Chapter 7

What her purpose, in all this talk, he failed to see--unless she were seeking to establish an _entente cordiale_, or to gain time. The latter was the likelier--yet time for what? They both were aware that all this discussion was twaddle--like much that is done in diplomacy; that they were merely skirmishing to determine something as to each other's position.

"I had hoped that for once you would forget business and trust me," she said softly; "in memory of old times when we worked together, as well as when we were against each other. We played the game then for all that was in it, and neither of us asked nor gave quarter. But this isn't business Guy,--" she had gradually bent closer until her hair brushed his cheek--"that is, it isn't business that concerns your government. You may believe this implicitly, old enemy, absolutely implicitly."

"With whom, then, has it to do?" he inquired placidly.

She sighed just a trifle--and moved closer.

"You will never tell, nor use the information?" she breathed.

"Not unless my government needs it?"

"_Peste!_" she exclaimed. "You and your government are--However, I'll tell you." Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. "It has to do with England, Germany, and France: at least, I so assume. It has to do with Germany or I wouldn't be in it, as you know."

"And what is the business?" he continued.

"I'm not informed--further than that it's a secret agreement between England and Germany, which France suspects and would give much to block or to be advised of. As to what the agreement embodies, I am in the dark--though I fancy it has to do with some phase of the Balkan question."

"Why would England and Germany conclude an agreement as to the Balkan question--or any question, indeed--in Washington?" Harleston asked.

"I do not know; I'm quite ready to admit its seeming improbability. Possibly Germany desired the experience of her new Ambassador, Baron Kurtz, and didn't care to order him to Europe. Possibly, too, they chose Washington in order to avoid the spying eyes of the secret service of the other Powers. At all events, I've told you all that I know."

"Why are _you_ here?" he went on.

"I'm here to watch--and to do as I'm directed. I'm on staff duty, so to speak. I'm not quite in your class, Guy. I've never operated quite alone." She looked at him thoughtfully. "We two together would make a great pair--oh, a very great pair!"

"I'm sure of it," he replied. "Sometime, I hope, we can try it."

"Why not try it now?" she said gently.

"I'm in the American secret service--and, you said, America is not involved."

"Join with Germany--and me--for this once."

He shook his head. "I serve my country for my pleasure. Germany is another matter. If, sometime, in an affair entirely personal to you, Madeline, I should be able to assist you, I shall be only too glad for the chance."

"You don't trust me," she replied sadly.

"Trust is a word unknown in the diplomatic vocabulary!" he smiled. "Moreover, I couldn't do what you want even if I believed and trusted your every word. You want the letter--the Clephane letter. I haven't it--as you know. It's in the possession of the State Department."

"Then let it remain there!" she exclaimed.

"It probably will until it's translated," he replied.

"It's in cipher?"

Harleston nodded. "Do you know what it contains?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, I don't."

"You would like to know?"

"Above everything!"

"And until then you would not have the French Ambassador advised of the letter, nor of the adventure of the cab?"

"Precisely, old friend, precisely."

"How will you prevent Mrs. Clephane telling it?"

"We must try to provide for that!" she smiled.

"Why didn't you keep her prisoner, when you had her last night?"

"That was a serious blunder; it won't happen again."

"H-u-m," reflected Harleston; and his glance sought Mrs. Spencer's and held it. "Where is Mrs. Clephane now?" he demanded.

For just an instant her eyes narrowed and grew very dark. Then suddenly she laughed--lightly, with just a suggestion of mockery in the tones.

"Mrs. Clephane--is yonder!" said she.

Harleston turned quickly. Mrs. Clephane was coming down the corridor.

XI

HALF A LIE

"Somewhat unexpected, isn't it?" Harleston asked.

"To whom--you, her, or myself?" Mrs. Spencer inquired.

"To you."

"Not at _all_. I'm never surprised at anything!" Then just a trace of derision came into her face. "Won't you present me, Mr. Harleston?"

"Certainly, I will," he responded gravely, and arose.

"Another unexpected!" she mocked. "But she _is_ good to look at, Guy, I must grant you that. Also--" and she laughed lightly.

"One moment," said he tranquilly, and turned toward Mrs. Clephane--who had caught sight of him and was undecided what to do.

Now, smiling adorably, she came to meet him.

"The two beauties of the season!" he thought; and as he bowed over her hand he whispered: "Not a word of explanation _now_; and play ignorance of _everything_.--Understand?"

"I don't understand--but I'll do as you direct," she murmured.

"I want to present you to Mrs. Spencer--the woman whom, you will recall, I asked you in the red-room if you recognized. Be careful, she is of the enemy--and particularly dangerous."

"Everyone seems to be dangerous except myself," she replied. "I'm an imbecile, or a child in arms."

"_I'm_ not dangerous to you," he answered.

"That, sir, remains to be proven."

"And I like your idea of the child in arms--provided it's my arms," he whispered.

Her reply was a reproving glance from her brown eyes and a shake of the head.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Clephane," Mrs. Spencer greeted, before Harleston could say a word. She made place on the divan and drew Mrs. Clephane down beside her. "You're Robert Clephane's widow, are you not?"

"Robert Clephane was, I believe, a distant cousin," Mrs. Clephane responded. "De Forrest Clephane was my husband. Did you know him, Mrs. Spencer?"

"I did not. _Robert_--" with the faintest stress on the name--"was the only Clephane I knew. A nice chap, Mrs. Clephane; though, since you're not his widow, I must admit that he was a bit gay--a very considerable bit indeed."

"We heard tales of it," Mrs. Clephane replied imperturbably. "It is an ungracious thing, Mrs. Spencer, to scandalize the dead, but do you know anything of his gayness from your own experience?"

Harleston suppressed a chuckle. Mrs. Clephane would take care of herself, he imagined.

Mrs. Spencer's foot paused in its swinging, and for an instant her eyes narrowed; then she smiled engagingly, the smile growing quickly into a laugh.

"Not of my own experience, Mrs. Clephane," she replied confidentially, "but I have it from those who do know, that he set a merry pace and travelled the limit with his fair companions. It was sad, too--he was a most charming fellow. Rumour also had it that he was none too happy in his marriage, and that _his_ Mrs. Clephane was something of the same sort. I've seen _her_ several times; she was of the type to make men's hearts flutter."

"It's no particular trick to make men's hearts flutter," said Mrs. Clephane sweetly.

"How about it, Mr. Harleston?" Mrs. Spencer asked.

"No trick whatever," he agreed, "provided she choose the proper method for the particular man; and some men are easier than others."

"For instance?" Mrs. Spencer inflected.

"No instance. I give it to you as a general proposition and without charge; which is something unusual in these days of tips and gratuities and subsidized graft and things equally predatory."

Mrs. Spencer arose. "The mere mention of graft puts me to instant flight," she remarked.

"And naturally even the suggestion of a crime is equally repugnant to you," Mrs. Clephane observed.

"'As a general proposition,'" Mrs. Spencer quoted.

"And general propositions are best proved by exceptions, _n'est-ce pas_?" was the quick yet drawling answer.

The two women's eyes met.

"I trust, Mrs. Clephane, we shall meet again and soon," Mrs. Spencer replied, extending her hand.

"Thank you so much," was Mrs. Clephane's answer.

Mrs. Spencer turned to Harleston with a perfectly entrancing smile.

"Good-night, Guy," she murmured.--"No, sir, not a foot; I'm going up to my apartment."

"Then we will convoy you to the elevator. Come, Mr. Harleston."

"It is only a step," Mrs. Spencer protested.

"Nevertheless," said Mrs. Clephane, "we shall not permit you to brave alone this Peacock Alley and its heedless crowd."

And putting her arm intimately through Mrs. Spencer's she went on: with Harleston trailing in the rear and chuckling with suppressed glee. It was not often that Madeline Spencer met her match!

When the car shot upward with Mrs. Spencer, Harleston gave a quiet laugh of satisfaction.

"Now shall we go in to dinner?" he asked.

Mrs. Clephane nodded.

"The table in the corner yonder, Philippe," Harleston said.

"Who is Mrs. Spencer?" she inquired, as soon as they were seated.

"You've never heard of her?"

"No--nor seen her before tonight. One is not likely to forget her; she's as lovely as--"

"Original sin?" Harleston supplied.

Mrs. Clephane smiled.

"Not at all," said she. "Diana is the one I was about to suggest."

"She may look the Diana," he replied, "but she's very far from a Diana, believe me, very far indeed."

"I am quite ready to believe it, Mr. Harleston." She lowered her voice. "I have much to tell you--and," with a quick look at him, "also something to explain."

"Your explanation is not in the least necessary if it has to do with anything Mrs. Spencer said."

"Under the circumstances I think I should be frank with you. Mrs. Spencer said just enough to make you suspect me; then she dropped it--and half a lie is always more insidious than the full truth."

"My dear Mrs. Clephane," he protested, "I assure you it is not necessary--"

"Not necessary, if one is in the diplomatic profession," she cut in. "Murder and assassination both of men and of reputation, seem to be a portion of this horrible business, and perfectly well recognized as a legitimate means to effect the end desired. I'm not in it--diplomacy, I mean,--and I'm mighty thankful I'm not. Mrs. Spencer cold as ice, crafty as the devil, beautiful as sin, and hard as adamant, knowing her Paris and London and its scandals--I suppose she must know them in her profession--instantly recognized me and placed me as Robert Clephane's wife. For I am his wife--or rather his widow. I lied to her because I didn't intend that she should have the gratification of seeing her play win. She sought to distress and disconcert me, and to raise in your mind a doubt of my motives and my story. It may be legitimate in diplomacy, but it's dastardly and inhuman. 'Rumour also had it that he was none too happy in his marriage, and that his Mrs. Clephane was something of the same sort--she was of the type to make men's hearts flutter.' You see, I recall her exact words. And what was I to do--"

"Just what you did do. You handled the matter beautifully."

"Thank you!" she smiled. "Yet she would win in the end--with almost any other man than you. She plays for time; a very little time, possibly. I don't know. I'm new in this business--and can't see far before me. Indeed, I can't see at all; it's a maze of horrors. If I get out of this mess alive, I'll promise never to get mixed in another."

"Why not quit right now, Mrs. Clephane?" Harleston suggested.

"I won't quit under fire--and with my mission unaccomplished. Moreover, this Spencer gang have ruffled my temper--they have aroused my fighting blood. I never realized I had fighting blood in me until tonight. Mrs. Spencer's ugly insinuation, topping their attempted abduction of the evening, has done it. I'm angry all through. Don't I look angry, Mr. Harleston?"

"You're quite justified in looking so, dear lady; as well as in being so," Harleston replied. "Only you don't look it now."

"You're a sad flatterer, sir!" she smiled. "Believe me, had you seen me in the room to which they decoyed me with a false message from you, you would believe that I can look it--very well look it."

"So that was the way of it!" Harleston exclaimed "Tell me about it, Mrs. Clephane. I was sure that you were a prisoner somewhere in this hotel; to find you every room was being inspected."

"Why did you think I was a prisoner in the midst of all this gaiety?" she asked.

"Because I was lured by a message purporting to be from you to the ninth floor and garroted. I escaped. However, that is another story; yours first, my lady."

"You too!" she marvelled.

He nodded. "And now we are sitting together at dinner, looking at the crowd, and you're about to tell me your story."

"Thanks to you for having escaped and rescued me!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed.

"The management devised the way."

"But _you_ prompted it--you are the one I have to thank."

"If you insist, far be it from me to decline! It's well worth anything I can do to--have you look at me as you're looking now."

"I hope I'm looking half that I feel," she replied instantly.

"A modest man would be more than repaid by half the look," he returned.

"Are you a modest man?" she smiled.

"I trust so. At least, I am with some people."

"You're giving every instance of it with me, though it may be a part of the game; even the rescue may be a part of the game. You may be playing me against Mrs. Spencer, and taking advantage of my inexperience to accomplish your purposes--"

"You don't think so!" he said, with a shake of his head.

"No, I don't. And maybe that only proves my inexperience and unfitness."

For a moment he did not reply. Was _she_ playing _him_? Was it a ruse of a clever woman; or was it the evidence of sincerity and innocence? It had the ring of candour and the appearance of truth. No one could look into those alluring eyes and that fascinatingly beautiful face and harbour a doubt of her absolute guilelessness. Yet was it guilelessness? He had never met guilelessness in the diplomatic game, save as a mask for treachery and deceit. And yet this seemed the real thing. He wanted to believe it. In fact, he did believe it; it was simply the habit of his experience warning him to beware--and because it was a woman it warned him all the more.... Yet he cast experience aside--and also the fact that she was a woman--and accepted her story as truth. Maybe he would regret it; maybe she was playing him; maybe she was laughing behind her mask; maybe he was all kinds of a fool--nevertheless, he would trust her. It was--

"I'm glad you have decided that I'm not a diplomat--and that you will trust me," she broke in. "I'm just an ordinary woman, Mr. Harleston, just a very ordinary woman."

He held out his hand. She took it instantly.

"A very extraordinary woman, you mean, dear lady," he said gravely. "In some ways the most extraordinary that I have ever known."

"It's not in the line of diplomacy, I hope," she shrugged.

"Not the feminine line, I assure you; Madeline Spencer is typical of it, and the top of her class--which means she is wonderfully clever, inscrutable as fate, and without scruple or conscience. No, thank God, you do not belong in the class of feminine diplomats!"

"Thank you, Mr. Harleston!" she said gently, permitting him, for an instant, to look deep into her brown eyes. "Now, since you trust me, I want to refer briefly to Mrs. Spencer's insinuation."

"Robert Clephane was all that she said--and more. Middle-aged when he married me, before a year was passed I had found that I was only another experience for him; and that after a short time he had resumed his ways of--gaiety. Not caring to be pitied, nor to be so soon a deserted wife, nor yet to admit my loss of attraction for him, I dashed into the gay life of Paris with reckless fervour. I know I was indiscreet. I know I fractured conventionality and was dreadfully compromised--but I never violated the Seventh Commandment. Robert Clephane and I were not separated--except by a locked door.

"Then one day some two years back, dreadfully mangled, they brought him home. An aeroplane had fallen with him--with the usual result. That moment saw the end of my gay life. I passed it up as completely as though it had never been. The reason for it was gone. After a very short period of mourning, I took up the quietness of a respectable widow, who wished only to forget that she ever was married."

"I can understand exactly," said Harleston. "You shall never hear a word from me to remind you."

"I've never heard anything to remind me of the past until this alluring beauty's insinuations of a moment ago. That is why it hit me so hard, Mr. Harleston. And why did she do it? Is she jealous of you, or of me, or what?"

"She's not jealous of me!" he laughed. "I know her history; it's something of a history, too.... Sometime I'll tell you all about it; it's an interesting tale. Is it possible you've never heard in Paris of Madeline Spencer?"

"Never!"

"Nor of the Duchess of Lotzen?"

"Great Heavens!" she cried. "Is she the Duchess of Lotzen?"

"The same," Harleston nodded.

"H-u-m! I can understand now a little of her--No wonder I felt my helplessness before her polished poise!"

"Nonsense!" he smiled.

"Why should such an accomplished--diplomat want to injure me with you?" she asked.

"She was not seeking to injure you in the sense that you imply," he returned. "Her purpose was to put you in the same class as herself, so that I should trust you no more than I do her; to make you appear an emissary of France, in its secret service, playing the game of ignorance and inexperience for its present purpose. For you, as a personality she does not care a fig. To her you are but one of the pieces, to be moved or threatened as her purpose dictates. In the diplomatic game, my lady, we know only one side--all other sides are the enemy; and nothing, not even a woman's reputation, is permitted to stand for an instant in the way of attaining our end."

"Therefore a good woman--or one who would forget the past--has no earthly business to become involved in the game," Mrs. Clephane returned. "I shall get out of it the instant this matter of the letter is completed--and stay out thereafter. Even friendship won't lure me to it. Never again, Mr. Harleston, never again for mine!"

"I wish you would let it end right now," he urged.

"That wouldn't be the part of a good sport, nor would it be just to Madame Durrand. She trusts me."

"Then inform the French Ambassador of all the facts and circumstances and retire from the game," he advised.

"Shall I inform him over the telephone?" she asked.

"You would never get the Ambassador on the telephone, unless you were known to some one of the staff who could vouch for you."

"I don't know anyone on the staff, but Mrs. Durrand has likely communicated with the Embassy."

"If she has, she had given them a minute description of you, yet that can not be used to identify you over the telephone."

"I hesitate to go to the Embassy without the letter," she said.

"Why do you hesitate?" he smiled.

"Because I--don't want to admit defeat."

"Which of itself will serve to substantiate your story. One skilled in the game would have lost no time in informing the Embassy of the loss of the letter. He would have realized that, next to the letter itself, the news of its seizure was the best thing he could deliver--also, it was his _duty_ to advise the Embassy at the quickest possible moment. You see, dear lady, personal pride and pique play no part in this game. They are not even considered; it's the execution of the mission that's the one important thing; all else is made to bend to that single end."

"Then I should go to the French Embassy tonight with my story?" she asked.

"You should have gone this morning--the instant you were returned to the hotel! Now, unless Madame Durrand had written about you, it's a pretty good gamble that the Spencer crowd has forestalled you."

"Forestalled me! What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Spencer admitted to me that your release was someone's blunder. The normal thing was to hold you prisoner and so prevent you from communicating with the Ambassador until they had obtained the letter or defeated its purpose. That was not done; but Spencer, you may assume, has attempted to rectify their blunder--possibly by impersonating you, and giving the Marquis d'Hausonville some tale that will fall in with her plans and gain time for her."

"Impersonating me!" Mrs. Clephane exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes. She knows all the material circumstance--witness the telephone call that inveigled you into the drive up the Avenue, _et cetera_--and she'll take the chance that you are not known to the Marquis nor any of the staff, or even the chance that Madame Durrand has not yet informed them. Indeed she may have taken precautions against her informing them. A few bribes to the hospital attendants, carefully distributed, would be sufficient. It's not everyone who could, or would venture to, pull off the coup, but with Spencer the very daring of a thing adds to its pleasure and its zest."

"You amaze me!" Mrs. Clephane replied. "I thought also that diplomacy was the gentlest-mannered profession in the world--and the most dignified."

"It is--on the surface. Fine residences, splendid establishments, brilliant uniforms, much bowing and many genuflections, plenty of parade and glitter--everything for show. Under the surface: a supreme contempt for any code of honour, and a ruthlessness of purpose simply appalling--yet, withal, dignity, strained at times, but dignity none-the-less."

"Then it isn't even a respectable calling!" she exclaimed.

"It's eminently respectable to intimidate and to lie for one's country--and to stoop to any means to attain an end."

"And you enjoy it!" she marvelled.

"I do. It's fascinating--and I leave the disagreeable portion to others, when it has to do with those not of the profession."

"And when it has to do with those of the profession?"

"Then it's all in the game, and everything goes to win--because we all know what to expect and what to guard against. No one believes or trusts the enemy; and, as I said, everyone is the enemy but those who are arrayed with us."

"So instead of being the finest profession in the world--and the most aristocratic," Mrs. Clephane reflected, "a diplomat is, in truth, simply a false-pretence artist of an especially refined and dangerous type, who deals with the affairs of nations instead of the affairs of an individual."

"Pretty much," he admitted. "Diplomacy is all bluff, bluster, buncombe, and bullying; the degrees of refinement of the aforesaid bluff, _et cetera_, depending on the occasions, and the particular parties involved in the particular business."

"Again I'm well content to be simply an ordinary woman, whose chief delight and occupation is clothes and the wearing of clothes."

"You're a success at your occupation," Harleston replied.

"Some there are who would not agree with you," she replied. "However, we are straying from the question before us, which is: what shall I do about informing the Marquis d'Hausonville? Will you go with me?"

"My going with you would only complicate matters for you. The Marquis would instantly want to know what such a move on my part meant. I'm known to be in the secret service of the United States, you must remember. Furthermore your tale will accuse me of the taking of the letter--and you see the merry mess which follows. I cannot return the letter--it's in possession of the State Department. I'm far transgressing my duty by disclosing anything as to the letter. Indeed, I'm liable to be disciplined most drastically, even imprisoned, should it chance that the United States was involved."

"You've told me nothing more than you've already told the Spencer crowd," she objected.