The Cab of the Sleeping Horse

So it happened, that on the same day and practically at the same hour Carpenter gave instructions looking to the pilfering of the French private diplomatic cipher, Marston began to lay plans to test Carpenter’s venality, and Madeline Spencer betook herself to Union Station to meet the man-in-the-case, whose face she had never seen, and whose name she did not know.

She went a roundabout way, walking down F Street and stopping to make some trifling purchases in two or three shops. She could not detect that she was being followed, but she went into a large department store, and spent considerable time in matching some half-dozen shades of ribbon. On the way out she stepped into a telephone booth, and directed the dispatcher at the Chateau to send a taxi to Brentano’s for Mrs. Williams. By the time she had leisurely crossed the street the taxi was there; getting in, she gave the order to drive to Union Station by way of Sixteenth Street and Massachusetts Avenue. As she passed the Chateau, she saw Mrs. Clephane and Harleston coming out; a bit farther on they shot by in a spanking car.

She drew back to avoid recognition; but they were too much occupied with each other, she observed, even to notice the occupant of the humble but high-priced taxi. At Scott Circle their car swung westward and disappeared down Massachusetts Avenue; she turned eastward, toward tomorrow’s rising sun, Union Station, and the rendezvous—with hate in her heart for the woman who had displaced her, and a firm resolve to square accounts at the first opportunity. Mrs. Clephane might be innocent, likely was innocent of any intention to come between Harleston and her, but that did not relieve Mrs. Clephane from punishment, nor herself from the chagrin of defeat and the sorrow of blasted hopes. The balance was against her; and, be it man or woman, she always tried to balance up promptly and a little more—when the balancing did not interfere with the business on which she was employed. Madeline Spencer, for one of her sort, was exceptional in this: she always kept faith with the hand that paid her.

At Union Station she dismissed the taxi and walked briskly to the huge waiting-room. There she dropped the briskness, and went leisurely down its long length to the drug stand, where she bought a few stamps and then passed out through the middle aisle to the train shed, inquiring on the way of an attendant the time of the next express from Baltimore. To his answer she didn’t attend, nevertheless she thanked him graciously, and seeing the passengers were beginning to crowd through the gates from an incoming train she turned toward them, as if she were expecting someone. Which was true—only it was not by train.

It had been five minutes past the hour, by the big clock in the station, when she crossed the waiting-room; by the time the crowd had passed the gates, and there was no excuse for remaining, another five had gone. The appointment was for three exactly. She had not been concerned to keep it to the minute, but the man should have been; as a woman, it was her prerogative to be careless as to such matters; moreover she had found it an advantage, as a rule, to be a trifle late, except with her superiors or those to whom either by position or expediency it was well to defer. With such she was always on time—and a trifle more.

As she turned away, a tall, fine-looking, well set-up, dark-haired, clean-cut, young chap, who had just rounded the news-stand, grabbed off his hat and greeted her with the glad smile of an old acquaintance.

“Why, how do you do, Mrs. Cuthbert!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected pleasure, and most opportune.”

There was a slight stress on the last two words:—the words of recognition.

“Delightful, Mr. Davidson!” she returned—which continued the recognition—taking his extended hand and holding it.

“Can’t I see you to your car, or carriage, or whatever you’re using?” he asked.

“You may call a taxi,” she replied; “and you may also come with me, if you’ve nothing else to do.”

“I’m too sorry. There has been a—mixup, and it is impossible now, Mrs. Cuthbert. I have an important appointment at the Capitol.” Which completed the recognition.

“When can you come to see me?” she asked. “I’m at the Chateau.”

“I hope tomorrow, if I’m not suddenly tied up. You will be disengaged?”

“I’ve absolutely nothing on hand for tomorrow,” she replied.

“Fine!” he returned. “I think I can manage to come about one and take you out for luncheon.”

“That will be charming!” she smiled.

“Where would you like to go—to the Rataplan?”

“Wherever you suggest,” she replied. “I’ll leave it to you where we shall go and what we shall have.”

“You’re always considerate and kind,” he averred. “If nothing untoward occurs, it will be a fine chance to talk over old times, to explain everything, and to arrange for the future.”

“That will be charming!”

“And unless I am disappointed in a certain matter, I shall have a surprise for you.”

“I shall welcome the surprise.”

“We both shall welcome it, I think!” he laughed. “It seems a long time since I’ve seen you, Madeline,” he added.

“It seems a long time to me, too, Billy. We must do better now, old friend. Come to Paris and we’ll make such a celebration of it that the Boulevards will run with—gaiety.”

“I shall come. Meanwhile—tomorrow.” He raised his stick to the taxi dispatcher. “I’m sorry to leave you,” he confided to her.

“Let me take you as far as the Capitol,” she urged.

“Not today. Wait until I come to Paris—then you may take me where you will and how.”

“I like you, Billy!” she exclaimed.

“And I’ve something more to tell you,” he whispered, as he put her in and closed the door. “The Chateau!” he said to the driver then stepping back, he doffed his hat and waved his hand.

“Yes, I like you, Mr. Davidson,” she smiled, as the taxi sped away, “but I’ll like you better when the present business is completed and I’m in Paris—without you.”

He was a handsome chap enough, and he would have considerable money when the present business was completed, yet, somehow he did not appeal, even to her mercenary side. Moreover she no longer dealt in his sort. Time was when he would have served admirably, but she was done with plucking for plucking’s sake. She plucked still, but neither so ruthlessly nor so omnivorously as of yore. She did not need; nor was she so gregarious in her tastes. She could pick and choose, and wait—and have some joy of Him and take her time; be content not to pluck him clean, and so retain his friendship even after he had been displaced. With her now it was the man in high office or of high estate at whom she aimed—and her aim was usually true. Neither with one of her tastes and tendencies was monogamy apt to be attractive nor practiced—though at times it subserved her expediency. At present, it was the Count de M——, an English Cabinet Minister, and a Russian Grand Duke;—but discreetly, oh, so discreetly that none ever dreamed of the others, and the public never dreamed of them. To all outward appearances, she dwelt in the odor of eminent respectability and sedate gaiety.

“Drive slowly through Rock Creek Park until I tell you to return,” she ordered the man when they had passed beyond the station; then withdrew into a corner of the taxi, and busied herself with her thoughts.

It was almost two hours later that she gave him the Collingwood as a destination.

At the Collingwood she dismissed the taxi, and without sending up her name passed directly up to Mrs. Chartrand’s apartment.

Miss Williams, who was on duty at the telephone desk, saw her—and whistled softly. The instant the elevator door clanged shut, she rang Harleston.

“If you can come down a moment, Mr. Harleston,” she said softly, “I have some interesting information for you; it may not be well to—you know.”

“I’ll be down at once,” Harleston replied.

When he appeared, it was with his hat and stick, as though he were going out.

“If anyone calls, Miss Williams,” he remarked, pausing by her desk, “I’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“Very well, Mr. Harleston,” she replied. Then she lowered her voice. “Your slender lady of the ripples, of the other night, has just come in. She’s young, and a perfect peach for looks.”

“Who is she?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She didn’t have herself announced; she went straight on up. Ben!” motioning to the elevator boy, “where did the slender woman, you just took up, get off?”

“At the fou’th flo’, Miss Williams,” said Ben. “She went into fo’ one.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yas, Miss,” the negro grinned, “I waited to see.”

Miss Williams nodded a dismissal.

“Four one is Chartrands’ apartment,” she remarked.

“Is this the lady of the ripples?” Harleston asked, handing her the photograph of Madeline Spencer.

“Sure thing!” she exclaimed. “That’s she, all right. How in the world did you ever—pardon me, Mr. Harleston, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re not meddling, Miss Williams. But it’s a long story—too long to detail now. Some day soon I’ll confide in you, for you’ve helped me very much in this matter and deserve to know. In fact, you’ve helped me more than you can imagine. Meanwhile mum’s the word, remember.”

“Mum, it is, Mr. Harleston,” she replied, “For once a telephone girl won’t leak, even to her best friends.”

“I believe you,” Harleston returned. “Keep your eyes open, also your ears, and report to me anything of interest as to our affair.”

Miss Williams answered with a knowing nod and an intimate little smile, then swung around to answer a call. Harleston returned to his rooms. The happenings of the recent evening were quite intelligible to him now:

When the episode of the cab of the sleeping horse occurred, Mrs. Spencer was in the Chartrand apartment. Marston, in some way, had learned of Harleston’s participation in the cab matter, and with Sparrow had followed him to the Collingwood, entering by the fire-escape—with the results already seen. The noise on the fire-escape was undoubtedly made by them, and the long interval that elapsed before they entered his apartment was consumed in reporting to her, or in locating his number.

One thing, however, was not clear: how they had learned so promptly of Harleston’s part in the affair, and that it was he who had taken the letter from the cab. Either someone had seen him at the cab and had babbled to the Marston crowd, or else Mrs. Winton or Mrs. Clephane had not been quite frank in her story. He instantly relieved Mrs. Clephane of culpability; Mrs. Winton did not count with him. Moreover, it was no longer of any moment—since Spencer’s people knew and had acted on their knowledge, and were still acting on it—and were still without the letter. The important thing to Harleston was that it had served to disclose what promised to be a most serious matter to this country, and which, but for the trifling incident of the cab, would likely have gone through successfully—and America been irretrievably injured.

Madeline Spencer had assured him that the United States was not concerned; that the matter had to do only with a phase of the Balkan question. But such assurances were worthless and given only to deceive, and, further, were so understood by both of them. Maybe her story was true—only the future would prove it. Meanwhile you trust at your peril, caveat emptor, your eyes are your market, or words to similar effect. Of course he could cause her to be apprehended by the police, yet such a course was unthinkable; it would violate every rule of the game; it would complicate relations with Germany, and afford her adequate ground for reprisals on our secret agents. A certain code of honour obtained with nations, as well as with criminals.

As he opened the door, the telephone rang. He took up the receiver.

“Hello!” he said.

“Is that you, Mr. Harleston?” came a soft voice.

“It is Madame X!” he smiled.

“Still Madame X?” she inflected.

“Only to one person.”

“And to her no longer,” she returned. “What are you doing?”

“Thinking about coming down to dine with you.”

“Just what I was about to ask of you. Come at seven—to my apartment. I have something important to discuss.”

“So have I,” he replied. “I’ll be along in an hour, or sooner if you want me.”

“I want you, Mr. Harleston,” she laughed, “but I can wait an hour, I suppose.”

“Which may mean much or little,” he replied.

“Just so.—You may try your diplomatic methods on solving the problem.”

“My methods or my mind?” he asked.

“Your mental methods,” she replied.

“I pass!” he exclaimed. “You may explain at dinner.”

“Meanwhile, I recommend you to your diplomatic mind.”

“Until dinner?”

“Certainly—and forever after, Mr. Harleston, be an ordinary man with me, please.”

“Do you fancy that a seeing man can be just an ordinary man when you are with him?” he asked.

“I’m not required to fancy you what you’re not,” she returned.

“In other words, I’m not a seeing man?”

“Not especially, sir.—And there’s another problem, for your diplomacy. À bientôt, Monsieur Harleston.”

He telephoned to the Club for a taxi to be at the door at a quarter to seven; then dressed leisurely and descended.

“Any developments?” he inquired of Miss Williams.

“None,” she replied. “Ripples hasn’t come down yet.”

“All right,” said he. “Tell me in the morning—you’re on duty then?”

She answered by a nod, the flash was calling her, and he passed on toward the door—just as the elevator shot down and Madeline Spencer stepped out.

“How do you do, Mr. Harleston?” said she, with a broad smile.

“Hello, Mrs. Spencer! I’m glad to see you,” he returned. “If you’re bound for the Chateau or downtown, won’t you let me take you in my car? It’s at the door.”

“If you think you dare to risk your reputation, I’ll be glad to accept,” she replied.

“Is it a risk?” he asked.

“That is for you to judge,” as he put her in.

“The Chateau?” he inquired;—and when she nodded he leaned forward and gave the order.

“I was surprised to see you—” he began.

“Why pretend you were surprised to see me?” she laughed. “You were not; nor am I to see you. We are too old foes to pretend as to the non-essentials—when each knows them. The cards are on the table, Guy, play them open.”

“How many cards are on the table?” he asked.

“All of mine.”

“Then it’s double dummy—with a blind deck on the side.”

“Whose side?” she flashed back.

“Yours!” he returned pleasantly.

“What am I concealing?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. If I did—it would be easier for me.”

“The one thing I haven’t told you, I can’t tell you: the precise character of the business that brings me here. I’ve told you all I know—and broken my oath to do it. I can’t well do more, Guy.”

“No, you can’t well do more,” Harleston conceded. “And I can’t well do less under all the—admitted circumstances; inferentially and directly admitted.”

“Why did you—butt in?” she asked. “Why didn’t you let the cab, and the letter, and well enough alone?”

“It was so mysterious; and so full of possibilities,” he smiled. “And when I did it, I didn’t know that you were interested.”

“And it would have made you all the more prying if you had known,” she retorted.

“Possibly! I’ve never yet heard that personal feelings entered into the diplomatic secret service—and no more have you, my lady.”

“Personal feelings!” she smiled, and shrugged his answer aside. “When did you first know that I was concerned in this affair?”

“When I saw you in the Chateau,” he replied—there was no obligation on him to mention the photograph.

“Which was?” she asked.

“The evening I met you in Peacock Alley. How long then had you been here?”

“Two days!”

“And not a word to me?”

“‘Personal feelings do not enter into the diplomatic secret service,’” she quoted mockingly.

“Precisely,” he agreed, “We understand each other and the game.”

It served his purpose not to notice the mock in her tones. He very well understood what it imported and what prompted it. For the first time the tigress had disclosed her claws. Hitherto it was always the soft caress and the soothing purr—and when she wished, her caress could be very soft and her purr very soothing. He had assumed that there were claws, but she had hidden them from him; and what is ever hidden one after a time forgets. And she had some justification for her resentment. He admitted to himself that his attitude and manner had been such as might cause her to believe that she was more to him than an opponent in a game, that he was about to forgive her past, and to ask her to warrant only for the future. And he had a notion that she was prepared to warrant and to keep the warrant—even as she had done with the Duke of Lotzen. Now it was ended. He knew it.

And she knew it, too. One sight of Mrs. Clephane with him and she realized that he was lost to her: Mrs. Clephane had all her outward grace and beauty, but not her past. Her woman’s intuition had told her in the red-room of the Chateau; she knew absolutely when she saw his greeting to Mrs. Clephane in the corridor after her escape. She must go back to her Count de M——, her Cabinet Minister, and her Russian Grand Duke. The only two men she had ever cared for would have none of her, despite her beauty and her fascination. Dalberg ever had scorned her; Harleston had looked with favour, wavered, was about to yield, when another—outwardly her alter ego, save only in the colour of her hair—appeared and filched him from her. And whether Dalberg’s scorn or Harleston’s defection was the more humiliating, she did not know. Together they made a mocking and a desolation of her love and her life. And as she came to hate with a fierce hatred the Princess whom Dalberg loved, so with an even more bitter hatred she hated Mrs. Clephane who had won Harleston from her. For while with Dalberg she never had the slightest chance, and knew it perfectly, with Harleston there was the bitterness of blasted hopes as well as of defeat.

And Harleston, sitting there beside her, the perfume of her hair and garments heavy about him, read much that was in her thoughts; and some remorse smote him—a little of remorse, that is—and he would have said something in mitigation of her judgment. But a look at her—and the excuse was put aside and the subject ended before it was even begun. She was not one to accept excuses or to be proffered them, it were best to let the matter rest. Meanwhile, Mrs. Clephane must be warned of the danger confronting her.

He glanced again at her—and met her subtle smile.

“This Mrs. Clephane,” she remarked with quiet derision, “wherein is she different from the rest of us?”

“By ‘us’ you mean whom?” he asked.

“The women you have known.”

“And seen?”

“And seen.”

“You’re exceedingly catholic!” he smiled.

“You’re exceedingly exclusive—and precipitate; and you haven’t answered my question. Wherein is Mrs. Clephane different from the rest of us?”

“At the risk of being personal,” he replied, “I should say that she is very like you in face and figure and manner. If her hair were black, the resemblance would be positively striking.”

“Then, since we’re on the personal equation, the difference is where?”

He threw up his hands and laughed to avoid the obvious answer, an answer which she knew, and knew he wished to avoid.

“The difference is where?” she repeated.

“I shall let you judge if there is a difference, and if there is, what it is,” he replied.

“I wish to know your mind, Mr. Harleston—I already know my own.”

“Good girl!” he applauded.

“Please put me aside and consider Mrs. Clephane,” she insisted. “Is she cleverer than—well, than I am?”

“You are the cleverest woman that I have ever known.”

“Is she more intellectual?”

“Preserve me from the intellectual woman!” he exclaimed.

“Is she more travelled?”

“I think not.”

“Is she superficially more cultured?”

“I should say not.”

“Has she a better disposition?”

“No one could have a better disposition than you have ever shown to me.”

“Is she more fascinating in manner?”

“She couldn’t be!”

“She is younger?” tentatively.

Harleston did not reply.

“But very little—two or three years, maybe?” she added.

Again Harleston did not reply.

“Is her conversation more entertaining?” she resumed.

“Impossible!”

“Or more edifying?”

“Excuse me again!” he exclaimed. “Edifying is in the same class as intellectual.”

“Then all Mrs. Clephane has on me is a few years?”

He nodded.

“Other things don’t count with you, I assume—when they’re of the past, and both have been a trifle tinctured.”

She said it with affected carelessness and a ravishing smile; but Harleston was aware that underneath there was bitterness of spirit, and cold hate of the other woman. She had touched the pinch of the matter. Both knew it, and both knew the answer. Yet she was hoping against hope; and he was loath to hurt her needlessly, because Mrs. Clephane would be sure to catch the recoil, and because he himself was very fond of her—despite all and Mrs. Clephane. He had seen his mistake in time, if it was a mistake, but that did not blind him to Madeline Spencer’s fascinating manner and beautiful person, and to the fact that she cared for him. However, neither might he let pass the charge she had just made against Mrs. Clephane. Yet he tried to be kind to the woman beside him, while defending the woman who was absent, and, as is often the case under such circumstances he played for time—the hotel was but a block away—and made a mess of it, so far as the woman beside him was concerned.

“Who are a trifle tinctured—and with what?” he asked.

She smiled languidly.

“That is scarcely worthy of you, Guy,” she remarked. “You are aiming at—windmills; at least, I think you are not suddenly gone stupid. However, you do not need to answer. Mrs. Clephane, you think, is not tinctured, and you know that I have been—several shades deep. In other words, she surpasses me in your estimation in the petty matter of morals. So be it; you’re no fool, and a pretty woman cannot blind you to the facts for long. Then we shall see which you prefer. The woman who is honest about the tincture, or the woman who is not. Now let us drop the matter, and attend strictly to business until such time as the present business is ended,—and Mrs. Clephane appears as she is.”

“So be it!” Harleston replied heartily, “We understand each other, Madeline.”

“Yes, we understand each other,” she said laconically, as the car drew in to the curb.

“So well, indeed,” he continued, as he gave her his hand to the sidewalk, “that I have to arrange for you to meet the Secretary of State at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Where?” said she, looking at him narrowly.

“In his office. You would like to meet him, Madeline?”

“I don’t know what your play is,” she laughed, “but I’ll meet him—and take my chances. From all I can learn, the gentleman isn’t much but bumptiousness and wind. To either you or me, Guy, he should be easy.”

“The play,” Harleston explained, “is that the Secretary has heard of you and wishes to see the remarkable woman who—almost upset a throne.”

“His wish shall be gratified,” she shrugged. “Will you come for me, or am I to go to him—a rendezvous à deux?”

“I’ll escort you to him—afterward it will depend on you.”

“Very good!” she replied—“but all the same I wonder what’s the game.”

“The Secretary’s wish and curiosity is the only game,” he replied.

“Far be it from me to balk either—when something may result of advantage to your—”

“—beautiful and fascinating self,” he interjected.

She raised her eyebrows and laughed scornfully, as the lift bore her upwards.