The three strings

PALMER, fussing among his blue prints, looked up as his stenographer ushered Dan Maynard into his office.

“Sit down,” he exclaimed heartily. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back after all; you need not wait, Miss Hall,” and the stenographer walked out, closing the door behind her. Palmer swung his swivel-chair about so as to face his visitor who had selected a seat near the desk. “I stopped at the Burnhams’ particularly to see you, but found you had left to come here.”

“Too bad,” commented Maynard. “I should have telephoned first before going to the rehearsal of the tableaux at the Belasco, to ask you to wait for me; my stupidity.” He leaned a little nearer. “Have you seen the taxi-driver?”

“Not yet.” Maynard’s face fell; he had jumped to the conclusion from Palmer’s manner that he had news of importance. “The Potomac Taxi Company reported Sam was engaged to motor a party out to Camp Meade; they are expected back this evening.” Palmer drummed his fingers on the desk a second, then asked abruptly: “Did you tell Mrs. Burnham about the attempt to shoot her husband last night?”

“No.” Maynard balanced his hat on his knee with nice exactness. “Burnham asked me not to. And to be quite candid, after I had helped Dr. Hayden put him to bed I departed and left the doctor to tell as much as he thought fit to Mrs. Burnham when she returned.”

“Was she out?”

“Yes, gone to some Red Cross meeting, so Jones told us.” Maynard smiled broadly. “I rather imagine from what was said at breakfast this morning that Mrs. Burnham laid her husband’s condition to too convivial a disposition.”

Palmer did not smile. “I am afraid she has frequent occasion to think that and with reason. Frankly, Maynard, Burnham has been going at a pretty lively clip during the past six months and unless he pulls up he will be over the precipice,” he said soberly.

Maynard’s mirth vanished. “I am sorry to hear it,” he declared. “Burnham is a good fellow at bottom, and his wife,” Maynard stooped over to pick up his hat which had finally over-balanced and rolled to the floor. There was a pause before he again spoke. “It must be doubly hard on Mrs. Burnham; aside from her affection for her husband she is a proud woman, and to have her affairs discussed in public must go against the grain.”

It was Palmer’s turn to smile. “You weren’t here when their engagement was announced? Well, my good fellow, Mrs. Burnham was then the storm-center of criticism, not to say amusement. No, I can’t believe the public’s opinion, good or bad, influences her actions. She is a law unto herself.”

Maynard shook his head in unbelief. “What part of the country does she hail from?” he asked.

“New York; she comes of old Knickerbocker stock.” Palmer tilted back in his chair. “Her daughter is like her in looks as well as in disposition; she also has a will of her own,” he sighed, then spoke carefully, choosing his words. “I hope to marry her.”

Maynard looked at him, but his grave manner precluded jesting. After all there was not so much difference in Evelyn’s and Palmer’s ages as to make the match unsuitable. Palmer had money, influence, and came of a family long distinguished in his country’s annals. Undoubtedly society’s verdict would commend such an engagement, and yet—Maynard’s thoughts reverted to René La Montague whose aristocratic carriage and good looks were in vast contrast to the square-jawed bulldog type of manhood lolling before him in a swivel-chair.

“I wish you all success in your courtship,” said Maynard, suddenly conscious that an answer was expected of him. “Do Burnham and his wife approve?”

“Burnham does.” Palmer examined his fingernails critically. “I have never been able to get an opinion out of Mrs. Burnham; she can be very evasive when it suits her.”

“Well, the main thing is to win the girl’s affections,” remarked Maynard. “Don’t worry about the mother, her opinion is of secondary importance these days in selecting a husband.”

“Not in this case; Evelyn loses her fortune if she marries without her mother’s consent.”

“Ah, indeed? And who inherits the fortune in case Mrs. Burnham’s consent is withheld?”

“Mrs. Burnham.”

“Oh!” Maynard stared blankly at the architect. “An unjust will,” he said gravely. “It is unfair to Evelyn, very; she has either to marry to please her mother, or select a wealthy man; or——” He paused.

“Or what?”

“Choose love in a cottage.”

Palmer shrugged his shoulders. “To a girl brought up to expect every luxury and never count the cost, love in a cottage hasn’t a great appeal—except in the movies. I know I shan’t have an easy time winning Evelyn,” he admitted in a sudden burst of candor. “She is very popular, but in the end,” his jaw snapped, “Americans should marry Americans.”

Maynard’s eyebrows rose slightly; so Palmer was aware of René La Montagne’s courtship of Evelyn! Had he gained that information the night before or was the affair common gossip?

“Heard anything further about the mysterious dead man?” he inquired.

Palmer looked glum. “Not a thing,” he admitted. “I called up Coroner Penfield to-day at Burnham’s request to ask when the inquest would take place, and was told that a preliminary examination had been held, the body put in a receiving vault, and upon further developments the inquest will be continued.”

Maynard whistled. “The delay is unusual; they must be waiting for witnesses.”

“Or to identify the dead man.”

“Have they made any progress in solving that problem?”

“The coroner did not say.”

“Strange that a man can drop out of existence and not be missed or inquired about,” mused Maynard. “The dead man must have had some friends or relatives.”

“Perhaps they are not in this country.”

“They can always cable.”

Palmer tilted still farther back in his chair. “Has it occurred to you that the dead man’s friends or relatives may reside in Germany?”

“Do you mean that the dead man was a German spy?”

“Yes.” Palmer sat upright. “That to me is the only explanation for the, as you mention, inexplicable fact that no one has reported such a man as missing to the police or made inquiries for him. Coroner Penfield states his photograph has been circulated with a minute description of his clothes.”

“Has the photograph appeared in the newspapers?”

“I think not. From all accounts he must have looked pretty gruesome, Maynard; the newspapers wouldn’t want to publish a picture of a dead man sitting in a chair. It isn’t done.”

“Pretty good publicity if it were done,” retorted Maynard bluntly. “Have you told Detective Mitchell your theory?”

“Not yet.” Palmer hesitated. “Let the police work out their theories first. There’s another reason,” and he smiled. “Washington is spy-mad; and I don’t want to be classed among the men and women who write anonymously to the Department of Justice or telephone the Secret Service regarding the, to them, suspicious behavior of their neighbors. Hot air, most of it.”

“Better hot air than run the risk of letting a spy escape through not reporting him,” remarked Maynard. “If I were you, Palmer, I wouldn’t lose any time in seeing Mitchell, and suggest to him that the Secret Service take a hand in the game.”

“They may be working from that end already,” answered Palmer doubtfully. “However, if you think it best I’ll step over to the Treasury Department and see Chief Connor. Would you like to come along?”

“Very much.”

“Good.” Palmer swung about and gathered up the blue prints of all sizes which littered his desk. He was in the act of placing them in his drawer when a sharp rap followed instantly by the entrance of his office boy interrupted him.

“General West is awaitin’ in his car to speak to yo’,” announced the darkey. “The General’s in a pow’ful big hurry an’ he wants ter see the plan for the new buildin’ for the Ordnance.”

Palmer selected four blue prints. “I’ll be right back,” he told Maynard and hurried out into the hall.

Left to himself Maynard gazed about the room and then back at the disorderly desk. Moving quietly over to it he scanned several drawings and turned them over. As he did so his eye fell on a small chess problem diagram half buried among the larger prints and he picked it up to examine more closely. With lightning speed his trained eyes studied the diagram and the message beneath it:

A second more and the diagram was tucked safely in an inner pocket as approaching footsteps heralded the return of Palmer, and when he entered Maynard was indolently reading the evening newspaper.

“There’s no pleasing some people,” fumed the architect, tossing the plans he carried into the open drawer and thrusting the others pell mell on top of them he slammed the drawer shut and locked it securely. “We’ve got to hurry, Maynard, to get to the Treasury Department before closing time. Come on.”

Stopping only long enough to push down the safety lock of the door to his private office and cautioning the boy to take all telephone messages, Palmer hurried the actor into the street.

“Not a car in sight,” he exclaimed looking up the street. “We’ll have to walk; all Washington’s doing it,” he added, laughing, and the two men strode along, unconsciously quickening their pace as they crossed Lafayette Square into Pennsylvania Avenue. Maynard on reaching the north front of the Treasury swerved toward the long row of steps leading to the building but Palmer stopped him.

“Only one entrance used now-a-days,” he explained. “That on Fifteenth Street, this way,” and they hurried along Pennsylvania Avenue and around the corner.

Paying no attention to the sign “No Visitors Allowed” which hung conspicuously near the only open door, Palmer led the way inside the building and was promptly stopped by an attendant, whose peremptory manner thawed somewhat at sight of Palmer’s visiting card.

“I’ll take you to the Captain of the Watch,” he said. “Here, Tom,” and signing to another attendant to take his place, he escorted them into a small room a few steps away. They had to wait until the Captain of the Watch had interviewed the three men and two women who had reached the room ahead of them. At Palmer’s request to see the Chief of the Secret Service the Captain smiled.

“Won’t an assistant do?” he asked. “The Chief’s somewhat busy.”

Palmer, having made up his mind to see Chief Connor, was not to be sidetracked.

“No,” he said decidedly. “I won’t detain the Chief but a minute; it’s important. Here’s my card,” and he laid it on the desk. The Captain pushed over some printed blanks.

“Fill out these forms,” he directed, “both you and your friend,” and he picked up his telephone receiver and held a subdued conversation which he discontinued when Palmer and Maynard handed him the filled-in blanks bearing their signatures and addresses. A touch of the push button and the attendant returned.

“Take these gentlemen upstairs,” the Captain directed and turned to interview some newcomers.

As Maynard accompanied Palmer and their guide up the winding staircase and through the broad corridors he noted the numerous uniformed attendants pacing up and down. In the outer office of the Secret Service Headquarters they were met by a polite secretary who invited them to be seated and confide their business to him, which Palmer, his obstinacy aroused by what his amour propre took to be a slight in shelving him with a subordinate when he desired to see the Chief, declined to do.

The secretary’s patience was wearing thin under Palmer’s irritating manner and he was about to close the interview when the swing door leading to an inner office opened and Detective Mitchell stepped out. He halted at sight of Maynard, who sat with his back toward the door, and disappeared into the room again. An instant later the call bell buzzed and, excusing himself, the secretary stepped inside the inner room.

“Nice business keeping a man of my standing waiting in an anteroom,” fumed Palmer, turning to Maynard, but the latter’s rejoinder was lost by the return of the secretary.

“Will you and your friend step this way, Mr. Palmer?” he said. “Chief Connor will see you.”

Palmer’s walk past the secretary was indicative of his feeling of triumph; he had gained his point. Maynard, following close at his heels, smothered a smile as they reached the large table near the window where sat Chief Connor with Detective Mitchell standing by him.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Palmer,” said Connor cordially, as Palmer introduced himself and then mentioned Maynard’s name. Chief Connor rose and extended his hand to the famous actor. “Won’t you sit here?” indicating chairs to his right. “You already know Mitchell, I believe.”

Palmer nodded curtly; he was somewhat taken aback at the presence of the detective; he would rather have seen the Chief alone. Maynard, who had acknowledged Mitchell’s greeting courteously, waited for Palmer to open the interview, but it was not until Connor remarked pleasantly: “Well, gentlemen,” that Palmer addressed him.

“I am convinced that the man found dead in Burnham’s library on Tuesday afternoon was a German spy,” he stated. “I presume from the presence of Detective Mitchell, who is in charge of the investigation of that mystery, that you are working along the same lines.”

Connor’s reply took the form of a question. “What leads you to think the man was a German spy?”

“The fact that no inquiries have been made for him looks to me as if his relatives and friends are in Germany,” explained Palmer. “If he had been of any nationality at peace with us, or an American citizen, his absence would have been reported and the aid of the police sought.”

Connor nodded slightly. “That is a reasonable argument, Mr. Palmer, but it is not evidence. Any one who dies suddenly these days is a German spy—in the public’s opinion.” The Chief’s stern mouth relaxed into a faint smile. “We must have more to go upon than that.”

Maynard looked across at Detective Mitchell. “Have you identified the man?”

There was a faint pause before Mitchell answered, “No, but our finger-print experts will make a final report soon,” he answered.

“Slow work,” observed Palmer, and Chief Connor saw the color steal up in the detective’s face.

“Slow work—but sure,” he remarked with emphasis. “Don’t give yourself too much concern, Mr. Palmer, the police will solve the riddle. And it is a case presenting some unique features, I’ll admit.”

“It does,” exclaimed Mitchell eagerly. “Here we have a man, without an identifying mark on his person or his clothes, poisoned sometime between two and three Tuesday morning and his body not found until twelve hours later, and then located in a room which an hour previous had not contained his body,” Mitchell rumpled his hair, “and no one in the house but Miss Evelyn Preston who arrived that morning. It’s a very pretty problem.”

“There was some one else in the house beside Miss Preston,” replied Palmer warmly. “The man who carried the dead body into the library. It’s a great pity the house wasn’t searched instantly from top to bottom.”

“True,” agreed Maynard. “But none of us, the coroner and Dr. Hayden included, realized there might be a murderer concealed on the premises until after Penfield’s statement that the man had been dead about twelve hours, and Miss Preston’s immediate declaration that some one had rung the library bell just before she came upstairs from the kitchen and found the dead man sitting there. Our search then, of course, proved fruitless; the man had made good his escape.”

“There wasn’t a trace of any one having been in the house except Miss Preston,” added Mitchell. “We searched the entire place.”

“That bears out Burnham’s theory that the man was murdered elsewhere and carried into his house,” remarked Palmer.

“It is an interesting theory,” commented Chief Connor, and turned to Palmer directly. “I understand, Mr. Palmer, that you are Mr. Burnham’s most intimate friend; can you tell me if he has any enemies?”

Palmer glanced involuntarily at Maynard. “I never heard any one express hatred of Burnham,” he said, speaking slowly. “But he is not particularly popular.”

“That bears out what I have heard, Chief,” broke in Mitchell.

“Yes.” Connor turned again to Palmer. “You have answered very concisely, Mr. Palmer; now please tell me if you have heard Burnham express animosity toward any one.”

Palmer moved restlessly. “That’s a hard question.”

“Why?”

“Because Burnham is very outspoken and frequently exaggerates his feelings.”

“Mr. Palmer, I will be greatly obliged if you will answer directly; does Burnham harbor animosity against any one?”

“Well, to be exact,” Palmer avoided Maynard’s eyes, “I believe he dislikes René La Montagne.”

“René La Montagne?”

“Captain in the French Flying Corps, an ‘Ace,’” explained Maynard, breaking into the conversation. “The dislike is all on Burnham’s side; I have never heard La Montagne say anything disagreeable about Burnham.” He paused, then added, “Burnham’s behavior is peculiar at times, I understand.”

“So it appears,” replied Chief Connor dryly. “Mitchell has just informed me that Burnham’s train reached Washington about one thirty Tuesday morning.”

“It did?” Palmer sat up and stared at the speaker. “Why, Burnham telephoned me Tuesday night from Union Station that he had just arrived.”

Maynard, the fingers of his right hand resting in his vest pocket, thrust a paper deeper down inside the lining as he listened absorbedly to the conversation.

“There is another point where you can help us, Mr. Palmer,” continued Chief Connor. “Has Burnham in your presence ever uttered seditious and disloyal sentiments?”

“Never!” Palmer’s denial was instant.

“Ah!” Chief Connor eyed his visitors sharply. “Your statement contradicts letters received here in which it is charged that Burnham is a pronounced pacifist.”

Palmer pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “You said seditious utterances,” he began. “Burnham has never made them before me, but I have heard him state his pacifist views; that was before this country went into the war. No one paid any attention to him.”

“One person did,” remarked Connor dryly. “Our correspondent.”

“And who is he?”

Chief Connor opened a drawer and took from a file a paper, evidently a deposition as far as Maynard could make out from where he sat and the angle at which Connor held the sheet.

“The name signed here,” continued the Chief of the Secret Service, “is Adolphus Jones.”

“Adolphus Jones,” repeated Palmer. “Who is he?”

“The Burnhams’ butler—Jones,” answered Detective Mitchell.