Chapter 6

"Proceed!" Harleston whispered. "I haven't the letter with me, as you should know. Do I look so much like a novice? Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, I told you that I was going direct to the State Department to deliver the letter for translation so how could I have it now?"

"We're not debating, we're searching," Crenshaw sneered; "though it may occur to you that a copy is as easy of translation as the original. However, we will proceed with the inspection--the proof of the caviare is in the roe of the sturgeon."

"Then I pray you open the fish at once," said Harleston. "I can't assist you in my present attitude, so get along, Mr. Crenshaw, if you please. You interrupted my dinner--I was just at the soup; and you may believe me when I say that I'm a bit hungry."

"With your permission," Crenshaw replied, proceeding to go through Harleston's pockets, and finding nothing but the usual--which he replaced.

He came last to the breast-pocket of the coat; in it were the wallet and one letter--the letter that had brought Harleston here.

"It caught you!" Crenshaw smiled. "There's no bait like a pretty woman!"

Harleston raised his eyebrows and shrugged his answer.

"And a rather neat trap, wasn't it--we're very much pleased with it."

"You'll not be pleased with what it produces," Harleston smiled.

"It has produced you," the other mocked; "that's quite some production, don't you think? And now, as this letter has served its purpose, I'll take the liberty of destroying it," tearing it into bits and putting the bits in his pockets, "lest one of us be liable for forgery. Now for the pocket-book; you found something in mine, you may remember, Mr. Harleston."

Harleston gave a faint chuckle. They would find nothing in his pocket-book but some visiting and membership cards, a couple of addresses and a few yellow-backs and silver certificates.

"The letter doesn't seem to be there--which I much regret, but these visiting cards may be useful in our business; with your permission I'll take them. Thank you, Mr. Harleston."

He folded the book and returned it to Harleston's pocket.

"I might have looked in your shoes, or done something disagreeable--I believe I even promised to smash your face when I got the opportunity--but I'm better disposed now. I shall return good for evil; instead of tying you up as you did me, I'll release you from your bonds if you give me your word to remain quiet in this room until tomorrow morning at eight, and not to disclose to anyone, before that hour, what has occurred here."

"After that?" said Harleston.

"You shall be at liberty to depart and to tell."

"And if I do not give my word?"

"Then," said Crenshaw pleasantly, "we shall be obliged to bind you and gag you and leave you to be discovered by the maid--which, we shall carefully provide, will not be before eight tomorrow morning."

"You leave small choice," Harleston observed.

"Just the choice between comfort and discomfort!" Crenshaw laughed. "Which shall it be, sir?"

Harleston had been shifting slowly from one foot to the other, feeling behind him for the man with the garrote. He had him located now and the precise position where he was standing--one of his own legs was touching Sparrow's.

At the instant Crenshaw had finished his question, Harleston suddenly kicked backwards, landing with all the force of his sharp heel full on Sparrow's shin.

Instantly the garrote loosened; and Harleston, with a wild yell, sprang forward and swung straight at the point of Crenshaw's jaw.

Crenshaw dodged it--and the two men grappled and went down, fighting furiously; Harleston letting out shouts all the while, and even managing to overturn a table, which fell with a terrific smash of broken glass and bric-à-brac, to attract attention and lead to an investigation.

He had not much trouble in mastering Crenshaw; but Sparrow, when he was done spinning around on one foot from the agonizing pain of the kick on the shin, would be another matter; the two men and the woman could overpower him, unless assistance came quickly. And to that end he raised all the uproar possible for the few seconds that Sparrow spun and the woman stared.

Just as Sparrow hobbled to Crenshaw's aid, Harleston landed a short arm blow on the latter's ear and sprang up, avoided the former's rush and made for the hall-way.

At the same moment came a loud pounding on the corridor door. The noise had been effective.

In a bound, Harleston reached the door; it should, as he knew, open from within by a turn of the knob. But it was double-locked on the inside and the key was missing.

He whirled--just in time to see the last of the mixed trio disappear into the drawing-room, and the door snap shut behind them.

He sped across and flung himself against it--it was locked.

Meanwhile the pounding on the corridor door went on.

"Try another door!" Harleston shouted.

But by reason of the heavy door and the din, some time elapsed before he could attract the attention of those in the corridor and make himself understood. Then more time was consumed in getting the floor-maid with the pass-key to the room adjoining the drawing-room of the suite.

By that time, the manager of the hotel had come up and put himself at the head of the relief; and he was not in the best of temper when he entered and saw the debris of the bric-à-brac and the table.

"What is the meaning of--" he demanded--then he recognized Harleston and stopped--"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harleston! I didn't know that you were here, sir; this apartment was occupied by--"

"Two men and a woman," Harleston supplied. "Well, it's been vacated by them in deference to me."

"I don't understand!" said the manager.

"If you will have the baggage, which, I imagine, is in the bedrooms, examined, and give me your private ear for a moment, I'll endeavour to explain as much as I know."

"Certainly, Mr. Harleston," the man replied; and, directing the others to examine the baggage, he closed the door of the drawing-room.

"First tell me who occupied this suite, when it was taken, and when they came," said Harleston.

"One moment," said the manager, and picking up the telephone he called the office. "It was, the office says, occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Davidson of New York City, who took it this afternoon about five o'clock. They had made no reservation for it."

"Now as to their baggage."

The manager bowed and went out--to return almost instantly, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Two new and cheap suit cases, each containing a couple of bricks and some waste paper," he reported.

"Yes," nodded Harleston, "I thought as much. Mr. Banks, you will confer a favour on me, and possibly on the government, if you will be good enough to let this affair pass unnoticed, at least for the time. I'll pay for the broken table and its contents, and a proper charge for the rooms for the few hours they've been occupied. I overturned the table. As for the rest--how I came to be here, and what became of the occupants, and why the furniture was smashed, and why I have a slight contusion in my cheek, and anything else occurring to the management as requiring explanation, just forget it, please."

"Certainly, sir."

"Very good!" said Harleston. "Now wait one moment."

He went to the telephone and asked for Mrs. Clephane's apartment.

Her maid answered--with the information that Mrs. Clephane had been out since five o'clock and had not yet returned.

Harleston thanked her, hung up the receiver, and turned to Banks.

"I have reason to believe that Mrs. Clephane, who is a guest of the hotel, has disappeared. I was talking to her in the red-room at about 6:30, when I was called to the telephone. On my return, after a brief absence, she was gone, and a frequent and thorough search on the first floor did not disclose her. She was to have dined with me at seven-thirty. She did not keep the engagement. I dined alone, and had just begun the meal when a letter was handed to me asking that I dine with her in her apartment, No. 972. I came here at once--and was held up by two men and a woman, who sought to obtain something that they imagined was in my possession. It wasn't, however, and we fought; and I raised sufficient disturbance to bring you. You see, I have told you something of the affair. The note was a forgery. This isn't Mrs. Clephane's apartment, and her maid has just told me that her mistress has not been in her apartment since five o'clock--which was the time she met me. I am persuaded that she is a prisoner, and likely in this hotel--held so to prevent her disclosing a certain matter to a certain high official. What I want is for you to make every effort to determine whether she is in this house."

"We'll do it, Mr. Harleston," the manager acquiesced instantly. "Come down to the office and we'll go over the guest diagram, while I have every unoccupied room looked into. In fact, sir, we'll do anything short of burglaring our guests."

"I'll be right down," Harleston said; "after I've bathed my face and straightened up a bit."

The contusion on his cheek was not particularly noticeable; it might be worse in the morning; his collar was a trifle crushed and his hair was awry; on the whole, he had come out of the fight very well.

He took up his stick and gloves, put on his hat so as to shade, as far as possible, the cheek-bone, and went down to the private office.

There was, of course, the chance that Mrs. Clephane had lured him into the trap, and had herself written the decoy note; but he did not believe her guilty. Even though Crenshaw had adroitly implicated her, he was not influenced. Indeed, he was convinced of just the reverse:--that she was honest and sincere and inexperienced, and that she had told him the true story of the letter and its loss. At least he was acting on that theory, and was prepared to see it through. Maybe he was a fool to believe those brown eyes and that soft voice and those charming ways; if so, he preferred to be a fool for a little while, to, if not, being a fool to her forever. He had, in his time, encountered many women with beautiful faces and compelling eyes and alluring voices and charming ways, but with none had they been so blended as in Mrs. Clephane.

He did not know a thing as to her history--he did not even know whether she was married, a widow, or a divorcée. Whatever she was, he was willing to accept her as genuine--until she was proven otherwise.

All of which would indicate that she had made something of an impression on Harleston--who was neither by nature nor by experience impressible and, in the diplomatic game, had about as much sentiment as a granite crag. In fact, with Harleston every woman who appeared in the diplomatic game lay under instant and heavy suspicion.

Mrs. Clephane was the first exception.

X

SKIRMISHING

On the slender chance of finding Mrs. Clephane, Harleston made another tour of the rooms and corridor on the first floor.

It was without avail--save that he noticed Madeline Spencer and her escort were still at dinner. They did not see him--and he was very well content. Later he would want a word with them--particularly with her; and he preferred to meet her alone. She was a very beautiful woman, and very alluring, and the time was, and not so long ago, when he would have gone far out of his way to meet her; but another face--and business--occupied him at present. Moreover, the business had to do with Mrs. Spencer, and that shortly. Therefore he was content to be patient. Mrs. Clephane first.

So he went on to the private office and the manager.

"I've just taken another look over this floor," he said; "Mrs. Clephane is not to be seen."

"We paged her, also," returned Banks; "and we've had every vacant room in the house examined without result. Here's the diagram; let us go over it, perhaps we can get a lead from it. About half of the guests are personally known to the hotel; they are either permanent guests or have been coming here for a long time. However, pick out any that you suspect and we'll try to find a way to get into their rooms. We are always at the service of the government, particularly the State Department."

Harleston ran his eyes over the diagram, searching for Madeline Spencer. It was barely possible that she was registered under one of her own names. He found it at last--or thought he had: No. 717:--Madame Cuthbert and maid.

"What do you know of her?" he asked, indicating No. 717.

"Nothing whatever, except that she seems to have plenty of money, and looks the lady."

"When did she come?"

"Three days ago."

"What is No. 717?"

"Two bedrooms, a parlour, and a bath."

"I should like to know if she has had callers, and who they are; also, if the house detective knows anything of her movements?"

"One moment, sir," said Banks--

"And you might inquire also," Harleston added, "as to the bald-headed man who is her companion this evening?"

"Very good, sir," said Banks, and went out.

"I tell you there are quite too many women in this affair," Harleston muttered--and went back to inspecting the chart.

And the more he inspected, the more hopeless grew his task. If Mrs. Clephane had been lured to one of the rooms, it would be next to impossible to find her. There were a hundred well-dressed and quiet-mannered guests who seemed beyond suspicion; and yet it was in the room of one of these unobtrusive guests, who had never so much as looked at Mrs. Spencer, that Mrs. Clephane was held prisoner. There was small hope--none, indeed--that a search of Madeline Spencer's apartment would yield even a clue. She was not such a bungler; though that she was the directing spirit in the entire affair he had not the least doubt. Her photograph fixed the matter on her; and while he was quite sure she was not aware of the photograph, yet she was aware of the letter, had made a desperate effort to prevent its delivery, and now was making a final effort to prevent Mrs. Clephane from advising the French Ambassador of its loss.

As to him, Mrs. Spencer was not concerned. His possession of the letter, under such circumstances, effectually closed his mouth; if he happened to know for whom the letter was intended, his mouth was closed all the tighter. It was a rule of the diplomatic game never to reveal, even to an ally, what you know; tomorrow the ally may be the enemy. Harleston might yield the letter to superior force or to trickery, but he would never babble of it.

The door opened to admit Banks.

"The detective has nothing whatever as to Madame Cuthbert," he explained. "He says she is apparently a lady, and nothing has occurred to bring her under his notice. For the same reason, no list of her callers has been made--though the desk thinks that they have been comparatively few. The man with whom she dined this evening is a Mr. Rufus Martin. He has been with her several times. He is a guest of the hotel--room No. 410."

"Can you have her apartment and Martin's looked over without exciting suspicion?"

"I think we can manage it," Banks responded. "Indeed, I think we can manage to have all the rooms inspected; I have already told the detective what we suspect, and he has put on an employee's uniform and with a basket of electric bulbs is now testing the lights in every occupied room. The moment he finds Mrs. Clephane, or anything that points to her, he will advise us."

"Good!" said Harleston. "Meanwhile, I'll have another look in Peacock Alley."

He was aware that he was acting on a pure hunch. He realized that his theory of Mrs. Clephane's imprisonment in the house was most inconsistent with the facts. Why did they release her last night, if they were fearful of her communicating to the French Ambassador the loss of the letter? And why should they take her again this evening? It was all unreasonable; yet reason does not prevail against a hunch--even to a reasoning man, who is also a diplomat.

He sauntered along the gay corridor bowing to those he knew. As he faced about to return, he saw Madeline Spencer, alone, bearing down upon him.

The moment their eyes met, she signalled a glad smile and advanced with hands extended.

"Why, Guy!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise this is!"

"And what a charming pleasure to me, Madeline," he added, taking both her hands and holding them. "I thought you were in Paris; indeed, I thought you would never leave the City of Boulevards."

"So did I, yet here I am; yet not for long, I trust, Guy, not for long."

"America's misfortune," he whispered.

"Or fortune!" she laughed. "It's merely a matter of viewpoint. To those who have knowledge of the comparatively recent past, Madeline Spencer may be a _persona non_. However--" with a shrug of her shapely shoulders and an indifferent lift of her fine hands. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Harleston; that is, if you're not afraid for your reputation. I assume that here you have a reputation to protect."

"I'm quite sure that my reputation, whatever it be, won't suffer by what you intimate!" he smiled, and handed her into a chair.

"You were much surprised to see me, _n'est-ce pas_?" she asked low, leaning close.

"Much more than much," he replied confidentially.

"Honest?" she asked, still low and close.

"Much more than honest," he answered. "It's been a long time since we met."

"Three months!"

"Three months is much more than long--sometimes."

She gave him an amused smile.

"I was thinking of you only last night," he volunteered.

"What suggested me?" she asked quickly.

"I suppose it must have been your proximity," he replied easily and instantly.

"Wireless," she laughed, "or community of interests?"

"I don't know--the impression was vivid enough, while it lasted, for you to have been in the room."

"Maybe I was--in spirit."

"I'm sure of it," he replied. "How long have you been in Washington, Madeline?"

"You should have felt my proximity as soon as I arrived," she responded.

"I felt it nearing when you left Paris--and growing closer as time went on. You see, I have a remarkable intuition as--to you."

"Charming!" she trilled. "Why not get a _penchant_ for me, as well?"

"Maybe I have--and don't venture to declare myself."

"You!" she mocked

"Meaning that I can't get a _penchant_, or that I am not afraid to declare?"

"Both!" she laughed. "Now quit talking nonsense and tell me about yourself. What have you been doing, and what are you doing?"

"At the very profitable and busy occupation of killing time," he replied.

"Of course, but what else?"

"Nothing!"

"What, for instance, were you doing last night?"

"Last night? I dined at the Club, played auction and went home at a seemly hour."

"Home? Where is that?"

"The Collingwood."

"And what adventure befell you on the way--if any?"

"Adventure? I haven't had an adventure since I left the Continent."

"Sure?"

"Perfectly. I wish I had--to vary the monotony."

She traced a diagram on the rug with the tip of her slipper.

"It depends on what you regard as an adventure," she smiled. "I should think the episode of the cab, with what followed at your apartment, was very much in that line?"

"Oh, to be sure!" exclaimed Harleston, with an air of complete surprise. "However did--Great Heavens, Madeline, were _you_ the woman of the roses and the cab?"

"You know that I wasn't!" she replied.

"Then how do you know of the cab of the sleeping horse, and what followed?" he inquired blandly.

"I dreamed it."

"Wonderful! Simply wonderful!"

She nodded tolerantly. "Why keep up the fiction?" she asked. "You know that I am concerned in your adventure--just as I know of your adventure. I was on the street, or in the house, or was told of it, whichever you please; it's all one, since you know. Moreover you have seen me with one of your early morning callers, as I meant you to do." She leaned forward and looked at him with half-closed eyes. "Will you believe me, Guy, when I say that the United States is not concerned in the matter--and that it should keep its hands off. You stumbled by accident on the deserted cab. A subordinate blundered, or you would not have found it ready for your investigation--and you've been unduly and unnecessarily inquisitive. We have tried to be forbearing and considerate in our efforts to regain it, but--"

"Regain, my dear Madeline, implies, or at least it conveys an idea of, previous possession. Did Germany--I beg your pardon; did your client in this matter have such--"

"I used regain advisedly," she broke in.

"Because of your possession of the lady, or because of your independent possession of the letter?"

"You're pleased to be technical," she shrugged.

"Not at all!" he replied. "I'm simply after the facts: whether the letter belongs to you, or to the mysterious lady of the cab?"

"Who isn't in the least mysterious to you."

"No!"

"Really, you're delicious, Mr. Harleston; though I confess that _you_ have _me_ mystified as to your game in pretending what you and I know is pretence."

"You're pleased to be enigmatic!" Harleston laughed.

"Oh, no I'm not," she smiled, flashing her rings and watching the flashes--and him. "You saw me, and you know that I saw you; and I saw you and know that you saw me. Now, as I've said it in words of one syllable, I trust you will understand."

"I understand," said he; "but you have side-stepped the point:--To whom does this lost letter belong: to you or to--"

"Mrs. Clephane?" she adjected.

"Exactly: to you, or to Mrs. Clephane?"

"What does that matter to you--since it does not belong to _you_?"

"I may be a friend of Mrs. Clephane? Or I may regard myself as a trustee for the safe delivery of the letter."

"A volunteer?"

"If you so have it!" he smiled.

She beat a tattoo with her slender, nervous fingers, looking at him in mild surprise, and some disapproval.

"Since when does sentiment enter the game?" she asked.

"Sentiment?" he inflected. "I wasn't aware of its entry."

She shrugged mockingly. "Beware, old friend and enemy! You're losing your cleverness. Mrs. Clephane is very charming and alluring, but remember, Guy, that a charming woman has no place in the diplomatic game--save to delude the enemy. She seems to be winning with you--who, I thought, was above all our wiles and blandishments. Oh, do not smile, sir--I recognize the symptoms; I've played the innocent and the beauty in distress once or twice myself. It's all in our game--but I'm shockingly amazed to see it catch so experienced a bird as Guy Harleston."

"I'm greatly obliged, Madeline, for your shocking amazement," Harleston chuckled. "Meanwhile, and returning to the letter; who has the better title to possession, Mrs. Clephane or yourself?"

"As I remarked before, either of us has a better title to the letter than yourself. Also--I have heard you say it many times, and it is an accepted rule in the diplomatic game--never meddle in what does not concern you; never help to pull another's chestnuts out of the fire."

"My dear lady, you are perfectly right! I subscribe unreservedly to the rule, and try to follow it; but you have overlooked another rule--the most vital of the code."

"What is it, pray!"

"The old rule:--Never believe your adversary. Never tell the truth--except when the truth will deceive more effectively than a lie."

"That is entirely regular, yet not applicable to the present matter. I'm _not_ your adversary."

"You say you're not--yet how does that avoid the rule?"

"Won't you take my word, Guy?" she murmured.

"I am at a loss whether to take it or not," he reflected; "being so, I'm in a state of equipoise until I'm shown."

"Tell me how I can show you?" she smiled.

"I haven't the remotest idea. You know as well as I that if you were to tell me truthfully why you are here, and what you aim to accomplish, I couldn't accept your story; I should have to substantiate it by other means."

"You mean that I can't show you?" she said sorrowfully.

He nodded. "No more than I could show you were our positions reversed."