XIX—Marston
At nine o’clock the next morning, Marston tapped gently on the door of Madeline Spencer’s apartment, and was immediately admitted by the demure maid; who greeted him with a smile, which he repaid with a kiss—several of them, indeed—and an affectionate and pressing arm to her shapely and slender waist.
“I suppose monsieur wants to see my mistress,” said she.
“Now that I’ve seen you, yes, little one,” Marston returned, with another kiss.
“Have you seen me, monsieur?”
“Not half long enough, my love; but business before pleasure. There’s another now, so run along and do your devoir.”
She fetched him a tiny slap across his cheek, for which she was caught and made to suffer again; then she wriggled loose, and, with a flirty backward kick at him, disappeared through the inner doorway.
In a moment she returned, dropped him a bit of curtsy, and informed him that her mistress would receive him.
He rewarded her with another caress, which she accepted with assumed shyness—and a wicked little pinch.
“I’ll pay you later for the pinch!” he tossed back, softly.
She answered with an affected shrug and a wink.
“Elise is remarkably pretty!” Madeline Spencer remarked when he entered the boudoir. She was sitting up in bed, eating her rolls and coffee—a bewildering negligee of cerise and cream heightening the effect of her dead-white colouring and raven-black hair.
Marston drew in his breath sharply, then sighed.
“And you are ravishingly beautiful, my lady,” he replied.
“You like this robe?” she asked.
“I—like you; what you may wear is incidental. It merely increases the effect of your wonderful personality.”
“My good Marston!” she smiled. “What a faithful friend you are; always seeing my few good points and being blind to my many bad.”
“And being always,” he added, bowing low, “your most humble and loving servant.”
“I know it—and I am very, very grateful.” She put aside the tray and languidly stretched her lithe length under the sheet. “What have you to report, Marston?” she asked.
“I have to report, madame,” said Marston, with strict formality of a subordinate to his chief, “that I have procured the French code-book.”
“Good work!” she exclaimed, sitting up sharply. “However did you manage it?”
“By the assistance of one Jimmy-the-Snake. He visited the French Embassy last night, and persuaded the safe to yield up the code. It would have been better, I admit, to copy the code and then replace it, but it wasn’t possible. He had just sufficient time to grab the book and make a get-away. Someone was coming.”
“You’ve accomplished enough even though we don’t obtain the letter” she approved. “I shall recommend you for promotion, Marston.”
She took the thin book and glanced through it until she came to the key-words of the Blocked-Out Square—the last key-word was the one the Count de M—— had given her. After all, the Count was not so bad; and he was handsome; thus far dependable; and he was, seemingly at least, in love with her. She might do worse.... Yet he was not Harleston; there never was but one equal to Harleston, and that one was lost to her. She shut her lips tightly and a far-away look came into her eyes. And now Harleston, too, was lost to her; and—she lifted her hands resignedly, and laughed a mirthless laugh. As she came back to reality, she met Marston’s curiously courteous glance with a bit of a shrug.
“Pardon my momentary abstraction,” she said softly; “I was pursuing a train of thought—”
“And you didn’t overtake it,” he remarked.
“I can never overtake it. I haven’t the requisite speed. Did you ever miss your two greatest opportunities, Marston?”
“I’ve missed my greatest,” Marston replied instantly. “Oh—it was out of my class, so I never started.”
“It may have been a mistake, my friend,” she observed; “one never can tell until he’s tried it—and failed. I mightn’t have missed had I gone on another schedule. However, the past is to profit by, and to forget if we can’t remember it pleasantly. So let us return to the business in hand, Marston; it’s a rattling business and a fascinating, and at it you and I are not to be altogether despised,” throwing him a bewitching smile.
“Don’t!” he exclaimed. “I’m not stone.”
“Forgive me, my friend!” putting out her hand to him.
Marston simply bowed, “I think it wiser to refrain,” he said gently, and bowed again. “By all means let us to the business in hand.”
He understood her nature better than she thought. The sympathy in her was, for the moment, real enough, but it was only for the moment; the love of admiration was the controlling note—what she sought and what she played for. She felt the sympathy while it lasted, but it was the effect as to herself, the selfish effect, that inspired the sensation. When a beautiful woman stoops to sympathy, it is rare indeed that she does not thereby arouse admiration for herself. Madeline Spencer may have been cold and shrewd and selfish and calculating, yet with it all she was warm-hearted; but the warm heart never got away with the cool head—unless it was with that head’s permission and for its benefit. She played men—and men played her—but the man that had won was not yet to be found. Two only of those whom she tried had failed to succumb to her fascinating alluringness—and these two she had loved, and still did both love and hate.
“Returning then to the code-book and the letter,” said she. “How about the latter; have you found Carpenter susceptible to persuasion?”
“To persuasion, no; to exchange, yes. Our agreement is that if I provide the key-word, he will provide the letter in question. At ten o’clock this morning the trick is to be turned.”
“And if the translation concerns the United States, he simply would turn the key upon you and hold you prisoner until the matter is cleared up.”
“One must take some risks,” Marston observed.
She nodded slightly.
“Which of these do you fancy is the key-word?” she asked.
“We shall try them in turn, beginning with the last: à l’aube du jour. I’ve a hunch that we’ll end there.”
“And that you’ll go into temporary confinement?” she smiled.
“My hunch stops with the key-word!” he smiled back.
“Your hunch as to the key-word is partially correct,” she replied slowly, “but it does not, however, reach quite to the last conclusion. I may not explain now, Marston. Do you go to the meeting, with the code-book as your only exhibit. It should be indisputable proof of your good faith, and our honest belief that the letter does not concern the United States. Moreover, you run no danger of imprisonment, for you’ll not effect a translation. But you must obtain a copy of the letter; it’s but a fair exchange for the French code, you know; and you’re permitted—nay you’re authorized, in the interest of the service—to allow Carpenter to copy the book if he will give you the letter to copy. Furthermore, you may proceed leisurely in the process; there is no particular haste; while they are occupied with the letter matter, there is apt to be less activity along other lines. Only get a copy of the letter; I have the key-word.”
“You have the key-word!” Marston exclaimed.
She nodded. “I’m quite sure of it; and the code-book confirms me. It is up to you to procure the letter; I’ll do the rest, if any rest is necessary. We may be headed for Europe by evening, Marston; in which event, the cipher letter is of no consequence to us.”
“You’ll be glad to get back to Paris?” he asked.
“I shall, indeed—won’t you?”
“I’m quite content anywhere, so long as I am working with you,” he answered. It was much as a faithful dog would wag his tail and snuggle up for a pat of the hand.
She smiled straight into his eyes—a frank, appreciative smile, as though an intimate camaraderie existed between them, and would never be violated by either. She would have been in danger had she smiled that way at some men; they would not have remained quiescent. And a little more aggression by Marston might have been more conducive for success—less of the faithful dog and more of the independent subordinate and the equal human. As it was, he was only a plaything.
“Now, my friend, if you’re done you may go,” she said briskly. “I must dress, and you’re rather de trop at such a time, however much you may be welcome at another. And, Marston, don’t miss the copy of the letter; I’ll expect you with it at seven; we’ll make the translation together, either here or on the train to New York. You’re to accompany me, you know. I’ve an appointment at one, and another at four, but I’ll be here at seven. If I’m detained, wait.”
When Marston had gone she turned over and composed herself for sleep—it was two hours until she had need to array herself for luncheon and Snodgrass.... Yes, Snodgrass was a very good-looking chap; her drive with him last night had been very satisfactory; he had the requisite wealth, so it might be just as well to let him become fascinated. It would be at least a momentary diversion; something to occupy her for the loss of Harleston. She closed her eyes—and shivered ever so little. Damn Mrs. Clephane! But for her she would not have lost him.
She flung off the cover and sprang up. There was a chance left and she would try it. If it failed, she would not lose more than she had already lost. If it won, she won Harleston!