not the one you seem to want."

"I suppose the flowers are also addressed to you," Crenshaw derided, advancing. "Get back, sir,--I'll get the envelope myself."

"My dear man," Harleston expostulated, retreating slowly toward the door of the living-room, "I'll let you see the envelope; I've not the slightest objection. Put up your gun, man; I'm not dangerous."

"You're not so long as I've got the drop on you!" Crenshaw laughed sneeringly. "Get back, man, get back; to the far side of the table--the far side, do you hear--while I examine the envelope yonder beside the roses. The roses are very familiar, Mr. Harleston. I've seen them before."

Harleston, retreating hastily, backed into a chair and fell over it.

"All right, stay there, then!" said Crenshaw, and reached for the letter.

As he did so, Harleston's slippered foot shot out and drove hard into the other's stomach. With a grunt Crenshaw doubled up from pain. The next instant, Harleston caught his wrist and the struggle was on.

It was not for long, however. Crenshaw was outweighed and outstrengthed; and Harleston quickly bore him to the floor, where a sharp blow on the fingers sent the automatic flying.

"If it were not for spoiling the devil's handiwork, my fine friend, I'd smash your face," Harleston remarked.

"Smash it!" the other panted. "I'll promise--to smash yours--at the first opportunity."

"Which latter smashing won't be until some years later," Harleston retorted, as he turned Crenshaw over. Bearing on him with all his weight, he loosed his own pajama-cord and tied the man's hands behind him. Next he kicked off his pajama trousers, and with them bound Crenshaw's ankles. Then he dragged him to a chair and plunked him into it, securing him there by a strap.

"It's scarcely necessary to gag you," he remarked pleasantly. "In your case, an outcry would be embarrassing only to yourself."

"What do you intend to do with me?" Crenshaw demanded.

"Ultimately, you mean. I have not decided. It may depend on what I find."

"Find?"

Harleston nodded. "In your pockets."

"You dog!" Crenshaw burst out, straining at his bonds. "You miserable whelp! What do you think to find?"

"I'm not thinking," Harleston smiled; "it isn't necessary to speculate when one has all the stock, you know." Then his face hardened.

"One who comes into another's residence in the dead of night, revolver in hand and violence in his intention, can expect no mercy and should receive none. You're an ordinary burglar, Crenshaw and as such the law will view you if I turn you over to the police. You think I found a letter in an abandoned cab at 18th and Massachusetts Avenue early this morning, and instead of coming like a respectable man and asking if I have it and proving your property--do you hear, proving _your_ property--you play the burglar and highwayman. Evidently the letter isn't yours, and you haven't any right or claim to it. I have been injected into this matter; and having been injected I intend to ascertain what can be found from your papers. Who you are; what your object; who are concerned beside yourself; and anything else I can discover. You see, you have the advantage of me; you know who I am, and, I presume, my business; I know nothing of you, nor of your business, nor what this all means; though I might guess some things. It's to obviate guessing, as far as possible, that I am about to examine such evidence as you may have with you."

Crenshaw was so choked with his anger that for a moment he merely sputtered--then he relapsed into furious silence, his dark eyes glowing with such hate that Harleston paused and asked a bit curiously:

"Why do you take it so hard? It's all in the game--and you've lost. You're a poor sort of sport, Crenshaw. You'd be better at ping-pong or croquet. This matter of--letters, and cabs, is far beyond your calibre; it's not in your class."

"We haven't reached the end of the matter, my adroit friend," gritted Crenshaw. "My turn will come, never fear."

"A far day, monsieur, a far day!" said Harleston lightly. "Meanwhile, with your permission, we will have a look at the contents of your pockets. First, your pocketbook."

He unbuttoned the other's coat, put in his hand, and drew out the book.

"Attend, please," said he, "so you can see that I replace every article."

Crenshaw's only answer was a contemptuous shrug.

A goodly wad of yellow backs of large denominations, and some visiting cards, no two of which bore the same name, were the contents of the pocketbook.

"You must have had some difficulty in keeping track of yourself," Harleston remarked, as he made a note of the names.

Then he returned the bills and the cards to the book, and put it back in Crenshaw's pocket.

"It's unwise to carry so much money about you," he remarked; "it induces spending, as well as provokes attack."

"What's that to you?" replied Crenshaw angrily.

"Nothing whatever--it's merely a word of advice to one who seems to need it. Now for the other pockets."

The coat yielded nothing additional; the waist-coat, only a few matches and an open-faced gold watch, which Harleston inspected rather carefully both inside and out; the trousers, a couple of handkerchiefs with the initial C in the corner, some silver, and a small bunch of keys--and in the fob pocket a crumpled note, with the odour of carnations clinging to it.

Harleston glanced at Crenshaw as he opened the note--and caught a sly look in his eyes.

"Something doing, Crenshaw?" he queried.

Another shrug was Crenshaw's answer--and the sly look grew into a sly smile.

The note, apparently in a woman's handwriting, was in French, and contained five words and an initial:

_À l'aube du jour. M._

Harleston looked at it long enough to fix in his mind the penmanship and to mark the little eccentricities of style. Then he folded it and put it in Crenshaw's outside pocket.

"Thank you!" said he, with an amused smile.

"You forgot to look in the soles of my shoes?" Crenshaw jeered.

"Someone else will do that," Harleston replied.

"Someone else?" Crenshaw inflected.

"The police always search prisoners, I believe."

"My God, you don't intend to turn me over to the police?" Crenshaw exclaimed.

"Why not?" And when Crenshaw did not reply: "Wherein are you different from any other felon taken red-handed--except that you were taken twice in the same night, indeed?"

"Think of the scandal that will ensue!" Crenshaw cried.

"It won't affect me!" Harleston laughed.

"Won't affect you?" the other retorted. "Maybe it won't--and maybe it will!"

"We shall try it," Harleston remarked, and picked up the telephone.

Crenshaw watched him with a snarling sneer on his lips.

Harleston gave the private number of the police superintendent. He himself answered.

"Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I'd like to have a man report to me at the Collingwood at once.--No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!--Now if you'll excuse me for a brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I'll get into some clothes--while you think over the question whether you will explain or go to prison."

"You will not dare!" Crenshaw laughed mockingly. "Your State Department won't stand for it a moment when they hear of it--which they'll do at ten o'clock, if I'm missing."

"Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness," Harleston called from the next room. "It's admirably planned, but not effective for your release."

"Hell!" snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.

Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.

"Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?" he asked. "I did stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on my way here. I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought them here. I don't know if you know what that letter contained--I do. It's in cipher--and will be turned over to the State Department for translation. What I want to know is: first--what is the message of the letter, if you know; second--who was the woman in the cab, and the facts of the episode; third--what governments, if any, are concerned."

"You're amazingly moderate in your demands," Crenshaw sarcasmed; "so moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that I'm wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter. The name of the woman, and the episode of the cab are none of your affair; nor do the names of parties, whether personal or government, concern you in the least."

"Very well. We'll close up the cards and play the game. The first thing in the game, as I said a moment ago, Crenshaw, is not to squeal when you are in a hole and losing."

A knock came at the door. Harleston crossed and swung it open.

A young man--presumably a business man, quietly-dressed--stood at attention and saluted. If he saw the bound man in the chair, his eyes never showed it.

"Ah, Whiteside," Harleston remarked. "I'm glad it is you who was sent. Come in.... You will remain here and guard this man; you will prevent any attempt at escape or rescue, even though you are obliged to use the utmost force. I'm for down-town now; and I will communicate with you at the earliest moment. Meanwhile, the man is in your charge."

"Yes, Mr. Harleston!" Whiteside answered.

"I want some breakfast!" snapped Crenshaw.

"The officer will order from the cafe whatever you wish," Harleston replied; and picking up his stick he departed, the letter and the photograph in the sealed envelope in his inside pocket.

As he went out, he smiled pleasantly at Crenshaw.

V

ANOTHER WOMAN

Harleston walked down Sixteenth Street--the Avenue of the Presidents, if you have time either to say it or write it. The Secretary of State resided on it, and, as chance had it, he was descending the front steps as Harleston came along.

Now the Secretary was duly impressed with all the dignity of his official position, and he rarely failed to pull it on the ordinary individual--cockey would be about the proper term. In Harleston, however, he recognized an unusual personage; one to whom the Department was wont to turn when all others had failed in its diplomatic problems; who had some wealth and an absolutely secure social position; who accepted no pecuniary recompense for his service, doing it all for pure amusement, and because his government requested it.

"It's too fine a day to ride to the Department," said the Secretary. "It's much too fine, really, to go anywhere except to the Rataplan and play golf."

Harleston agreed.

"I'll take you on at four o'clock," the Secretary suggested.

"If that is not a command," said Harleston, "I should like first to consult you about a matter which arose last night, or rather early this morning. I was bound for your office now. I can, however, give you the main facts as we go along."

"Proceed!" said the Secretary. "I'm all attention."

"It may be of grave importance and it may be of very little--"

"What do you think it is?"

"I think it is of first importance, judging from known facts. If Carpenter can translate the cipher message, it will--"

"The Department has full faith in your diagnosis, Harleston. You're the surgeon; you prescribe the treatment and I'll see that it is followed. Now drive on with the story."

"It begins with a letter, a photograph, a handkerchief, three American Beauty roses--all in the cab of the sleeping horse--"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the Secretary.

"--at one o'clock on Massachusetts Avenue and Eighteenth Street."

"Is the horse still asleep, Harleston?"

"The horse awoke, and straightway went to his stand in Dupont Circle!" Harleston laughed and related the incidents of the night and early morning, finishing his account in the Secretary's private office.

"Most amazing!" the latter reflected, eyes half-closed as though seeing a mental picture of it all.

Then he picked up the photograph and studied it awhile.

"So this is the wonderful Madeline Spencer--who came so near to throwing our friend, the King of Valeria, out of his Archdukeship, and later from his throne. I remember the matter most distinctly. I was a friend of the Dalberg family of the Eastern Shore, and of Armand Dalberg himself." He paused, and looked again at the picture. "H-u-m! She is a very beautiful woman, Harleston, a very beautiful woman! I think I have never seen her equal; certainly never her superior. These dark-haired, classic featured ones for me, Harleston; the pale blonde type does not appeal. The peroxides come of that class." Again the photograph did duty. "I could almost wish that she were the lost lady of the cab of the sleeping horse--so that I might see her in the flesh. I've never seen her, you know."

Harleston smoothed back a smile. The Secretary too was getting sentimental over the lady, and he had never seen her; though he had known of her rare doings; and those doings had, it appeared, had their natural effect of enveloping her in a glamour of fascination because of what she had done.

"You've seen her?" the Secretary asked.

"I've known her since she was Madeline Cuthbert. Since then she's had a history. Possibly, taken altogether she's a pretty bad lot. And she is not only beautiful; she's fascinating, simply fascinating; it's a rare man, a very rare man, who can be with her ten minutes and not succumb to her manifold attractions of mind and body."

"You have succumbed?" the Secretary smiled.

"I have--twenty times at least. You'll join the throng, if she has occasion to need you, and gives you half a chance."

"I'm married!" said the Secretary.

"I'm quite aware of it!"

"I'm immune!"

"And yet you're wishing to see her in the flesh!" Harleston smiled.

"I think I can safely take the risk!" smoothing his chin complacently.

"Other men have thought the same, I believe, and been burned. However, if the lady is in Washington I'll engage that you meet her. Also, I'll acquaint her of your boasted immunity from her _beaux yeux_."

"The latter isn't within the scope of your duty, sir," the Secretary smiled. "Now we'll have Carpenter."

He touched a button.

A moment later Carpenter entered; a scholarly-looking man in the fifties; bald as an egg, with the quiet dignity of bearing which goes with a student, who at the same time is an expert in his particular line--and knows it. He was the Fifth Assistant Secretary, had been the Fifth Assistant and Chief of the Cipher Division for years. His superior was not to be found in any capital in Europe. His business with the secret service of the Department was to pull the strings and obtain results; and he got results, else he would not have been continued in office. His specialty, however, was ciphers; and his chief joy was in a case that had a cipher at the bottom. Ciphers were his recreation, as well as his business.

The Secretary with a gesture turned him over to Harleston--and Harleston handed him the letter.

"What do you make out of it, Mr. Carpenter?" he asked.

Carpenter took the letter and examined it for a moment, holding it to the light, and carefully feeling its texture.

"Not a great deal cursorily," he answered. "It's a French paper--the sort, I think, used at the Quay d'Orsay. Have you the envelope accompanying it?"

"Here it is!" said Harleston.

"This envelope, however, is not French; it's English," Carpenter said instantly. "See! a saltire within an orle is the private water-mark of Sergeant & Co. I likely can tell you more after careful examination in my workshop."

"How about the message itself?" Harleston asked.

"It is the Vigenèrie cipher, that's reasonably certain; and, as you are aware, Mr. Harleston, the Vigenèrie is practically impossible of solution without the key-word. It is the one cipher that needs no code-book, nor anything else that can be lost or stolen--the code-word can be carried in one's mind. We used it in the De la Porte affair, you will remember. Indeed, just because of its simplicity it is used more generally by every nation than any other cipher."

"I thought that you might be able to work it out," said Harleston. "You can do it if any one on earth can."

"I can do some things, Mr. Harleston," smiled Carpenter deprecatingly, "but I'm not omniscient. For instance: What language is the key-word--French, Italian, Spanish, English? The message is written on French paper, enclosed in an English envelope.--However, the facts you have may clear up that phase of the matter."

"Here are the facts, as I know them," said Harleston.

Carpenter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.

* * * * *

"The message is, I should confidently say, written in English or French, with the chances much in favour of the latter," he said, when Harleston had concluded. "Everyone concerned is English or American; the men who descended upon you so peculiarly and foolishly, and who showed their inexperience in every move, were Americans, I take it, as was also the woman who telephoned you. Moreover, she is fighting them."

"Then your idea is that the United States is not concerned in the matter?" the Secretary asked.

"Not directly, yet it may be very much concerned in the result. We will know more about it after Mr. Harleston has had his interview with the lady."

"That's so!" the Secretary reflected. "We shall trust you, Harleston, to find out something definite from her. Keep me advised if anything turns up. It seems peculiar, and it may be only a personal matter and not an _affaire d'état_. At all events, you've a pleasant interview before you."

"Maybe I have--and maybe I haven't!" Harleston laughed--and he and Carpenter went out, passing the French Ambassador in the anteroom.

Harleston went straight to Police Headquarters. The Chief was waiting for him.

"I had Thompson, your cab driver, here," said Ranleigh, "and he tells a somewhat unusual but apparently straight tale; moreover, he is a very respectable negro, well known to the guards and the officers on duty around Dupont Circle, and they regard him as entirely trustworthy. He says that last evening about nine o'clock, when he was jogging down Connecticut Avenue on his way home--he owns his rig--he was hailed by a fare in evening dress, top coat, and hat, who directed him to drive west on Massachusetts Avenue. In the neighbourhood of Twenty-second Street, the fare signalled to stop and ordered him to come to the door. There he asked him to hire the horse and cab until this morning, when they would be returned to him at that point. Thompson naturally demurred; whereupon the man offered to deposit with him in cash the value of the horse and cab, to be refunded upon their return in the morning less fifty dollars for their hire. This was too good to let slip and Thompson acquiesced, fixing the value at three hundred and fifty dollars, which sum the man skinned off a roll of yellow-backs. Then the fare buttoned his coat around him, jumped on the box, and drove east on Massachusetts Avenue. This morning the horse and cab were backed up to the curb at their customary stand in Dupont Circle, where they were found by officer Murphy shortly after daybreak; before he could report the absence of the driver, Thompson came up and explained."

"Can Thompson describe the man?" Harleston asked.

"Merely that he was clean-shaved, medium-sized, somewhat stout, wore evening clothes, and was, apparently, a gentleman. Thompson thinks however, that he could readily recognize the man, so we should let him have a look at the fellow that's under guard in your apartment."

"It isn't he," Harleston explained. "He's slender, with a mustache and imperial. It was Marston, likely. Did any of your officers see cab No. 333 between nine P.M. and this morning?"

"The reports are clean of No. 333, but we are investigating now. It's not likely, however. Meanwhile, if there is anything else I can do, Mr. Harleston--"

"You can listen to the balance of the episode--beginning at half-past one this morning, when I found the cab deserted at Eighteenth Street and Massachusetts Avenue, with the horse lying in the roadway, asleep in the shafts...."

"What do you wish the police to do, Mr. Harleston?" the Superintendent asked at the end.

"Nothing, until I've seen the Lady of Peacock Alley. Then I'll likely know something definite--whether to keep hands off or to get busy."

"Shan't we even try to locate the two men, in preparation for your getting busy?"