VII—Surprises
Peacock Alley was in full gorgeousness when Harleston, just at five o’clock, paused on the landing above the marble stairs inside the F Street entrance and surveyed the motley throng—busy with looking and being looked at, with charming and being charmed, with wondering and being wondered at, with aping and being aped, with patronizing and being patronized, with flattering and being flattered, with fawning and being fawned upon, with deceiving and being deceived, with bluffing and being bluffed, with splurging, with pretending, with every trick and artifice and sham and chicanery that society and politics know, or can fancy.
Harleston was familiar with it all for too many years even to accord it a glance of contemptuous indifference—when he had anything else to occupy his mind; and just now his mind was on a lady in black with three American Beauties on the gown.
He went slowly down the steps to the main corridor and joined the buzzing, kaleidoscopic crowd.
Somewhere on the floor above, an orchestra was playing for the dansant; and the music came fitfully through the chatter and confusion. He nodded to some acquaintances, bowed formally to others, shook hands when it could not be avoided; all the while progressing slowly down the corridor in search of three red roses on a black gown.
And near the far end he saw, for an instant through a rift in the crowd, the three roses on a black gown, but not the face above them; the next instant the rift closed. However, he knew now that she was here and where to find her, and he made his way through the press toward where she was waiting for him.
Then the crowd suddenly opened—as crowds do—and he saw, on the same side of the corridor and scarcely ten feet apart, two slender women in black and wearing red roses; one was Mrs. Winton, the other he had never seen.
It brought him to a sharp pause. Then he smiled. Ranleigh was right! There were altogether too many women in this case. And which one was waiting for him? He knew neither, but there was the chance that the one he was to meet knew him.
And so he adventured it, walking slowly toward them, and taking care that they should notice him.
They did.
Mrs. Winton glanced at him casually and impersonally.
The unknown, whose face was from him, turned sharply when he dropped his stick, and looked at him unrecognizingly. As her eyes came down they rested on the other woman.
She gave a subdued exclamation, arose and threaded her way to the opposite side of the corridor.
Harleston, glancing back, saw the move, and swinging over he followed. He would speak to her—meanwhile, he was looking at her. So far, at least, both were good to look at; they must be good to look at in this business, it is part of the stock in trade.
“Good afternoon, Madame X,” he said, bowing before her.
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Harleston,” she smiled, giving him her hand and making room beside her on the settee. “I’m delighted to see you, just delighted!”
“It is nice to meet again, isn’t it?” he returned. “When did you get to town?”
“Only yesterday! You live in Washington, now, don’t you?”
“Yes, off and on. It’s my headquarters for refitting and starting afresh. What do you say to a turn at the dansant?”
“I’m ready, I’m sure,” she replied. “Afterward we’ll—”
“Discuss other matters!” he interjected.
She gave him an amused look, and they passed down the corridor and up the marble steps to the elevator.
They were dancing the Maxixe when they entered.
“Do you mind if we don’t do it on the heels?” said she. “I think it’s prettier the other way.”
“So do I,” said he, and they drifted down the room.
He knew almost everyone on the floor; the women nodded to him, then stared coldly at his companion; the men too stared at her—but not coldly—and when they thought about it, which was seldom of late, nodded to him, and resumed their staring.
And Harleston did not wonder—indeed, had it been otherwise, it would have argued a sudden paucity of appreciation on the part of the smart set there assembled. For this slender young person in black, a small hat on her head, topping hair of flaming red, an exquisite figure and a charming pair of slender high-arched feet, was worth anyone’s staring, be it either coldly or with frank interest. And she did not seem to know it; which in this day of smug and blatant personal appreciation of one’s good points—feminine points—is something of a rarity in the sex. It may be, however that Madame X was fully aware of her beauty, but she was modest about it, or seemed to be; which amounts to the same thing.
They sat down at a remote table and Harleston ordered two cold drinks—an apollinaris with a dash of lemon for her, a Jerry Hill for himself. He noticed that the men were looking and wavering and he deliberately turned his chair around and gave them his back. He had no objection to presenting the Lady of Peacock Alley to his men friends, but just at this time it was not convenient. The adventure was rather unusual, and the lady altogether attractive and somewhat fascinating; he chose, for the present at least, to go it alone. Moreover, they were to meet on a matter of her business and by her appointment.
He had suggested the dansant that he might study her. And the more he saw of her, the more he was struck by her unaffected naturalness and apparent sincerity. Not a word, not even a suggestion while they were dancing, of the matter of the cab; it was as though she were just an old friend. And her dancing was a delight—such a delight, indeed, that he was reluctant to have it end. Somehow, one gets to know quickly one’s partner in the dansant.
“This is perfectly entrancing, Mr. Harleston,” she said presently, “but don’t you think we would better hunt a retired corner and discuss other matters?”
“If you will dine with me when we’ve discussed them,” he replied.
“It’s only six o’clock,” she smiled; “will the discussion take so long?”
“It depends somewhat on when you wish to dine, and somewhat on the character of the discussion.”
Her smile grew into a quiet, rippling laugh.
“Come along,” she answered. “I’ve found a secluded nook in the big red-room downstairs. It’s cozy and nice, and I’ve had the maid reserve it for me. Afterwards,” with a sharp stab of her brown eyes, “I’ll decide whether I’ll dine with you.”
The place was as she had said, cozy and nice and secluded; and he put her into it—where the subdued light would fall on her face.
“Very good, sir,” she smiled; “I am not afraid of the light.”
“Nor would I be if I were you,” he replied.
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.
“Why fence?” she asked.
“Why, indeed?” he replied.
“And why, may I ask, did you meet me here this afternoon?”
“Curiosity—later, satisfaction and appreciation.”
“And why do you think I wanted to meet you?”
“Heaven knows!” he replied.
“Suppose, Mr. Harleston, we resume the conversation just where we left off last night. Your last remark then was that I had a chance to get the articles, but no one else had a chance. I’m here now for my chance.”
“And that chance depends on a number of contingencies,” he replied: “whether I have the desired articles; whether you have the title to them, or the right of possession to them; whether they concern private matters or public matters; if the latter, whether the United States is concerned.”
“We can assume the first,” said she. “I know for a fact that you took the articles in question from the cab, which you found deserted before a vacant lot.”
“How do you know it?” Harleston asked.
“Because, as I told you over the telephone, you were seen—in fact, I saw you. I saw you light a match inside the cab, come out with the envelope, look it over quickly, and put it in your pocket. You’ll admit these facts?”
“I am advised by my counsel that I’m not obliged to answer!” he laughed.
“On the ground that it will incriminate you?” she asked quickly. “Isn’t that tantamount to admitting the fact?”
“That is a matter of argument, it seems to me.”
She smiled good naturedly and went on:
“As to your second contingency, Mr. Harleston; the envelope and its contents were left with me for delivery to another party—which I believe gives me the right of possession, as you term it. At any rate, it gives me a better title than yours.”
“If the party who left them with you had a good title,” he amended. “If, however, he obtained them from—a deserted cab, say—then his title would be no better than you’ve put in me; not so good, in fact, for according to your tale I have the envelope.”
She shrugged again.
“Now as to your third contingency,” she went on, “I am not able to say what is the nature of the document, nor whom nor what nation it concerns.”
“You mean that you’re ignorant of its contents and its nature?” he asked.
She met his glance frankly. “I mean that I haven’t any idea of its contents or its purpose.”
He slowly tapped his cigarette against the swinging brass ash-receiver.
“Wouldn’t it be well, my dear Madame X, to lay your cards on the table—all your cards?”
“I’m perfectly willing, if you’ll do likewise,” she replied instantly.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“Very well,” he returned. “Let me see your hand and you shall see mine.”
“This one?” she smiled, holding it up.
He leaned over and took the long, slim fingers in the tips of his own—and she let him.
“It’s mighty pretty,” he said, with assumed gravity. “Am I to have it in place of the facts—or along with them?”
“Neither at present,” withdrawing her hand. “Business first, Mr. Harleston—and cards on the table.”
“You’re to play,” he smiled, “and whenever you will.”
Ordinarily he made up his mind very quickly as to another’s sincerity, but she puzzled him. What was the game? And if there were no game so far as she was concerned, how did she happen to be in the very midst of it, and trying to recover—or to obtain—the cipher letter and the photograph? It was a queer situation? the reasonable inferences were against her. Yet—
“I hardly know where to begin,” she was saying.
“Begin at the beginning,” he advised.
He must appear to credit her story that she was concerned only as an innocent associate. And it was not difficult to do, sitting there beside her in the subdued light, under the witching tones of her voice, and the alluring fascination of her face. The face was not perfect; far from it, if by perfect is meant features accordant with one another and true to type. Her hair was flaming red; her eyes were brown, dark brown, a certain pensiveness in them most inaccordant with the hair; her nose was slender, with sensitive nostrils; her mouth was generous with lips a trifle full; her teeth were exquisitely white and symmetrical—and she showed them with due modesty, yet with proper appreciation of their beauty.
Altogether she was a very charming picture; and throwing away his cigarette, he lighted a cigar and settled back to watch the play of her features and hear the melody of her voice. He was a trifle impressed with the lady—and he was willing that the tale require time and attention. Furthermore, it was his business to observe her critically, so that he might decide as to the matter in hand. In the present instance his business was very much to his liking, but that did not make it any the less business.
Something of which the lady may have suspected and was prepared to humour. A man must be humoured at times—particularly when the woman is trying for something that can only be come at through his favour or acquiescence.
“To begin at the beginning will make it a long story,” she warned.
“Then by all means begin it there,” he answered.
“You can endure it?”
“I’m very comfortable; we are alone; and the light is admirable.”
“Same here!” she smiled, with a tantalizing glance from the brown eyes. “Can you start me?”
“I might, but I won’t. The glory shall all be yours.”
“I’m glad there is to be some glory in this affair; there’s been little enough so far. However, to begin.”
“No hurry, my dear Madame X.”
“Don’t you want my decision as to dinner?” she asked.
“You can continue the narrative while we dine. Now to begin.”
“Then vanish Madame X, and enter Mistress Clephane.”
At that moment a woman and a man entered the room from the corridor by the middle door, and crossed to a divan in the corner farthest from Mrs. Clephane and Harleston. The former had her back to them; Harleston was facing their way and saw them.
The man was middle-aged, bald, and somewhat stout—and Harleston recognized one of his visitors of the early morning. The woman was sinuous, with raven hair, dead white complexion, a perfectly lovely face, and a superb figure. Harleston would have known that walk and that figure anywhere and at any time even if he had not seen her face.
It was Madeline Spencer.