The Cab of the Sleeping Horse

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.”

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.