The Cab of the Sleeping Horse

A moment before Harleston’s return, Madeline Spencer, stepping out of the F Street elevator, was met by Snodgrass who had been walking up and down the lobby. They took a taxi and sped away; followed closely by another taxi, which their driver was most careful not to distance. A second later Harleston entered the corridor. As he was about to greet Mrs. Clephane, a man approached him and said:

“They have started, sir; Burke’s just behind in a taxi—and both drivers are wise. They’re bound for the Rataplan.”

“Follow them and wait just outside,” Harleston ordered—and turned to Mrs. Clephane. “I must go to the Rataplan at once,” said he. “Let us lunch there. The end of the affair of the cab of the sleeping horse is in sight; I thought you might like to see it.”

“I want to see it!” Mrs. Clephane exclaimed. “Have you found the key-word?”

“Carpenter found it—I’ll tell you about it on the way out. Come along, little lady.”

“But why do you suspect Captain Snodgrass?” she inquired, when Harleston had finished his account. “He would not have access to the formula, would he?”

“The man that has access to such secrets never is the man who actually delivers,” he explained; “he has a confederate. Snodgrass is the confederate, we think.”

“Is this secret colloding process of gun-cotton so tremendously valuable?” she asked.

“It’s a secret for which any nation would give millions of dollars. It’s admittedly the most powerful explosive ever discovered, as well as the easiest handled. Temperature, weather, ordinary shock have absolutely no effect on it; in fire it simply chars and doesn’t explode. Yet when it is exploded by the proper method, lyddite, dynamite, and all the other ites, are as a gentle zephyr in comparison. Now tell me about last night; where were you?”

“After you left,” she explained, “I wrote some letters, and then went into the corridor to drop them in the chute beside the elevator shaft; as I approached, the car came down with Mrs. Spencer in it. Something impelled me to follow her; and running back I grabbed a cloak, and dashed for the elevator, catching it on the fly. She wasn’t in the main corridor; on a chance, I hurried to the F Street entrance; I got there just as she stepped into a taxi and shot away. Instantly I called another taxi and told the driver to follow the car that had just departed. He did for a little way; but in a sudden halt of traffic at Vermont Avenue and H Street, where, you may remember, the street is torn up, we lost the other taxi; and though we drove around the north-west section for more than an hour on the chance that we’d come up with it—my driver knew the other driver—we never did come up with it. But as we rolled up to the Chateau, Mrs. Spencer was alighting from a limousine with a tall, fine-looking, fair-haired chap who had the walk of a military man.”

“Snodgrass,” Harleston observed.

“She saw me; and, with a maliciously charming smile, nodded and went on. In the corridor I came on some friends and we talked awhile. Then I went up to my apartment, got your message, and telephoned to you.”

“Don’t do it again,” he cautioned. “It was very dangerous.”

They turned in at the Rataplan and drew up at the carriage entrance. Harleston helped Mrs. Clephane from the taxi and they passed into the Club-House.

He inquired of the doorman whether Mr. Carpenter was in, and another servant, who overheard the question, added that Mr. Carpenter was in the dining-room. Harleston and Mrs. Clephane went directly in and to a table next to Carpenter’s. Three tables away were Madeline Spencer and Snodgrass.

Harleston nodded to Mrs. Spencer and to Snodgrass, then spoke to Carpenter and invited him over.

“I don’t know if you will remember me, Mrs. Clephane,” said Carpenter, coming across. “I met you several years ago in Paris.”

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Carpenter, I remember you!” Mrs. Clephane replied.

“Anything?” Harleston asked, without moving his lips.

“Nothing. I was here when they arrived,” Carpenter replied in the same manner—and went back to his table.

“Who is the woman with Harleston?” Snodgrass asked Mrs. Spencer. “I’ve never seen her.”

“A Mrs. Clephane,” Madeline Spencer replied. “She’s very good-looking, isn’t she?”

“I’m perfectly satisfied with the lady immediately in my fore,” he smiled. “I don’t run to blondes—”

“When you’re with a brunette!” she smiled back.

“I don’t run to anyone when I’m with you,” he replied with quiet earnestness, leaning toward her across the table.

She shot him a knowing glance. Last night she had held him to strict propriety. Today in the taxi she had deliberately set herself to fascinate him, and had succeeded well. She had been demurely tantalizing—holding him at a distance, letting him come a little nearer, bringing him up sharply; all the tricks of the trade executed with a perfection of technic and a mastery of effect. Snodgrass, with all his experience, was but a novice in her hands; she always struck directly at the affections—got them: and then the rest was easy. She never lost her head, nor allowed her own affections to become involved; save only twice—and both those times she had failed. Snodgrass, she had learned through inquiries, had quite sufficient money to make him worth her while; moreover, he was such a big, good-natured, dependable chap—and a gentleman. If he had not been a gentleman he would not have attracted Madeline Spencer for an instant. She dealt only in gentlemen.

She had not told Snodgrass of the Clephane letter, nor anything as to Harleston except to refer casually to him as the confidential emissary in delicate matters of the State Department. She had found that Snodgrass was not the actual man in the case; that he was simply a friendly confederate, or rather, to use his own words, “a friend of Davidson.” She had expected that the package or letter would be delivered to her in the taxi; but Snodgrass had told her as soon as they were started that Davidson would forward it to him at the Rataplan by mail, not later than the two o’clock delivery. He would get it as they were leaving and transfer it to her, accepting the consideration as specified by Davidson, and receipting for it. He said flatly that he did not want to know the contents of the letter; he was doing this favour for Davidson. He understood that it was to be entirely sub rosa and that nothing must ever transpire as to it. Therefore he was prepared to forget the entire episode the moment it was over; the epochal meetings with her he would not forget, nor would he permit her to forget him if constant devotion and assiduous attention were of avail. To which she had made a most demurely fitting answer, and the conversation thereafter grew exceedingly confidential. Oh, they were getting on very well indeed when the Rataplan was reached. And they were still progressing very well—in a discreetly informal way.

The entrance of Mrs. Clephane and Harleston was unexpected to Mrs. Spencer; Carpenter was a stranger to her and she had thought nothing of him; but when he spoke to Harleston, and seemed to know Mrs. Clephane, she put him on the list of the enemy. She kept him there when Snodgrass told her his name and position in the Diplomatic Service and that it was reputed there was no cipher too difficult for him to solve.

“We would better be very circumspect,” she said low. “I think that these two men are here to watch us; they know that I’m in the Secret Service, of Germany, and they’re naturally suspicious of me.”

“Carpenter was here when we came in,” Snodgrass remarked. “He was sitting in the lobby. However, if you prefer, I’ll let my mail go until evening.”

“We can decide when we’re through luncheon,” she replied. “Haste is of vital importance, my instructions say. I had hoped to get away on the midnight train for New York, and to sail tomorrow for England.”

“I had hoped to do the same!” he whispered.

“Really?” she asked.

“More than really! May I?” leaning forward.

“If you care to, Captain Snodgrass. It will be very pleasant to have you on board.”

“And afterward?”

“You may not care for the afterward,” she murmured.

“I’ll risk it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll sail tomorrow.”

“And the letter?” she asked.

“I’ll get it for you—or have it along!”

“What about the consideration?”

“Hang the consideration. I’ll pay it myself, if need be.”

“No, no, my friend!” she laughed. “I’m not worth so much, nor anything near it. And even though I were, I’d not permit the wasteful extravagance.”

She might have added that she had no objection whatever to his wasteful extravagance, in fact, she would rather encourage it, if she were its object. Only that must come later—after the present business was finished, and they had sailed from New York. How long the extravagance would continue was dependent on the depth of his purse and his disposition.

“Wasteful extravagance does not apply where you are concerned,” he replied. “However, we’ll let Germany pay the consideration, and I’ll have that much more to spend on you.”

She rewarded him with one of her alluringly ravishing smiles and a touch of her slender foot. She had him—and she knew she had him. She would be Madeline Spencer once again—always having a victim, and always ready for a fresh one. Since she had failed with Harleston, what mattered it how many the victims, or what the price they paid.