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I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln · English · Gutenberg #9812 · 384,167 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: I Spy

Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln


        
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9812]
                Most recently updated: December 26, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9812

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK I SPY ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and PG
Distributed Proofreaders











                                 I SPY

                        BY NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

                                 1916




_To MRS. SARAH VAIL GOULD my grandmother to whose affection belongs many
joyous days of childhood at "Oaklands" this book is offered as a loving
tribute to her memory._




CONTENTS

      I. AT VICTORIA STATION

     II. OUT OF THE VOID

    III. POWERS THAT PREY

     IV. "SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?"

      V. AN EVENTFUL EVENING

     VI. AT THE CAPITOL

    VII. PHANTOM WIRES

   VIII. KAISER BLUMEN

     IX. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

      X. SISTERS IN UNITY

     XI. A MAN IN A HURRY

    XII. A SINISTER DISCOVERY

   XIII. HIDE AND SEEK

    XIV. A QUESTION OF LOYALTY

     XV. THE GAME, "I SPY"

    XVI. AT THE MORGUE

   XVII. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

  XVIII. A PROPOSAL

    XIX. THE YELLOW STREAK

     XX. THE AWAKENING

    XXI. THE FINGER PRINT

   XXII. "TRENTON HURRY"

  XXIII. IN FULL CRY

   XXIV. RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE

    XXV. LOVE PARAMOUNT




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"He saw Kathleen quickly palm his place card"

"As Henry pushed back the door, she collapsed into her father's arms"

"'A flash, the rifle's recoil--and Mr. Whitney still standing just
where he was'"

"Whitney paused to snatch up a magnifying glass and by its aid examined
the finger prints"




CHAPTER I

AT VICTORIA STATION


The allied forces, English and French, had been bent backward day by day,
until it seemed as if Paris was fairly within the Germans' grasp. Bent
indeed, but never broken, and with the turning of the tide the Allied
line had rushed forward, and France breathed again.

Two men, seated in a room of the United Service Club in London one gloomy
afternoon in November, 1914, talked over the situation in tones too low
to reach other ears. The older man, Sir Percival Hargraves, had been
bemoaning the fact that England seemed honeycombed by the German Secret
Service, and his nephew, John Hargraves, an officer in uniform, was
attempting to reassure him. It was a farewell meeting, for the young
officer was returning to the front.

"Much good will all this espionage do the Germans," said the young man.
"We are easily holding our own, and with the spring will probably come
our opportunity." He clicked his teeth together. "What price then all
these suspected plots and futile intrigues?"

"Don't be so damned cocksure," rapped out his uncle, his exasperation
showing in heightened color and snapping eyes. "It's that same
cocksureness which has almost brought the British Empire to the very
brink of dissolution."

His nephew smiled tolerantly, and shifted his thickset figure to a more
comfortable position.

"Now, now," he cautioned. "Remember what old Sawbones told you yesterday
about not exciting yourself. Said you weren't to read or talk about this
bally old war. Leave the worrying to Kitchener; he'll see we chaps do
our part."

"If everything were left to Kitchener!" Sir Percival thumped the arm of
his chair. "Some of us would sleep easier in our beds. And I know you
chaps at the front will do your part. Would to God I could be with you!"
glancing at his shrunken and useless left leg. "If I could only take a
pot at the beggars!"

"According to your belief the firing line will shortly be on English
soil," chaffed his nephew, avoiding looking at his companion. He knew the
tragic circumstances surrounding his uncle's maimed condition, and wished
to avoid anything touching upon sentiment.

"If the plans to undermine England's home government are perfected and
carried out, every man, woman and child will have to band together to
repel invasion." Sir Percival lowered his voice. "If there are any
able-bodied men left here."

"Don't be so pessimistic. Kitchener has built up a great army, and is
only waiting the proper moment to launch it in the field."

"The best of England has volunteered," agreed Sir Percival, "but what
about the slackers? What about the coal strikes--the trouble in our
munition factories? All are chargeable to the Kaiser's war machine which
overlooks nothing in its complete preparedness. Preparedness--England
doesn't yet know the meaning of the word."

"It's time for me to leave," said the young officer, consulting his
watch. "Take my word for it, Uncle, we're not going to the demnition
bowwows--count on England's bulldog grit. God help Germany when the
Allies get into that country!"

"When--ah, when?" echoed Sir Percival. "I hope that I live to see the
day. Tell me, boy," his voice softening, "how is it with you and Molly?"

His nephew reddened under his tan. "Molly doesn't care for a chap like
me," he muttered.

"Did she tell you so?"

"Well, no. You see, Uncle, it--eh--doesn't seem the thing to suggest
that a charming girl like Molly tie herself to a fellow who may get his
at any time."

"Piffle!" Sir Percival's shaggy eyebrows met in a frown. "Sentimental
nonsense! You and Molly were great chums a year ago. You told me yourself
that you hoped to marry her; I even spoke to her mother about the
suitability of the match."

"You had no right to," blazed his nephew. "It was damned impertinent
interference."

"You have not always thought so," retorted Sir Percival bitterly. "What
had that most impertinent American girl you met in Germany to do with
your change of front toward Molly?"

"I must insist that you speak more respectfully of Kathleen." John
Hargraves' expression altered. "If you must know, I asked Kathleen to
marry me and--she refused."

"I said she was impertinent. All Americans are; they don't know any
better," fumed his uncle. "Forget her, John; think of Molly. I tell you
the child loves you. Don't wreck her happiness for the sake of a
fleeting fancy."

"Fleeting fancy?" John Hargraves shook his head sorrowfully. "When
Kathleen refused me I was hard hit; so hit I can't marry any other girl.
Don't let's talk of it." He smiled wistfully as he held out his hand.
"Time's up, Uncle; the train leaves in an hour, and I must get my kit.
Good-by, sir. Wish me luck." And before the older man could stop him he
was retreating down the hall.

Sir Percival stared vacantly about the room. "The last of his race," he
muttered. "God help England! The toll is heavy."

In spite of his haste John Hargraves was late in reaching Victoria
Station, and had barely time to take his place before the train pulled
slowly out. As he looked down the long trainshed, he encountered the
fixed stare of a tall, well-groomed man standing near one of the pillars.
Hargraves looked, and looked again; then his hand flew up, and leaning
far out of his compartment he shouted to a porter. But his message was
lost in the roar of the more rapidly moving train, and the porter,
shaking a bewildered head, turned back.

The crowd of women and children and a few men, which had gathered to
witness the troop train's departure, was silently dispersing when an
obsequious porter approached the tall stranger whose appearance had so
excited John Hargraves.

"Ye keb's out 'ere, sir," he said. "This way, sir," and as the stranger
made no move to follow him, he leaned forward and lifted the latter's top
coat from his arm. "Let me carry this 'ere for you, gov'ner," then in a
whisper that none could overhear, he said in German: "For your life,
follow me."

"Go on," directed the stranger in English, pausing to adjust his cravat,
and made his leisurely way after the hurrying porter. The latter stopped
finally by the side of a somewhat battered-looking limousine.

"'Ere ye are, sir," announced the porter, not waiting for the
chauffeur to pull open the door. "I most amissed ye," he rattled on.
"Kotched the keb, sir, an' tucked yer boxes inside, then I looked for
ye at the bookin' office, 'cording to directions. Let me tuck this
'ere laprobe over ye."

As the stranger stepped into the limousine and seated himself the porter
clambered in after him.

"They're on," he whispered, his freckles showing plainly against his
white face. "The chauffeur is one of us, he'll take you straight to our
landing. This packet's for you. Good luck!" And pocketing the sovereign
offered, the porter, voicing loud thanks, backed from the limousine and
slammed the door shut.

The outskirts of London were reached before the man in the limousine
opened the slip of paper thrust into his hand by the porter. It was
wrapped about a small electric torch and a book of cigarette papers.
Slowly he read the German script in the note.

Be at the rendezvous by Thursday. Hans, the chauffeur, has full
directions. Do not miss the seventeenth.

After rereading the contents of the note the man tore it into tiny bits
and, not content with that, stuffed them among the tobacco in his pipe.
Striking a match he lighted his pipe and planting his feet on the bag he
gazed long and earnestly at his initials stamped on the much labeled
buckskin. The slowing up of the limousine aroused him from his
meditations, and he glanced out of the window to see which way they were
headed. London, the metropolis of the civilized world, lay behind him.
Catching his chauffeur's backward glance, he signaled him to continue
onward as, removing his pipe, he muttered:

"_Gott strafe England_!"




CHAPTER II

OUT OF THE VOID


Slowly, the sullen roar of artillery, the rattle of Maxims and rifles
sank fitfully away. A tall raw-boned major of artillery stretched his
cramped limbs in the observation station, paused to look with callous
eyes over the devastated fields before him, then sought the trench.
Earlier in the day the Allies had been shelled out of an advance position
by the enemy and had fallen back on the entrenchments.

"Devilish hot stuff, shrapnel," commented a brother officer as Major
Seymour stopped at his side.

The Major nodded absently, and without further reply advanced a few paces
to meet an ammunition corporal who was obviously seeking him. "Well?" he
demanded, as the non-commissioned officer saluted.

"Only twenty rounds left, Major." The Corporal lowered his voice.
"Captain Hargraves sent word to rush reinforcements here as soon as it is
dark, sir."

Major Seymour glanced with unconcealed impatience at his wrist watch.
God! Would night never come!

"Can't we get our wounded to the base hospital, Major?" asked a
younger officer. He had only joined the unit thirty-six hours before
and while he had faced the baptism of fire gallantly, the ghastly
carnage about him shook his nerve. He was not fed up with horrors as
were his brother officers.

"The wounded would stand small chance of reaching safety if the German
gunners sighted them. They must wait for darkness," replied Seymour.
"Here, take a pull at my flask. Got potted yourself, didn't you?"
noticing a thin stream of blood trickling down his companion's sleeve.

"Only a flesh wound--of no moment," protested the young man, flushing at
the thought that his commanding officer might have misunderstood his
question. "I'm afraid Captain Hargraves is in a bad way."

"Hargraves!" The Major spun on his heel. "Where is he?"

"This way, sir," and the Lieutenant led him past groups of men and
officers. It was an appalling scene of desolation. The approach of night
had brought a slight drizzling rain, and the ground, pitted with shell
holes, was slimy with wet, greasy mud. Nearly all the trees in the
vicinity were blasted as if by lightning, and along the right hand side
of the road was a line of A.S.S. carts and limbers blown to pieces. One
horse, completely disemboweled, lay on his back, the inside arch of his
ribs plainly showing. His leader was a mass of entrails lying about, and
on the other side lay four or five more, one with a foreleg blown clear
off at the shoulder, one minus a head. A half-dozen motor cycles and over
a dozen push bikes lay in the mud with some unrecognizable shapes that
had been riding them. Between the advance trenches, in No Man's Land, the
ground was thickly strewn with corpses of Scotties killed in the charge.

"The Huns had us cold as to range," volunteered the Lieutenant, loss
of blood and reaction from excitement loosening his tongue. "They
outed five guns complete with detachments by direct hits. Here we are,
sir," and he paused near a demolished gun emplacement. The ground
about was a shambles.

Major Seymour stepped up to one of the figures lying upon the ground,
a mud-incrusted coat thrown over his legs. Several privates who had
been rendering what assistance they could, moved aside on the
approach of their superior officers. Hargraves opened his eyes as
Seymour knelt by him.

"My number's up," he whispered, and the game smile which twisted his
white lips was pitiful.

"Nonsense." Seymour's gruff tone concealed emotion. Hargraves' face
betrayed death's indelible sign. "You'll pull through, once you're back
at the hospital."

Hargraves shook his head; he realized the futility of argument.

"Have you pencil and paper?" he asked.

"Yes." Seymour drew out his despatch book and removed a page. "What is
it, John?" But some minutes passed before his question received an
answer, and Hargraves' voice was noticeably weaker, as he dictated:

DEAR KATHLEEN:

I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he ... warn
Uncle ... Kathleen ... Kathleen ...

There was a long silence; then Seymour laid aside the unneeded brandy
flask and slowly rose to his feet. He mechanically folded the scrap of
paper, but before slipping it inside his pocket, the blank side arrested
his attention.

"Heavens! John never gave me her address or last name. Who is Kathleen?"
he exclaimed.

More shaken than he was willing to confess even to himself, by the loss
of his pal, he stared bitterly across the battlefield toward the enemy's
lines. How cheerily Hargraves had greeted him that morning on his return
from a week's furlough in England! How glad he had been to rejoin the
unit and be once again with his comrades on the firing line! A gallant
spirit had passed to the Great Beyond.

Back in his observation station Major Seymour an hour later viewed the
gathering darkness with satisfaction. Two hours more and it would be
difficult to see a hand before one's face. Undoubtedly the sorely needed
ammunition and reserves would reach the trenches in time, and the wounded
could be safely transferred to the base hospital. The Allies' line had
held, and in spite of their desperate assaults the Germans had been
unable to find a vulnerable spot.

Seymour passed his hand over his eyes. Against the darkness his fevered
imagination pictured advancing "gray phantoms." "They come like demons
from the hell they have created," he muttered. "I hope to God they
don't use 'starlights' over our trenches tonight. Flesh and blood can
stand no more."

The darkness grew denser and more dense. In the long battle front of the
Allies no sentinel saw a powerful Aviatik biplane glide over the trenches
and fly onward toward its goal. Several times the airman inspected his
phosphorescent compass and map, each time thereafter altering his course.
Finally, making a sign to his observer, he planed to a lower level and,
satisfied that he had reached the proper distance, a bomb was released.

Down through the black void the infernal machine sped. A sickening
pause--then a deafening detonation, followed by another and another, cut
the stillness, and the earth beneath was aflame with light as the high
explosives and shells stored in the concealed ammunition depot were set
off. Nothing escaped destruction; flesh and blood, mortar and brick went
skyward together, and a great gash in the earth was all that was left to
tell the story of the enemy's successful raid.

From a safe height the German airman and his observer watched their
handiwork. Suddenly the latter caught sight of an aeroplane winging its
way toward them.

"Bauerschreck!" he shouted, and the airman followed his pointed finger.
Instantly under his skillful manipulation their biplane climbed into the
air in long graceful spirals until they were six thousand feet above
ground. But as fast as they went, their heavier Aviatik was no match in
speed for the swift French aeroplane, and the bullets from the latter's
machine gun were soon uncomfortably near.

The German airman's face was set in grim lines as he maneuvered his
biplane close to his pursuer and, dodging and twisting in sharp dips and
curves, spoiled the aim of the Frenchman at the machine gun, while his
own revolver and that of his observer kept up a continuous fusillade.

For twenty minutes the unequal fight continued. It could not last much
longer. Despair pulled at the German's heartstrings as he saw his
observer topple for a moment in his seat, then pitch forward into space.
The biplane tipped dangerously, righted itself and sped like a homing
pigeon in the direction of the German lines. There was nothing left but
to fly for it. The German dared not look behind; only by the mercy of God
were the Frenchman's shots going wild. It could not last; he must get the
range. Surely, surely they were past the last of the Allies' trenches?

The German turned and fired his revolver desperately at his pursuers.
Glory to God! one of his bullets punctured the latter's gasoline tank. It
must be so--the French aeroplane was apparently making a forced landing.
The shout on the German's lips was checked by a stinging sensation in his
right side. The Frenchman had his range at last.

Almost simultaneously his machine turned completely over. With groping,
desperate fingers the German strove to gain control over the levels and
right himself. In vain--and as he started in the downward rush, the
hurrying wind carried the frenzied whisper:

"The cross, dear God, the cross!"




CHAPTER III

POWERS THAT PREY


Not far as the crow flies from the scene of the German airman's
catastrophe, but with its presence hidden from general knowledge, was
the Grosses Hauptquartier, the pulsing heart and brain of the Imperial
fighting forces. Vigilant sentries patrolled the park leading from the
chateau commandeered for the use of the War Lord and his entourage, to
the quarters of the Great General Staff. In a secluded room of the
latter building a dozen men sat in conference about a table littered
with papers; they had been there since early evening, but no man
permitted his glance to stray to the dial of a library clock whose hands
were gradually approaching two o'clock. Truly, the chiefs of the
divisions were tireless toilers.

The Herr Chief of the Great General Staff was emphasizing his remarks
with vigor unusual even for him, when the telephone, no respecter of
persons, sent out its tinkling call. Hitching his chair closer to the
table, the Herr Chief of the Aviation Corps removed the receiver from
the instrument. A courteous silence prevailed as he took the message.
Replacing the receiver, he turned and confronted his confrères.

"An outpost reports," he began formally, "that Captain von Eltz in his
Aviatik biplane was pursued and wrecked by a French airman who was
obliged to make a forced landing inside our lines. The French airmen were
shot in their attempt to escape. Owing to the Aviatik biplane catching in
the branches of a tree and thereby breaking his fall Captain von Eltz was
rescued alive, although desperately wounded. The observer who accompanied
him is dead. On regaining consciousness Captain von Eltz reported that
his mission was successful, the new ammunition depot having been
completely destroyed by his bomb."

A low hum of approval greeted his words. "Well done, gallant von Eltz!"
exclaimed one of the hearers. "He deserves the Iron Cross."

"He will receive it," declared another officer enthusiastically.

"The information as to the location of this new ammunition depot, which
von Eltz has just destroyed, came from the man of whom I have been
telling you tonight," broke in the Herr Chief of the Secret Service. "He
has been our eyes and ears in England. Gentlemen, is it your wish that he
be intrusted with the delicate mission of which we have just been
speaking?"

The eyes of the Herr Chief of the Great General Staff swept his
companions. "Is it that I speak for all?" A quick affirmative answered
him. "Then, we leave the matter entirely in your hands." The Herr Chief
of the Secret Service bowed. "You know your agents; the selection is left
to you, but see there is no unnecessary delay."

"There will be no delay," responded the Herr Chief of the Secret Service.
"My agent is not far from here. With your permission, I take my leave,"
and saluting he hastened from the room.

The sun was halfway in the heavens when a limousine drew up before a
wayside inn near a semi-demolished city. Before the orderly sitting by
the chauffeur could swing himself to the ground, a tall man had stepped
to the side of the car and opened the door. For a second the Herr Chief
of the Secret Service and the stranger contemplated each other without
speaking, then the former motioned to the vacant seat by his side.

"We can talk as we ride," he announced brusquely. "Your luggage--"

"Is here," thrusting a much labeled suitcase inside the limousine and
jumping in after it.

At a low-toned word from the Herr Chief of the Secret Service the orderly
saluted and quickly resumed his seat by the chauffeur. There was a short
silence inside the limousine as the powerful car continued up the road.
They were stopped at the first railroad crossing by a trainload of
wounded soldiers.

"Your pardon," and before the Herr Chief of the Secret Service could stop
him, the stranger pulled down the sash curtains of all the windows. "You
are well known; being recognized is the penalty of greatness. It is to my
interest to escape such a distinction."

"I approve your caution, Herr Captain," observed the older man. "Will you
smoke?" producing his cigarette case, and as the other smilingly helped
himself and accepted a lighted match, he surveyed him critically. Paying
no attention to his chief's scrutiny, the Secret Service agent
contemplated the luxurious appointments of the limousine with
satisfaction and puffed contentedly at his cigarette. His air of breeding
was unmistakable, but the devil-may-care sparkle in his gray-blue eyes
redeemed an otherwise expressionless face from being considered heavy.
The spirits of the Herr Chief of the Secret Service rose. His
recollection and judgment was still good; his agent, by men and women,
would be deemed extremely handsome.

"The new ammunition depot was destroyed last night by our airmen," he
said, with some abruptness. "Your information was reliable."

"Pardon, is not my information always reliable?" interpolated the Secret
Service agent.

"So it has proved," acknowledged his chief cordially, but a mark was
mentally registered against the Herr Captain. German bureaucracy does not
tolerate presumption from a subordinate. "And owing to your excellent
record, you have been selected for a most delicate mission."

"Under the same conditions?"

"The Imperial Government cannot be questioned," retorted his chief, his
anger rising.

"I am different from other operatives." A puff of cigarette smoke
wreathed upward from the speaker's lips. "A free-lance."

"And you have been given a free hand. We have not inquired into your
methods of procuring information, being content with the result."

"And does not the result justify not only your confidence but promotion?"

The Herr Chief of the Secret Service considered before replying; then he
answered with a question.

"Have you been to Ireland?"

The Secret Service agent smiled grimly as he took from his pocket a book
of cigarette papers. Counting them over, he selected the seventeenth
paper, and passed it to his companion, who examined the small blank sheet
with interest. "Just a moment," and the young man again slipped his hand
into a vest pocket, this time bringing out a nickel flashlight. Pressing
his thumb on the switch he held the glass bulb against the rice paper. In
a few minutes a faint tracing appeared on the blank page, which grew
brighter as the rays of light generated more heat.

"Hold it a moment," said the Herr Chief of the Secret Service. "Keep it
over the bulb," and taking out his notebook he made several entries, then
closed it with a snap.

"Finished?" As he asked the question, the Secret Service agent replaced
his pocket flashlight, drew out his tobacco pouch, poured a little in the
rice paper, and proceeded to roll the cigarette with practiced fingers.

"About Sheerness?" questioned the Herr Chief of the Secret Service.

"All is arranged."

"Good." The Herr Chief of the Secret Service permitted himself to settle
back more comfortably on the roomy seat so that he faced his companion.
In the closed and semi-darkened limousine there was no danger of their
conversation being overheard.

"I reserved for myself, Herr Captain," said the Herr Chief slowly, "the
pleasure of informing you that your valuable services to the Kaiser and
the Fatherland"--the Secret Service agent raised his hat--"are
recognized. The Cross may yet be yours."

"How can I express my gratitude?" stammered the Secret Service agent.

"By not jumping to hasty conclusions," smiled his chief. "Never again
question your orders."

"Be just," protested the Secret Service agent warmly. "I have risked my
life daily for the Kaiser and the Fatherland in a hostile country. There
have been hours which I do not care to remember." The speaker's tone grew
husky. "Some day--a short shift; and I must make provision for another."

"I understood you were not married?"

There was a barely perceptible pause. "Spies do not marry, sir."

"And if a Secret Service agent has a healthy regard for his own safety,
he is careful of serious entanglements," cautioned his chief. "However,
judging by your past work, I believe you are quite able to take care of
yourself. Thanks to the warnings and information of your organization we
have been able to meet some of the Allies' contemplated concerted
attacks, and your information as to the sailing of transports and the
movements of ammunition trains has been of inestimable service."

"Do you still wish me to keep up this particular work?"

"No." The Herr Chief of the Secret Service leaned forward in his
earnestness. "This war has demonstrated again and again that victory goes
with the heaviest artillery."

"True! Antwerp, one of the strongest fortified cities on the Continent,
crumpled up before our siege guns," broke in his companion.

The older man paid no attention to the interruption, but continued
gravely: "Hand to hand conflict and cavalry charges are a thing of the
past. We shell out the enemies' trenches from batteries six to twelve
miles away. All this you already know; I repeat it now to explain what I
am about to say. We are in possession of the mining district of France,
they are getting hard pushed for ammunition; England's supply is not
inexhaustible; Russia cannot half arm her fighting forces. They one and
all are appealing to the manufacturing capitalists of the United States
to furnish them with arms and ammunition."

"And with success," dryly.

The Herr Chief of the Secret Police frowned. "It must be stopped. You are
to go to America--"

"I?"

"Yes, at once. You have a genius for organization; your work in England
proved that. Let us know what merchant vessels and passenger steamers are
carrying munitions of war. Be sure, doubly sure, that your information is
correct, for we shall act upon it. Our Government stands ready to take
most drastic measures to stop such traffic."

"I see." The Secret Service agent stroked his clean-shaven chin in
meditative silence. "In England I went hand in hand with death; in the
United States I am likely to outlive my usefulness."

"Perhaps," with dry significance. "But recollect our Government is ready
to adopt _any_ expedient to stop the exporting of arms and ammunition to
our enemies."

"As for instance--?"

"Leave our methods to us; you have your work. You will make your
headquarters at Washington City. There you will be able to place your
hand on the pulse of the nation, and there you will find--idle women."

"Have we not already representatives at the United States capital?"

The Herr Chief of the Secret Service eyed him keenly. "Our embassy is
concerned only with the diplomatic world. You are to send us word whether
the United States Government arsenals are working under a full complement
of men; of the orders placed by the Navy Department for submarines, and
the activities obtaining in private munition plants. Be certain and study
the undercurrent of sentiment for or against us. Report as you have
heretofore."

"How am I to get in touch with the private shipyards and munition
plants?"

"I will give you letters to residents loyal to their Fatherland. A number
of the owners of powder companies and munition plants usually winter in
Washington. I am also told that Mexican juntas still make Washington
their headquarters." The eyes of the Secret Service agent were boring
into him, but the older man's countenance remained a mask. "You must bear
in mind that if the American capitalists persist in selling assistance to
our enemies the attention of the United States must be diverted to other
issues...."

"Such a plan could only be carried out by creating a necessity of
home consumption for war munitions," supplemented the Secret Service
agent softly.

Without replying the Herr Chief of the Secret Service pulled forward a
small despatch-box from a cleverly concealed pocket in the upholstery of
the limousine.

"We are motoring to your nearest destination," he said soberly,
opening the box. "Here are your letters of credit, your passport, and
introductions to our friends across the water," handing him a leather
wallet. "They will see that you are properly introduced to Washington
hostesses. Go out in society; I am told it is most delightful at the
Capital. Make friends with influential public men and prominent
Washingtonians. Above all," with emphasis, "cultivate the gentler
sex; remember, idle women make excellent pawns, my dear Herr Captain
von Mueller."




CHAPTER IV

"SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?"


Mrs. Winslow Whitney, gathering her wraps together, stepped from the
limousine.

"I shall not need you again tonight, Henry," she said, as the chauffeur
sprang to the sidewalk to assist her.

"Very good, ma'am," and touching his cap respectfully, he took from the
limousine the heavy fur laprobe and hastened to ring the doorbell for
his mistress.

Halfway to her front door Mrs. Whitney paused to scan the outward
appearance of her home. The large, Colonial, brick double house, with
lights partly showing behind handsomely curtained windows, looked the
embodiment of comfort, but Mrs. Whitney heaved a sharp sigh of
discontent. The surroundings were not pleasing to her. Again and again
she had pleaded with her husband to give up the old house and move into a
more fashionable neighborhood. But with the tenacity which easy-going men
sometimes exhibit, Winslow Whitney clung to the home of his ancestors. It
had descended from father to son for generations, and finally to him, the
last of the direct male line. Although business had encroached and noisy
electric cars passed his door, and even government buildings dwarfed the
impressive size of the old mansion, he declined to give up his home,
stating that he had been born there and there he would die.

"Very well, you and Providence can settle the point between you, Dad,"
answered Kathleen, his only child, who had been brought in to use her
persuasive powers upon her irate parent. "But as long as mother and I
have to inhabit this old shell you must, simply must, put new works
inside her."

And Whitney, with the generosity which marked his every action to those
he loved, rehabilitated and remodeled the mansion until it finally
rivaled in up-to-date completeness the more ornate homes of the newly
rich in the fashionable Northwest.

"Has Miss Kathleen returned?" asked Mrs. Whitney, handing her wraps to
the breathless Vincent, who had hurried to answer the chauffeur's
imperious ring.

"No, ma'am."

"When she does return, tell her that I wish to see her."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is Mr. Whitney in his studio?"

"Yes, ma'am. Shall I send Julie to you?"

"Tell her to go to my room and wait for me." As she spoke Mrs. Whitney
crossed the broad hall and, passing the Colonial staircase, entered the
elevator. The automatic car carried her to the first bedroom floor but,
changing her mind, she did not open the door; instead she pressed the
electric button marked "Attic." Her slight feeling of irritation aroused
by not being met downstairs by any member of her family was increased by
stepping from the elevator into a dark hall.

"Winslow!" she called. Meeting with no response she walked over to the
opposite wall and by the aid of the light in the elevator found the
electric switch and turned it on. Not pausing to look about her, she went
to the back of the large high-roofed attic and tried the handle of a
closed door. Finding that it would not open to her touch, she rapped
sharply on the panel. She waited several seconds before she heard a chair
pushed back and the sound of advancing footsteps. The inside bolt was
shot back with distinct force.

"Well, what is it?" demanded Whitney, jerking open the door. "Oh, my
dear," his tone changing at sight of his wife, "I had no idea you were
returning so soon."

"Do you call half-past six o'clock soon?" asked Mrs. Whitney following
him into the room. "Winslow, Winslow, I warn you not to become too
absorbed in your work."

Whitney laughed somewhat ruefully. "Does the kettle call the pot black?
What do you do but give up your time to the Sisters in Unity? I'm a
secondary consideration. There, there," noting his wife's expression.
"Don't let us dispute over trifles. I'm making headway, Minna--headway."

"I congratulate you, dear." Mrs. Whitney laid a caressing hand on his
touseled gray hair. "I never doubted that you would. But, Winslow, such
complete absorption in your work is not healthy. The doctor has warned
you not to shut yourself up in this room for hours, and particularly that
you are not to lock your door on the inside. Remember your recent attacks
of vertigo."

"McLane's an ass. The vertigo sprang from indigestion; hereafter, I'll be
more careful what I eat," he protested. "There's nothing the matter with
this room; it's well ventilated and heated. And I will lock my door--I
won't be interrupted by any jackass servant wanting to feed me
pap"--pointing scornfully toward the hall where a tray laden with a
teapot and tempting dishes stood on a table near the door. "Do you not
yet realize, Minna, that this is my life work?" With a sweeping gesture
he indicated the models, brass, wood, and wax, which filled every cranny
of the sparsely furnished room.

Mrs. Whitney sighed. The room was her bugbear. She had dignified it with
the name of "studio," but it looked what it was--a workshop. Winslow
Whitney, considered in clubdom as a dilettante and known to scientists as
an inventor of ability, frowned impatiently as he observed his wife's air
of disapprobation.

"My dear, we must agree to disagree," he said, lowering his voice. "My
brain is carrying too much just now; I cannot be confused by side issues.
Everything must wait until my invention is completed."

"Is your daughter's welfare of secondary importance?"

"What?" Whitney surveyed his wife in startled surprise, and her handsome
face flushed under his scrutiny. "What is the matter with Kathleen's
welfare? Do I illtreat her? Is she refused money? Do I make her spend
hours here helping me in this"--sarcastically--"sweatshop? Four years ago
she took up this fad of painting; you encouraged her at it--you know you
did," shaking an accusing finger at his wife. "You persuaded me to let
her study in Germany, and she hasn't been worth a button since--as far
as home comfort goes."

"Winslow!"

"It's true," doggedly. "Formerly she was willing and glad to help me with
my modeling, help me in making calculations, tracings--now she spends her
time philandering."

"All young girls flirt, Winslow."

"But Kathleen was always so shy," Whitney shook his head. "Now I'm asked
at the club if she isn't engaged to this man and that."

"Will you never realize that Kathleen is exceptionally pretty, with the
gift of fascination?"

"A dangerous power," said Whitney gravely. "I do not entirely approve of
the men whose attentions Kathleen encourages."

"As for instance...."

"Young Potter, and this Baron Frederic von Fincke--you know, Minna, I do
not approve of international marriages, and I am very glad that Kathleen
refused that Englishman, John Hargraves, whom she met in Germany...."

"I sometimes wonder if she regrets," said Mrs. Whitney musingly.
"Kathleen hears from him occasionally--and at times she is so very odd in
her manner."

"Humph! I hope not. I don't want her to be a war bride," retorted
Whitney. "And all Englishmen of family are at the front these days. You
don't think, Minna," with quickly suppressed nervousness, "that Kathleen
can be fond of Sinclair Spencer."

"Sinclair Spencer?" echoed Mrs. Whitney. "Why he is double her age, and
besides, Winslow, his habits are not...."

"I know," gloomily, as his wife paused. "I would certainly never give my
consent to such a marriage. But, Minna, he is forever hanging around
Kathleen and haunts this house."

"So much so that Kathleen is heartily sick of him," said Mrs. Whitney
comfortingly. "She is not the girl to really care for a man of his
caliber. After all, Winslow," unable to restrain the dig, "you are
responsible for Sinclair Spencer's intimate footing in this house...."

"Intimate footing? Nothing of the sort. Just because I employed him as my
patent attorney, you and Kathleen did not have to throw yourselves at
his head and have him sitting in your pockets."

Mrs. Whitney laughed outright. "My dear Winslow, neither Kathleen nor I
encouraged him to come here. If you are afraid," her eyes twinkling,
"that Kathleen considers his attentions seriously, I will sound her on
the subject. And this brings me back to what I was going to say
originally; you must inquire about the men Kathleen meets. She is at the
impressionable age and as apt as not to pick up an undesirable _parti_."

"Why didn't Kathleen remain a schoolgirl?" fumed Whitney. "Then we only
had to engage competent nurses and look up their references and our
responsibility ended."

"Your responsibility is just beginning," said Mrs. Whitney cheerfully.
"By the way, the days are short, and Kathleen should be at home by five
o'clock at least; this is a rough neighborhood for a beautiful girl to
walk through unattended."

"My forefathers found no fault with this neighborhood," replied Whitney
stiffly. "Then it was fashionable, now it is a good respectable business
section; and if dividends continue to dwindle you may thank your stars we
are in a business section--for convenience' sake. I will not give up this
house, Minna, even to please you."

"Dear Winslow, don't excite yourself." Mrs. Whitney laid an affectionate
hand on his arm. "Remember Dr. McLane's advice ... and dinner will be
served in an hour. Please come down and get it while it is hot," and not
waiting to hear his halfhearted promise she walked from the room and
closed the door. It was some seconds before Whitney resumed his
interrupted work.

"Only a little while now," he muttered--"only a little while."

Before proceeding to her bedroom Mrs. Whitney sought the suite of rooms
which had been given to Kathleen on her coming of age two months before.
Finding the prettily decorated and furnished sitting-room empty she
walked into the adjoining bedroom and saw Kathleen sitting at her
dressing table.

"What detained you?" she asked kindly, as the girl turned on her
entrance.

"The symphony concert was not over until twenty-five minutes ago. Won't
you sit down, dear?" pulling forward a chair. "I must go on with my
dressing. My pink satin, Julie, thank you," as the French maid appeared.

"Are you dining out tonight?" in surprise. "I thought you told me you had
no engagement for this evening."

"I hadn't, mother. This invitation was quite unexpected," explained
Kathleen, arranging her hair with care. "On my return from the concert I
found this note from Miss Kiametia Grey asking me to fill a place and
prevent thirteen at her dinner tonight."

"I see." Mrs. Whitney inspected the dainty note-paper and forceful
handwriting through her gold lorgnette. The word of Miss Kiametia Grey
was as the law of the Medes and Persians to her many friends, and Mrs.
Whitney had a high regard for the wealthy spinster who cloaked her
warm-hearted impulsiveness under an erratic and often brusque manner.
"You cannot very well refuse. Who sent you those orchids?" pointing to a
handsome bouquet lying half out of its box on the bed.

"Sinclair Spencer," briefly. "Be careful, Julie, don't muss my hair,"
and discussing unimportant matters Kathleen hurried her dressing as much
as possible.

"Not knowing you were going out I told Henry he would not be needed
tonight," said Mrs. Whitney, suddenly waking up to the fact that Kathleen
was ready to go. "You had better order a herdic."

"Oh!" Kathleen gazed at her blankly. "And the dinner is at the Chevy
Chase Club."

"Pardon, madame," Julie, the maid, spoke in rapid French. "Mademoiselle
Grey telephoned to ask if mademoiselle had returned and said that she
hoped she could dine with her. Knowing madame had no engagement this
evening, I took the great liberty of telling Henry to be here with the
limousine."

"Quite right, Julie," Mrs. Whitney rose. "Don't forget your orchids,
Kathleen."

"I am not going to wear them; they"--not meeting Mrs. Whitney's
eyes--"they would stain my dress. Good night, mother. I am likely to be
late; don't either you or Dad wait up for me."

An hour later, her naturally rosy cheeks a deeper tint from the
consciousness that she was late, Kathleen made a charming picture as she
stood just within the entrance to the assembly room of the Chevy Chase
Club, waiting to greet her hostess who was at that moment marshalling her
guests out to the private dining-room. It was several minutes before Miss
Kiametia Grey discovered Kathleen's presence.

"So very glad you could come," she said, squeezing her hand warmly. "Not
only did I want to be helped over the thirteen bugaboo, but I have such a
nice dinner partner for you. Captain Miller. Yes, Judge, you are to take
me out. Kathleen, introduce yourself to the Captain."

"Am I to find him by the process of elimination?" laughed Kathleen, as
Miss Kiametia laid her hand on the Judge's arm.

"He is just back of you," she called, and Kathleen turned around. Every
vestige of color left her cheeks as she encountered the steadfast gaze of
a tall, broad-shouldered man in immaculate evening dress.

"You?" she blurted out, her white lips barely forming the word. "_You_?"

There was an agonizing pause, then Captain Miller stepped toward her.

"Suppose we go out to dinner," he suggested suavely.




CHAPTER V

AN EVENTFUL EVENING


While keeping up an animated conversation with Judge Powers, Miss
Kiametia Grey saw with inward perturbation that her vis-à-vis, Captain
Miller, was spending much of his time between courses making bread
pellets. What possessed Kathleen Whitney? She was usually the soul of
courtesy, and yet her hostess had not seen her address one word to her
dinner partner. Possibly Kathleen had taken offense at her off-hand
introduction to the handsome officer. But that was not like the
warmhearted, charming girl she had come to love and admire, and Miss
Kiametia ate her dinner with less and less relish as she tried to keep
up her end of the conversation and forget about the pair seated
opposite her.

Captain Charles Miller had just finished helping himself to an ice when,
from the tail of his eye, he saw Kathleen quickly palm his place card.

"Let us make it an exchange," he said, and reaching across her plate,
picked up the pretty hand-painted Japanese card bearing her name, and
slipped it inside the pocket of his white vest.

For the first time that evening there was color in Kathleen's cheeks.

"You have not lost your--"

"Courage?"

"Effrontery," she finished. "I cannot see that the years have brought
much change."

"To you, most certainly not," and there was no mistaking the admiration
in his eyes.

"I object to personalities." She paused. "And particularly on slight
acquaintance."

Miller bowed. "It is my loss that we have not met before," and he did not
miss the look of relief that lighted her eyes for the fraction of a
second. Swiftly he changed the subject. "Who is the man glaring at us
from the end of the table?"

"Baron Frederic von Fincke." Her manner was barely civil and that was
all. Under his heavy eyebrows Miller's eyes snapped. She should talk to
him, and he squared his broad shoulders.

"I have already met the young girl sitting next him," he said, "and who
is her dinner partner?"

"Captain Edwin Sayre, United States Army."

"Of what branch of the service?"

"Ordnance."

"Is it true, Miss Kathleen," broke in the man seated on her right, "that
Captain Sayre has resigned from the army to take a position in the Du
Pont Powder Works?"

"I believe so."

"Is that not establishing a bad precedent, Mr. Spencer?" inquired Miller.
He had met the lawyer on his arrival before dinner. "Suppose other
officers follow his example, what will the army do in case of hostilities
with--eh--Mexico?"

"Probably the officers will apply for active service." Sinclair Spencer,
glad of the pretext that talking to Miller gave him of bending nearer
Kathleen, turned his back on his dinner partner. That Kathleen had given
him her full attention throughout the dinner had partly compensated for
the fact that she was not wearing his orchids. It had been weeks since he
had enjoyed so uninterrupted a talk with her. That her manner was
distrait and her replies somewhat haphazard escaped him utterly. The
drive to Chevy Chase was both long and cold, and while waiting for Miss
Kiametia's other guests to assemble before he presented himself, he had
enjoyed more than one cocktail. That stimulant, combined with Miss
Kiametia's excellent champagne, had dulled his perceptions. "The officers
will be given their old rank," continued Spencer. "In the meantime they
will have gained most valuable experience."

"There is really no prospect now of a war with Mexico." As she spoke
Kathleen looked anxiously across at Miss Kiametia, but her hostess showed
no disposition to give the signal for rising. Kathleen was aware by his
thick speech and flushed features that Spencer had taken more wine than
was good for him. She desired to ignore Captain Miller, but she was
equally desirous not to encourage Spencer's attentions. She moved her
chair back as far as she could from the table to avoid the latter's near
presence as he bent toward her. Deliberately she turned and continued her
remarks to Miller. "As soon as a fair election is held and a president
elected, he will be recognized by our Government."

Miller laughed. "A fair election and Mexico are a contradiction of terms.
Trouble there is by no means over. I hope that you are not a
peace-at-any-price American?"

"Indeed I am not," and Kathleen's eyes sparkled. "I am for peace
with a punch."

Again Spencer cut into the conversation, but his condition was so
apparent that Kathleen shrank from him. "Miss Kathleen, give me firs'
dance," he demanded, as Miss Kiametia laid aside her napkin and pushed
back her chair.

In a second Baron Frederic von Fincke was by her side, and with a sigh of
thankfulness Kathleen accepted his eager demand for a dance, and they
hastened into the assembly room, which, stripped of its furniture, was
already filled with dancers. It was the regular Wednesday night dance at
the club and the room was crowded. Kathleen had no difficulty in avoiding
Captain Miller. Since her début she had reigned an acknowledged belle in
society, and she was quickly importuned by men eager for a dance. But as
she laughed and jested with her partners, she was conscious of lagging
time and numbing brain. Could she keep up the farce much longer?

From one of the doorways Sinclair Spencer watched the gay scene with
surly discontent. An attempt to dance, while its result had no effect
upon his understanding, had caused his partner hastily to seek her
chaperon. His only ray of consolation was that she had not been Kathleen
Whitney. Come to think of it, she had never thanked him for his orchids.
The oversight worried him, and he was about to attempt to dodge the
dancers and cross the room in search of Kathleen when Baron von Fincke
stopped and addressed him.

"She is very beautiful, your Miss Whitney," he said slowly. His English
was not fluent "But she has not the tact of her pretty mother. _She_
would never have shown her avoidance of Captain Miller quite so plainly
as did Miss Whitney during dinner."

"'Twasn't 'voidance," protested Spencer. "I cut him out."

"Then why postpone your wooing?" The foreigner permitted no hint of his
secret amusement to creep into his voice as he glanced from Spencer to
where Kathleen was dancing.

"Go-going to ask Kathleen tonight," replied Spencer, with drunken
dignity. "I'm no la-laggard. Speak to Whitney, too; though that isn't
important--he won't refuse." He cogitated darkly for a moment. "If he
does ... I'll make things hot for him...."

"Hush!" Von Fincke laid a heavy hand on Spencer's shoulder as he looked
carefully about them; apparently no one was within earshot. "Collect your
wits. The time is not ripe for threats, Spencer. The invention is not yet
completed; until it is--no threats. We must not kill the goose before the
golden egg is laid."

"Washn't makin' threats," stammered Spencer, startled by the angry gleam
in his companion's eyes. "Now, don't get mad, von Fincke, think of all
I've done in that Mex--"

"Come this way," and with no gentle hand the foreigner propelled Spencer
down the hall out of sight of the guests and out of doors.

Miss Kiametia Grey, enjoying watching the dancing as much as her guests
enjoyed participating in it, was interrupted in her desultory
conversation with two chaperons by one of the club attendants. Upon
receiving his message she made her way to where Kathleen and her partner
had just paused after a breathless extra.

"Having a good time, dearie?" she questioned. "It is a shame to interrupt
your pleasure, but your father has telephoned that you must be at home by
midnight."

"And your car waits, Cinderella," put in Spencer who, suddenly returning,
had overheard Miss Kiametia's remark. He had a particularly hard time
with the pronunciation of "Cinderella."

The spinster favored him with a frown, and the back view of a sharp
shoulder blade. To her mid-Victorian mind Sinclair Spencer was not
conducting himself as a gentleman should, and her half-considered resolve
to drop him from her visiting list became adamantine as she observed his
appearance. Slipping her hand inside Kathleen's arm she led her to the
cloakroom.

"Catch me asking fourteen to dinner again!" she exclaimed. "It always
dwindles to thirteen at the last moment, and I have a nervous chill until
the number is completed."

"Whose place did I fill?" asked Kathleen, presenting her cloak check
to the maid.

"Nobody's, to be quite candid," Miss Kiametia smiled ruefully. "My dinner
was originally twelve, but Captain Miller was so charming this afternoon
that I asked him on impulse, and then sent for you to pair off with him."

"Thank you." The dryness of her tone was not lost on the spinster. There
were times when she wished to box Kathleen's ears. She was a born
matchmaker, and Kathleen's indifference to matrimonial opportunities was
a constant source of vexation to her.

"Never saw two people look so ideally suited to each other," she snapped.
Kathleen started as if stung. "And I'm told mutual aversion is often a
good beginning for a romance. I never saw you discourteous before,
Kathleen; you simply ignored Captain Miller until dessert."

"Possibly I had good reason." Kathleen's color rose. "Where, pray, did
you pick him up?"

"Tut, tut! Don't forget you are talking to a woman nearly old enough to
be your mother." But Miss Kiametia's kind heart softened as she saw
Kathleen felt her words. "There, dearie, don't mind an old crosspatch.
Captain Miller was introduced to me by Senator Foster. You can see with
half an eye that Captain Miller is a gentleman born and bred. All ready?
Then I'll run back to my other guests. Come and see me Sunday," and with
a friendly wave of her hand, Miss Kiametia returned to the dining-room
where the dancers had adjourned for supper.

Kathleen found her limousine waiting at the entrance, and bidding the
club attendant good-night she stepped inside the car, but as her
chauffeur started to close the door he was pushed to one side.

"Fa-sher tele-telephoned I was to shee you home," announced Spencer,
striving to enunciate clearly. His haste and unsteady gait precipitated
him almost on top of the girl as he endeavored to seat himself by her
side. "D-don't get scared," placing a moist hand on her wrist. "Fa-sher's
orders. Ask H-Henry."

The chauffeur touched his cap. "Mr. Whitney did telephone me to bring
Mr. Spencer back with you, Miss Kathleen," he volunteered, and
without waiting for further orders he banged to the door and climbed
into his seat.

With an indignant exclamation Kathleen leaned over, seized the
speaking-tube and whistled through it. But apparently the roar of the
open throttle drowned the whistle, for Henry did not pick up his end of
the tube. As the car started down the drive a man jumped to the
running-board, jerked open the car door, and without ceremony pushed
Spencer into a corner and seated himself between the latter and Kathleen.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting, Miss Whitney," he apologized. "Sorry to
have been late."

Kathleen shrank back. She did not need the light from the lamp at the
entrance of the club grounds to tell her the intruder was Captain Miller.
She was too well acquainted with his voice. A voice she had hoped never
to hear again.

Spencer, considerably shaken by the force Miller had used in thrusting
him back against the side of the car, muttered a string of curses, which
ended abruptly as Miller's elbow came in sharp contact with his ribs.

Too bewildered for speech, Kathleen rested her head against the
upholstered back of the limousine. Neither of the men seemed inclined to
break the silence as the car sped swiftly toward Washington, and
gradually Kathleen's reasoning power returned to her. She was furiously
angry with herself, with the world, with Fate. Ah, she _would_ be
mistress of her own fate. Kathleen compressed her lips in mute
determination. Captain Miller must be made to understand that she would
not tolerate his further acquaintance. How dared he thrust his presence
upon her? Kathleen's hot anger cooled for a second; if Miller had not
thrust himself into the limousine she would in all probability have
either had to order Henry forcibly to eject Spencer, which might have
given rise to unpleasant gossip, or have endured alone the intoxicated
man's society for the five-mile drive into town.

High-power arc lights were strung along the roadway, and under their
white glare Kathleen stole a glance at Miller. Handsome still, she
admitted to herself, and the same broad-shouldered, athletic figure. He
was the type of man which appeals to both men and women. She caught her
breath sharply as bitter memories crowded upon her, and slipping down her
hand, drew her skirts surreptitiously away from touching Miller. If he
noted the movement he gave no sign.

As the lights of Washington appeared, the chauffeur reduced the
limousine's speed to that required by law. They were in the heart of the
resident section when a snore from Spencer explained his long silence.
The warmth and motion of the limousine, combined with his overindulgence
in wine, had lulled him to sleep. With an effort Kathleen roused herself
from her dismal reflections.

"Can I leave you anywhere, Captain--Miller?" she inquired frigidly.

"No thanks, I will walk to my hotel after I have seen you safely home."

Kathleen fumbled with the clasp of her evening wrap and stared down the
empty streets. She waited until they were approaching Lafayette Square,
then broke her silence for the second time.

"I desire that you leave me here," she stated calmly. "I am now within a
few blocks of my home." Without waiting for comment she leaned forward,
tapped upon the front window, and signaled Henry to stop.

Miller rose as the limousine drew up to the curb. "As you wish," he said
courteously. "But I do not think this man a suitable companion for you,"
and collaring Spencer, he opened the door and, thrusting the still
sleeping man out on the pavement, sprang out after him.

Henry's eyes bulged as he saw the two men, but Miller's manner stopped
the ejaculation upon his lips.

"Take Miss Whitney home," directed Miller, and lifting his hat to
Kathleen he watched the limousine turn a corner and disappear. Then he
glanced down at Spencer sprawling on the pavement. A queer smile lighted
his face as he stared at the lawyer.

"What's your little game, Spencer?" he asked softly, and a hearty kick
punctuated the question.




CHAPTER VI

AT THE CAPITOL


Mrs. Whitney's usually placid disposition was decidedly ruffled, and she
took no pains to conceal her displeasure.

"Really, Kathleen, you are greatly at fault," she said, as the girl
joined her in the vestibule. "The idea of keeping Henry at the Club until
after midnight! No wonder he is late now. No chauffeur can work both day
and night."

"I'm sorry, mother," but Kathleen did not look particularly penitent; she
considered that the faithful Henry had a soft berth. That he worked
occasionally would not prove harmful. She had hoped to avoid going to the
Capitol that morning, and when told that Henry had not appeared either at
the house for orders or at the garage, she had supposed the trip would be
given up. But Mrs. Whitney was of the persevering kind, and with her to
plan was to accomplish. Decidedly upset by Henry's non-appearance in her
well conducted household, she had ordered the garage to fill his place
temporarily, and her limousine was at last at the door.

Mrs. Whitney was giving her final direction to the new chauffeur as to
which she considered the best and safest route to the Capitol and the
speed she wished maintained, when her husband joined them.

"I've decided to take a morning off and go with you," he announced,
entering the limousine. "Room for me on the back seat?"

"Surely," and his wife patted the wide cushion. "We do not possess a
superabundance of flesh in this family."

"Except Dad," interpolated Kathleen mischievously. She knew her father
disliked the idea of getting fat, while lacking the initiative of keeping
thin. "What you need, Dad, is a cold plunge and a ten-mile walk before
breakfast."

Whitney shuddered. "Nice comfortable ideas you have, Kathleen, for a
winter day. It strikes me you should take a dose of your own medicine."
Inspecting her keenly. "Late hours do not improve your appearance,
young lady."

"Thanks," but her usually sunny smile was strained. "And I suppose you
still work all night, Dad, disobeying Dr. McLane's orders."

"I don't take orders from McLane," shortly. "And I didn't work very late
last night. Your mother came up and tried some of her Sisters in Unity
persuasion upon me, and I capitulated."

Mrs. Whitney did not take the jest in good part. While she reveled in
society, she was essentially a clubwoman, and nothing delighted her so
much as debating and delivering addresses. She was a capital
extemporaneous speaker, and had held prominent offices in different
clubs. Possessing no sense of humor, which her husband and Kathleen had
in abundance, she seriously objected to their poking fun at her beloved
organization, the Sisters in Unity, of which she was a charter member.
Any allusion to it in fun she considered an offense in good taste.
Therefore withdrawing into dignified silence she permitted Whitney and
Kathleen to keep up the conversation. In fact, Whitney did most of the
talking, and neither he nor his wife perceived Kathleen's inattention.

"I'm on the high road to solving the last problem," he exulted. "The
invention is simple, so very simple, but, Minna, it will revolutionize
many things in warfare. You won't be ashamed of your old Dad, Kathleen,
when the world acknowledges what I've done."

"I'm proud of you now, and always have been," affirmed Kathleen, and
leaning over she placed a spray of lilies-of-the-valley from her bouquet
in his buttonhole.

"Who sent you the flowers, Kathleen?" inquired Mrs. Whitney.

"I don't know; I could find no card or note with them."

"Perhaps Sinclair Spencer has decided to send them anonymously." With a
look of repugnance, Kathleen pulled the flowers off and before her father
could interfere, opened the door and tossed the bouquet into the street.
"Good gracious, Kathleen, don't take everything that I say literally!"
exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. "I am sorry I suggested...."

"I am not, mother. After last night, nothing would induce me to wear
his flowers again," declared Kathleen with spirit. "Father, what made
you tele--"

"Here we are," broke in Whitney, apparently not hearing Kathleen's
remark, as the limousine drew up at the entrance to the Senate side of
the Capitol. "Jump out, Kathleen. Careful, Minna." But without assistance
Mrs. Whitney sprang lightly to the ground, a worried look on her face.

"I do believe, Winslow," she said, "that I have left my admission card to
the private gallery at home. It isn't in my bag."

"Don't mind, I'll look up Randall Foster; he'll see we get in. Come
this way."

They found the corridors of the huge building filled with hurrying men
and women, and Whitney spent fully twenty minutes before he succeeded in
obtaining the coveted card to the private gallery from his friend,
Senator Foster. To Mrs. Whitney's dismay they found the gallery filled;
but fortune favored them, for just after their entrance three women
seated in the front row rose and made their way out. With a quickness
which showed her familiarity with conventions Mrs. Whitney pounced upon
the seats, and sank into hers with a sigh of thankfulness. She had
overcome a number of obstacles that morning to get there, and though it
was a small matter she hated to be thwarted in anything she undertook.

Kathleen, like many another Washingtonian, confined her visits to the
Capitol to sightseeing trips with out-of-town friends, and she had come
there that morning only because she could think of no good reason for
staying away. To her inward surprise she soon found her attention
absorbed by the debate going on in the Senate, and when one of the
distinguished lawmakers commenced a characteristic speech she became
unconscious of the flight of time. As the Senator ended his fiery
peroration, she raised her head and, glancing toward the Diplomats'
Gallery, recognized Captain Charles Miller sitting in the front row
regarding her.

"Have you seen Medusa's head?" asked Whitney, tugging at her elbow. "Wake
up, Kathleen, unless you've been turned into marble. Your mother's told
you three times that Senator Foster has invited us to lunch with him. She
is waiting for us in the corridor. Come along."

As they joined Mrs. Whitney, a young man hurried up to them. "I am
Senator Foster's secretary," he explained. "The Senator has gone direct
to the dining-room on the ground floor. This way, please," and he piloted
them to an elevator. On reaching the private dining-room of the Senate
they found not only Foster but Miss Kiametia Grey awaiting them.

"This is my lucky day," exclaimed Foster, heartily. "First, you tell me
your wife and Miss Kathleen are here, Whitney; then I meet Kiametia on
the way to the gallery." Mrs. Whitney smiled covertly. The Senator's
courtship of the wealthy spinster was one of the most discussed topics in
smart society. "Couldn't resist the temptation to have you all lunch with
me," added Foster. "Won't you sit here, Mrs. Whitney," pulling out a
chair on his right, "and Kiametia," indicating the chair on his left,
"and Whitney next to you. Miss Kathleen, it's not etiquette to place
father and daughter together, but I have a stranger for your other hand.
Ah, here he comes...."

Kathleen's back was to the entrance of the dining-room, but a sixth sense
warned her who the newcomer was, and her face was expressionless when
Foster introduced his friend, Captain Miller, to Mrs. Whitney and her
husband. After greeting Miss Kiametia, Miller stepped to Kathleen's side.

"Good morning," he said quietly, and held out his hand. Kathleen drew
back, then good breeding mastered her indignation. A second later her
hand was laid in his and instantly withdrawn, but her fingers tingled
from his strong clasp.

"Jolly party you must have had last night, Kiametia." Foster's cheery
voice enabled Kathleen to control her somewhat shaken nerves. "Telephoned
Sinclair Spencer to stop and see me this morning, but his servant said he
never showed up until noon today."

"Kathleen pleaded guilty to a sleepless night," volunteered Mrs. Whitney,
to the girl's secret indignation.

"It was the lobster," answered Miss Kiametia. "I tried to warn you not
to eat it, Kathleen."

"Well, your lobster won't account for the non-appearance of Henry,"
mourned Mrs. Whitney, her mind harking back to her own grievance. "How
d'ye do, Mrs. Sunderland," as an elaborately gowned woman swept by their
table, barely returning their greeting.

"It is the regret of my life," announced Miss Kiametia, her eyes
twinkling, "that I never kept a photograph of Mrs. Sunderland taken when
she first came to Washington ten years ago. It would provide a study in
expression and expansion in social snobbery."

Mrs. Whitney, conscious that she was perhaps rude by her silence, turned
to Captain Miller who had taken no part in the conversation.

"Is this your first visit to Washington, Captain?" she inquired.

"Yes, and I find its residents so delightful that I hope to
prolong my stay."

"What did you think of the speech today?" broke in Foster.

"Capital! The Senator is right; if this government ship purchase bill
goes through, the country will indeed be buying a quarrel."

"Quite right," agreed Whitney, laying down his fork. "The only people
who fail to see it in that light are those advocating the bill's passage.
Every nation thinks the same."

"Except possibly Germany," argued Foster. "She would probably try and
sell us the hundreds of interned ships in our seaports."

"Well, why shouldn't she?" Miss Kiametia, with recollections of her
misgivings the night before, declined the lobster croquettes. "With the
German steamships and freighters interned here we should have a merchant
marine ready to our hand."

"And thereby provide instant use for our navy," retorted Whitney.

"Uncle Sam had better think twice before taking issue with the German
submarines," grumbled Miss Kiametia.

Whitney's eyes lit with an angry sparkle, and he opened his mouth to
speak, but his wife gave him no opportunity.

"Are you pro-German, Kiametia?" she asked in astonishment.

"Well, I lean that way," admitted the spinster. "You know I'm named for
the sister of Pocahontas, and my drop of Indian blood gives me a good
memory. It strikes me that this nation is overlooking the American
Revolution, not to mention 1812, and I also recollect that England did
not show us particular friendship during the Civil War."

"The idea of waving the bloody shirt of '76!" exclaimed Kathleen. "For
shame, Miss Kiametia! We Anglo-Saxons must stand together. And another
thing: Germany may have wiped the Belgians off the map, but she's lodged
them in every American heart."

"And we'll wake up some day and find the Germans sitting in Canada,"
retorted Miss Kiametia. "Looking at U. S."

"'Over the garden wall,'" quoted Whitney laughing. "No, no, Kiametia.
Wave the bloody shirt, but don't try to scare us with a straw man."

"Straw or not, the Kaiser is the world's bogy man. He has taught us a
lesson in preparedness which this country will be slow to imitate."

"Uncle Sam is a good disciplinarian but a poor student," acknowledged
Whitney, fingering the table ornaments nervously. "Well, Foster, I've
enjoyed myself immensely, but there's work awaiting me at home, and I
really must run along."

Mrs. Whitney, talking placidly with Captain Miller, looked considerably
taken aback by her husband's precipitancy. Hastily draining the last drop
of her demi-tasse, she added her thanks and good-byes, and followed her
husband and Kathleen from the room.

"I'll walk home," announced Kathleen, as Whitney signaled to their
chauffeur. "It will do me good, I need a constitutional."

"But--but it's over a mile," protested Mrs. Whitney.

"All the better," and waving her muff in farewell, Kathleen hastened off
through the grounds in the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. She found
the cold invigorating air a bracing tonic after the steam-heated
atmosphere of the Capitol, and was thoroughly enjoying her walk when she
became conscious that a figure was keeping pace with her. Looking up, she
recognized Captain Miller. Kathleen stopped.

"Which way are you going?" she demanded, totally unconscious of the
pretty tableau she made, her dark beauty enhanced by a becoming hat and
silver fox furs. Not anticipating her abrupt halt, Miller was forced to
retrace his footsteps.

"I spoke to you twice, Miss Whitney, but you apparently did not hear me,"
he answered, lifting his hat. "I asked if I might accompany you, and took
silence for consent. My way lies your way."

Kathleen's fingers clenched tightly together inside her muff. "Are you
dead to all sense of decency?" she asked. "Can you not see that your
presence is an offense?"

Miller's color rose, and there was an ominous flash in his blue-gray
eyes, but she met his look undauntedly. "I think you take an exaggerated
view of the matter," he said quietly. "I desire your friendship."

"You dare ask that after...."

With a quiet masterful gesture Miller stopped her. "We are living in the
present," he said. "I repent the past. Come"--with deepening earnestness,
"you are warm-hearted, impulsive, generous--be generous to me--give me a
chance to make good. Before God, I will not fail you."

Kathleen scanned him keenly. Could she place faith in his sincerity?
As she met the penetrating glance she knew of old, now softened by the
fascination of his winning smile, she came again under the old
personal charm.

"I cannot be friends with a man whom I do not respect," she stammered.

"But you shall respect me," with dogged determination, "and then...."

A bevy of girls, coming out of Galt's, paused to greet Kathleen, and
Miller, not waiting to complete his sentence, bowed to her and continued
up the Avenue. He paid no attention to the streets he traversed, but on
turning into F Street sought shelter near a shop to light his cigarette.
As he threw the burnt match to the pavement he was attracted by a large
photograph of Kathleen Whitney in the window. It was an excellent
likeness, and Miller, studying the clear-cut features, the lovely eyes,
and soft rippling hair, felt his heart throb. He glanced at the sign
above the window and found he was standing before Edmonston's
Photographic Studio. On impulse he entered the building.

Miller's absorption in Kathleen's photograph had not gone unnoticed, and
when he emerged from the studio, the observer accosted him.

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm Henry, Mr. Whitney's chauffeur," he said. "Mr.
Spencer, sir, was much put out to wake up this morning, sir, and find
himself in a strange hotel."

"Better that than being registered 'drunk and disorderly,'" smiled
Miller.

"Yes, Captain Miller. I told him, sir, that you had done him a service."

"Ah, indeed? May I ask how you know who I am?"

"I made out you'd have trouble with Mr. Spencer, sir, and as soon as I'd
left Miss Kathleen at home, sir, I ran the car back down by the park,
sir, just in time to see you leading Mr. Spencer into the hotel. The
doorman there gave me your name, sir."

"I see," replied Miller thoughtfully. "I lunched with Mr. Whitney today,
and it was mentioned that you had not shown up," and his eyes were guilty
of a peculiar glint as he scrutinized the intelligent face and finely
proportioned figure of the chauffeur.

Henry reddened. "I wasn't feeling very well in the night, sir, and
overslept," he explained. "Eh, Captain," as Miller turned away. "I saw
you looking, sir, at Miss Kathleen's picture. Did you get a copy in
Edmonston's?"

"No," curtly.

"I thought not, sir. They never part with their photographs in there,
sir. But there's an extra one in Mr. Whitney's library, sir, which I
could ... could...." he stopped abruptly as he met Miller's gaze.

After a pause Miller slipped his hand into his pocket and on pulling it
out disclosed a gold coin lying in his bare palm. "I see you are
amenable to reason, Henry," he said serenely, and the chauffeur
stammered his thanks.




CHAPTER VII

PHANTOM WIRES


Sinclair Spencer walked up and down the Whitney drawing-room examining
the costly bric-a-brac, totally blind to the merits of each piece and in
several instances replacing them with entire disregard as to whether they
rested on the edge, or on firm foundation. His occupation was interrupted
by the return of Vincent, the butler.

"Miss Kathleen is not at home, sir," he announced.

"Quite certain, Vincent?" holding out a treasury bill with a
persuasive gesture.

"Quite, sir." Vincent looked offended, but slipped the large tip in his
pocket with inward satisfaction. He saw Spencer's crestfallen appearance
and thawed. "Julie, the maid, says Miss Kathleen hasn't returned from the
Red Cross meeting, sir, but that she's liable to come in 'most any time."

"Well, perhaps--is Mr. Whitney at home?"

"Yes, sir; but I dassent interrupt him, sir. He's working in his studio."

"Then I'll wait here for a time, at least. Don't wait, Vincent"

"Very good, sir." But Vincent paused irresolutely. His conscience was
reproaching him. Miss Kathleen's orders had been very explicit; if Mr.
Spencer called to see her father, well and good; if he came to see _her_,
he was not to be admitted.

For six weeks the seesaw had kept up, and Vincent had grown weary of
answering the door for Spencer. He had been an almost daily caller,
occasionally admitted when Winslow Whitney was downstairs, and always a
visitor on Mrs. Winslow's weekly day at home. But these latter visits had
profited him nothing. Kathleen never gave him an opportunity to see her
alone, and it was the same at dinners and dances to which they were both
invited. Spencer had come there that morning fully determined to see
Kathleen and, as he expressed it to himself, "have an understanding with
her." Having for once gotten by Vincent's relaxed guard, wild horses
would not have dragged him away.

Vincent's harassed expression altered to one of relief as he heard the
front doorbell sound, but his feelings underwent a change when he saw
Kathleen standing in the vestibule instead of Mrs. Whitney, who had
announced that she would return early as she was walking and not using
the limousine.

"Any mail for me in the noon delivery?" asked Kathleen, and her smile
faded at the butler's negative reply. Why did her letters to England
remain unanswered? John Hargraves was the promptest of correspondents,
and the question she had asked him required an answer. Preoccupied with
her own thoughts, she was about to enter the elevator totally oblivious
to Vincent's agitated manner. As she placed her hand on the elevator
door, Sinclair Spencer walked into the hall.

"How are you?" he said, his off-hand salutation concealing much
tribulation of spirit. Vincent caught one glimpse of Kathleen's face and
discreetly vanished.

"Do you wish to see my father, Mr. Spencer?" asked Kathleen, utterly
ignoring his outstretched hand.

"No. I came expressly to see you," and his air of dogged determination
was not to be mistaken. Kathleen came to a sudden decision.

"Suppose we go into the drawing-room," she suggested. "I can spare you a
few minutes." But once in the room she did not sit down. "Why do you wish
to see me, Mr. Spencer?"

"To ask you to marry me." Sinclair's usually florid face was white, and
his customary self-assurance had departed.

"I thank you for the compliment," with icy politeness, "but I must
decline your proposal."

"You--you refuse?" Spencer spoke as in a dream.

"Yes. Surely, Mr. Spencer, you cannot have expected any other
answer--cannot have deluded yourself into thinking that I could possibly
accept you? I have tried in every means within my power to discourage
your attentions."

"But why?" Spencer's air castles were tumbling about his ears, but he
stuck to his guns. His affection for Kathleen, fanned by her
indifference, had become all-absorbing. Courted and flattered by mothers
with marriageable daughters, he had come to believe that he had but to
speak to win Kathleen.

"Why discuss the matter further?" asked Kathleen. She heartily wished the
scene over; it had not been of her seeking. To wantonly hurt another's
feelings was alien to her nature, and that Spencer was suffering his
demeanor betrayed.

"I must." Spencer came a step nearer. "Tell me why you refuse me."

"Your habits ..."

"I haven't touched a drop of wine since that dinner at Chevy Chase,"
triumphantly. "And if you don't approve, I'll not take another drink as
long as I live."

"I certainly think it would be better for you to stick to that
resolution." Kathleen moved toward the hall door. "I really do not see
any object in prolonging this discussion."

"But I do," following her. "I have perhaps startled you by my abrupt
manner. I do love you, Kathleen"--his voice shook--"love you better than
anybody. I know that I can make you care for me. I have money ..."

"That makes no difference."

"With you, perhaps not," but Spencer looked dubious. "I swear never to
touch wine again. I will gratify your every wish"--Kathleen shook her
head, and he added heatedly, "What is there about me you don't like?"

"I--I cannot tell--" Kathleen edged toward the door. "It's a case of
'Dr. Fell.'"

"Fell?" Spencer turned red, his self-esteem pricked at last. "Is that
another name for Captain Miller?" with insolent significance.

Kathleen stepped back as if struck. "I think it time to end this
conversation," she said, but her remark received no attention.

"I see it all now," muttered Spencer. "Captain Miller has won your
affection."

"He has not." The contradiction slipped from Kathleen with more vehemence
than she intended. Spencer brightened. In endeavoring to convince
herself, she had thoroughly convinced him.

"You are not engaged to him?" he asked eagerly.

"Certainly not." Kathleen crimsoned with indignation. How dared Sinclair
Spencer catechise her! "I must insist that you leave. And, Mr. Spencer,
please remember, I desire that you never again allude to your proposal of
marriage."

"But I shall," doggedly.

"Then our acquaintance will cease." Her manner even more than her words
roused Spencer to sudden wrath.

"No, it won't," he retorted. "And I will make you--understand--make you
reconsider your refusal to marry me. Good morning," and without a
backward look he departed.

Kathleen drew a long breath of relief as the front door closed behind
him. "Thank God, he's gone," she said aloud, unconscious that her words
were overheard. "He is insufferable. I cannot understand why father ever
encouraged him to come to the house."

Rapid walking soon brought Spencer to the corner of Seventeenth and H
Streets, and hailing a taxicab he gave the chauffeur an address on
Nineteenth Street. Fifteen minutes later he was ushered into the presence
of Baron Frederic von Fincke.

"And how is the excellent Mr. Spencer this morning?" asked von Fincke
genially, offering his guest a chair.

Spencer, however, remained standing and disregarded the question as well
as the chair.

"Who is this fellow, Charles Miller?" he asked in his turn.

Von Fincke laughed softly. "Consult your 'Who's Who,' my dear friend; do
not come to me, an outsider."

"You know why I come to you," with pointed accentuation. "I am determined
to find out Miller's antecedents, and I am convinced you can tell me if
you will."

Von Fincke shook his head. "You overrate my powers," he insisted suavely.
"I have met Captain Miller as one meets any visitor to this cosmopolitan
city. My acquaintance extends no further than our meeting at Miss Grey's
dinner at the Chevy Chase Club six weeks ago."

Spencer paused in indecision; for the moment, the foreigner's candid
manner disarmed his doubts. "Quite sure you can't find out about Miller?"
he persisted.

"I can but question my few friends in Washington; their information of
Captain Miller may be of the vaguest. Why do you not apply to Senator
Randall Foster? He and the Captain are what you call--inseparable."

"So they are, but I'm not going to Foster for anything."

"No?"

"_No!_" The repetition was almost a roar. Spencer's temper, always
uncertain, had been severely tried that morning, and was rapidly giving
way under the strain of bitter disappointment. "I ran up against Foster
in those Senate lobby charges, and of all the cantankerous--" He paused
expressively, then added, "I used to have a high regard for his sagacity
and business judgment until he lost his head over that Grey woman.
Because she don't choose to be decently civil, he's turned surly. You
wait! I'll bring them to time, and Kathleen Whitney also."

"Ah!"

"You may 'Ah!' all you wish, but I am going to marry that girl, in spite
of her refusal."

"And how is that to be accomplished if you have not the young
lady's consent?"

Spencer thrust his hands deep into his pockets and faced von Fincke
resolutely. "She idolizes her father; his word is law to her."

"And you have his consent to the match?"

"Not yet, but I mean to get it; if necessary, by moral suasion."

"Gently, my dear Spencer, gently." Von Fincke held up a warning hand.
"Whitney must not be annoyed."

"Indeed?" Spencer eyed his companion suspiciously. "And why not?"

"His invention...."

Spencer's laugh was not pleasant. "How do you know it isn't completed and
patent applied for?"

"Is that so?" Von Fincke walked over to his desk and seated himself.
"Suppose we sit and talk...."

"No," defiantly. "The time for talking has gone by. You know, I'll bet my
last cent that Whitney has patents pending in the United States Patent
Office for his invention. All this waiting for him to finish his work is
poppy-cock. Why are you protecting Whitney, unless he's your tool?"

Von Fincke laughed. "You have strange ideas. Do sit and let us change
the topic of conversation."

"I won't." Spencer strode to the door. "I've done with your dirty
work...."

"Tut! tut!" Von Fincke, who had been leaning back in his revolving chair,
straightened up. "Your language, my dear friend, can be improved ..."

"And so can my knowledge," significantly. "I'm going to investigate
Whitney's affairs and his house before I'm much older. Don't bother to
ring for a servant," he added, seeing his host's hand hovering over the
electric desk bell, and not waiting for an answer, bolted from the room.

Von Fincke's hand descended on the electric bell button with imperative
force, and rising he hastened into the hall. He paused at sight of his
breathless valet ushering Spencer down the staircase. Not until he was
thoroughly convinced that Spencer had left the house did he turn back
from the head of the stairs.

"He grows troublesome, that Spencer," he mused as he made his way to his
own suite of rooms.

An hour later Captain Charles Miller turned in at the main entrance of
his hotel and went directly to his room on the eighth floor. Humming
softly to himself he hung up his overcoat and hat in the closet, and
removing his coat placed that also on a hanger. Back once more in his
bedroom, he carefully arranged the heavy draperies over his window so
that his movements were completely screened, and taking a black silk
muffler fastened it securely over the knob of the hall door. The window
and door of his private bathroom were likewise draped. Finally satisfied
that he was secure from observation and all sound deadened, Miller took
from his overcoat pocket four porcelain castors, and dropping on his
knees by the side of his brass bed, he deftly inserted them in place of
the bed's regular steel castors.

Pausing long enough to clear the toilet articles from his bureau, he
lifted from a box-shaped leather bag marked "Underwood" a Massie
Rosonophone and deftly installed it on the bureau top. Taking a slight
copper wire he attached it to one of the posts of the bed and connected
it with the apparatus, making sure that the wire was suspended clear of
the ground and surrounding objects. With another suspended wire he
grounded the apparatus on the radiator.

At last convinced that all was adjusted properly, Miller moved over to
his desk and gazed intently at a large photograph of Kathleen Whitney. It
was an occupation of which he never tired. The faint buzz of the alarm
bell sent him back to the wireless apparatus, and slipping on his
headpiece telephone he picked up his pencil. Listening intently to the
dots and dashes, Miller took down the message passing through space.

As he jotted down the last letter and the wireless apparatus ceased to
receive, Miller regarded the written coded message before him on his
writing pad with deep satisfaction. He was at last in tune with the
transmitting station. The code only remained to be solved.




CHAPTER VIII

KAISER BLUMEN


Miss Kiametia Grey was having her last Tuesday at home before Holy Week,
and the drawing-room of her apartment was hardly large enough to hold all
her callers comfortably. She was assisted in receiving by several of her
friends, and Kathleen Whitney presided over the tea-table.

Kathleen, chatting gayly with first one visitor and then another, was
unaware that with the passing of time her eyes strayed more and more
frequently to the hall doorway, nor was she conscious that they gained an
added brightness on perceiving Captain Charles Miller enter the room.

Owing to the departure of other guests Miss Kiametia contented herself
with shaking Miller's hand warmly. "Come and talk to me later," she
called, and turned her attention to those waiting to say good-bye. But
she was not so absorbed as not to note Miller's progress down the
room. From the corner of her eye she saw him stop and speak to
Kathleen, accept a cup of tea, and walk over and seat himself on the
sofa by Mrs. Whitney. That Mrs. Whitney was pleased by the attention
was plain to be seen.

"Hum!" chuckled the astute spinster to herself. "'Always kiss the blossom
when making love to the bud'--Captain Miller is nobody's fool."

"Stop looking at Miller," admonished Senator Foster, standing by her
elbow. "Pay attention to me."

"I will, if you will inform me who Miller is," she retorted.

Foster looked at her oddly. "The Pied Piper, judging from the way you
women run after him," he grumbled. "Can't a good-looking man come to
Washington without being swamped with invitations?"

"Sour grapes!" Miss Kiametia's kind smile took the sting from her words,
and Foster, whose looks were his sensitive point, laughed. "You haven't
answered my question."

"He brought me letters from the president of a big munitions factory in
Pennsylvania," he answered readily. "I gather--mind you I know nothing
positively and must not be quoted...."

"Quite so. Well, I'm no parrot." The spinster nodded her head
vigorously. "You're safe; go on."

Again Foster hesitated. He knew Miss Kiametia dearly loved a morsel of
gossip, but he also knew that she could be trusted not to divulge matters
of real importance. He, as well as the other members of the set in which
the Whitneys and Miss Grey belonged, had observed Captain Miller's
attention to Kathleen, had noted the gradual thawing of her stiff manner
to him as the weeks went on, and he believed that Miss Kiametia's
questions were prompted by the affection she bore Kathleen. He also was
aware that the spinster cordially detested Sinclair Spencer and was
secretly elated at Kathleen's indifference to the lawyer's attentions.

"I imagine Miller is here in the interests of the Allies," he said,
lowering his voice. "I know that he has entered into negotiations for the
purchase of war munitions, and that he is hoping to put through a deal
for certain cavalry horses. I am so positive that he is what he
represents himself to be that I have given him letters to influential men
in my State."

"That possibly explains his many abrupt absences from the city,"
commented Miss Kiametia sagely. "He has the habit of backing out of
dinner engagements at the eleventh hour. But tell me, do you know
nothing about the man's family--his character?"

"Not a word. His letter of introduction was good, his business references
excellent, and so"--the Senator's gesture was expressive. "I had no idea
he would prove such a Beau Brummel when I introduced him to my Washington
friends." Foster turned and looked across the room at Miller. "I should
judge that he has seen service, his carriage is military."

"He appears to be an American, but he has certain mannerisms"--Miss
Kiametia paused and, not completing her sentence, turned her attention
to other guests. After their departure she beckoned Foster to join her
by the door.

"Captain Miller piques my curiosity," she whispered. "You say you
know nothing about his family--I am going to find out about his
character _now_."

"How?" Foster looked mystified. "Where are you going?" as she moved
forward. "Remember, what I told you was confidential."

"Trust me," and with a most undignified wink, Miss Kiametia sailed down
upon Mrs. Whitney and Captain Miller. "You can't escape me," she said to
the latter, as he rose on her approach. "You must come and be
victimized."

"In what way?"

"By my latest fad--palmistry. Come, Minna, we'll go into the library,"
and laying a determined hand on Miller's arm she led the way into the
cozy room, followed by Mrs. Whitney and the highly amused Senator.
Miss Kiametia was a good organizer, and she marshalled her three
guests into seats by the library table, placing Miller between herself
and Mrs. Whitney.

"Is this a séance?" inquired Kathleen, watching the group from the
doorway. Another of Miss Kiametia's receiving party had taken her place
at the tea-table.

"Come and lend Captain Miller your moral support," called Miss Kiametia,
while his character is being divulged. "No, you are to sit still," as
Miller made a motion to rise. "Kathleen can stand behind us and prompt me
if my deductions go astray; she knows you better than the rest of us."

Kathleen advanced with lagging steps into the room. She had turned
singularly pale, and Miss Kiametia, watching her closely, wondered if
she was taking the game seriously. She stopped just back of Miller's
chair and rested her hand lightly on Miss Kiametia's shoulder as the
latter pulled the electric lamp nearer so that its rays fell full upon
Miller's palm.

"Has the size of the hand anything to do with the subject?" asked Miller,
as the spinster picked up a magnifying glass.

"Don't make suggestions to the oracle," laughed Foster. "Go ahead,
Kiametia."

"Your life line is good," pronounced the spinster, "but as it divides
toward the end you will probably die in a country different from that of
your birth."

"Any particular time scheduled for the event?" questioned Miller,
skeptically, but Miss Kiametia ignored the remark.

"This branch from the head line to the heart"--indicating it with a
slender paper-cutter--"denotes some great affection which makes you blind
to reason and danger." She paused irresolutely. "Pshaw! I'm reading from
the left hand, let me see the other...."

"Isn't the one nearest the heart the surest guide?" inquired Miller.

"It is not," with decision, and Miller, smiling whimsically, extended his
hand toward them.

"The right hand of fellowship," he remarked, placing his palm directly
under the light.

"My theory is correct." Miss Kiametia shot a triumphant look at Mrs.
Whitney. "There are always more lines in the right palm than in the left;
and see, here is a wider space between the lines of the head and
life--contact with the world, Captain Miller, has taught you
self-reliance, promptness of action, and readiness of thought. Hello,
what is that on your index finger--a half-moon?"

"Yes." Miller smiled covertly; the spinster's seriousness amused him
immensely. "Isn't that according to Hoyle?"

"No, nor according to Cheiro, either," tartly. "Hold your palm steady so
that I can see more clearly. It's a scar, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Whitney and Senator Foster were closely following Miss
Kiametia's words, and neither saw the perplexed frown which wrinkled
Kathleen's forehead as she stared down at Miller's right hand. She
was distinctly puzzled.

"The strength of your own individuality will carry you over many
obstacles," finished Miss Kiametia, giving Miller's hand a friendly tap
with the paper-cutter.

"Read mine next," and Foster held out his right hand.

"Haven't time; besides," the spinster's eyes twinkled, "I know your
character like a book. What is it, Sylvester?" as her colored butler
appeared, card tray in hand. "More visitors? Oh, yes, the Peytons--I
particularly want you to know them, Minna; no, you must not think of
leaving yet," and with her accustomed energy Miss Kiametia whisked Mrs.
Whitney into the drawing-room, Senator Foster following. As Kathleen
stepped toward the door, Miller stopped her.

"Don't go," he pleaded, his voice, though low, vibrating with pent-up
feeling. "Kathleen, my beloved, don't go."

She placed an unsteady hand on the portiere. "I must," she stammered.
"They need me...."

"No, I am the one who needs you. My last chance of happiness lies in the
balance. Kathleen, give me a hearing."

Slowly, reluctantly she turned in his direction. "Be wise, leave things
as they are...."

"I cannot." Miller was white with the intensity of his emotion. "I love
you, love you."

Kathleen's hand crept to her heart as if to still its wild throb.

"Don't, don't"--she looked beseechingly at him. "Have you forgotten..."

"Yes," boldly. "I only realize you are all in all to me."

In the dead silence that followed the ticking of the small desk clock was
distinctly audible.

"Why not leave well enough alone?" she begged, a trifle wildly.

"Because I cannot stand it," huskily. "To see you day after day--Will
nothing I say convince or move you? Am I outside the pale of affection?"

No answer. In the prolonged silence Miller's self-control snapped, and
stepping to her side he drew her in his arms. For a second she struggled
to release herself, then her strength gave way and she leaned limply
against him.

"I am a fool, a fool to listen to you," she gasped, "but I--I--love you
now as I never did before."

With a low cry of unutterable happiness Miller bent his head and their
lips met in a passionate kiss.

The hall clock was chiming six when Mrs. Whitney and Kathleen reached
home. Not waiting for her mother, Kathleen ran upstairs and shut herself
in her own room. Without troubling to switch on the electric lights she
made her way to a chair by the window and flung herself into it.

Love, the all-powerful, had conquered reason. Against her better judgment
she had pledged her faith to Charles Miller. Her heart throbbed high
with hope, and with dreamy, happy eyes she stared out of the window into
the darkness. Slowly she reviewed the events of the past six weeks. Never
intrusive, yet always by her side and at her beck and call, never at a
loss to do and say the right thing, Miller had wooed her in his own
masterful way, trampling down prejudice, suspicion, unbelief, until he
had gained his heritage--love. The specter of the past was
laid--involuntarily Kathleen shivered.

"Is Mademoiselle here?" asked the French maid, peering in uncertainly
from the hall door. She had rapped repeatedly and getting no response
had gone downstairs to look for Kathleen, only to be told that she was
in her own room.

"Come in, Julie, and turn on the electric switch," directed Kathleen, and
blinked as the room was suddenly flooded with light. Without rising she
removed her hat-pins and handed her hat and coat to the maid. "Just the
blue foulard tonight. What have you there?"

"Some flowers, mademoiselle," handing the box to Kathleen. "Captain
Miller left them at the door himself, and seeing me in the hall asked
that I give them to you at once." With a Frenchwoman's tact she busied
herself in getting out the blue foulard and pretended not to see the
blush and smile which accompanied Kathleen's opening of the box. She did
not speak again, helping Kathleen with deft fingers to finish her toilet,
and then stood back to contemplate the effect. "Will mademoiselle attend
the meeting tonight?" she asked.

"No, I am not a member of the Sisters in Unity. I had forgotten the club
was to meet here. Perhaps mother will need you now. Don't wait."

But the Frenchwoman lingered. "Mademoiselle," she began. "Mademoiselle."

"Yes, Julie."

"_Pardon_". Turning abruptly, Julie opened the door and glanced up and
down the hall, then gently closed and locked it. With equal quietness she
bolted the sitting-room door. Watching her with growing curiosity
Kathleen saw that her comely face was white and drawn.

"Listen, mademoiselle." The Frenchwoman was careful to keep her voice
low-pitched. "I dare to speak tonight--for France."

"For France!" echoed Kathleen.

"France." Julie's tone caressed the word. "My country needs your father's
invention--Ah, mademoiselle, do not let him sell it to another."

"He will offer it first to our own Government."

"Will he, mademoiselle? Ah, do not be offended," catching Kathleen's
swift change of expression. "I dare speak as I do--for France; think me
not disrespectful--but others wait to tempt your father."

"Nonsense!"

"I know what I know, mademoiselle. It has gotten abroad that Mr. Whitney
has completed his invention, that tests prove it successful--and,
mademoiselle, this house is watched."

Kathleen looked at Julie incredulously. Had the maid taken leave of her
senses? Between nervousness and anxiety the Frenchwoman was trembling
from head to foot.

"Warn your father, mademoiselle; he will listen to you."

"I will," with reassuring vigor. "Tell me, Julie, what has aroused your
suspicion?"

"Many things. When it creeps out that M. Whitney has succeeded, I say to
myself--the Germans, they will be interested. And I wait. Then madame
engages Henry...."

"Henry? The chauffeur?"

"But yes. I do not like Henry, mademoiselle. He is too much in the
house for a chauffeur; I meet him on the stairs, always on his way to
the attic with some message to M. Whitney who works in his studio
there. He laughs and teases me, that Henry, but wait!" Julie's eyes
were blazing. "And that Monsieur Spencer; I trust him not also. Ah,
mademoiselle, do not let him be closeted with your father--he is the
younger and stronger man."

"Julie, are you quite mad?" exclaimed Kathleen, her eyes twice their
usual size.

"No, mademoiselle. I watch; yes, always I watch and listen. Your father
did well to have iron shutters on the windows and new bolts on the door,
but he knows not that I am within call--on the other side of the door."

"Upon my word!" Kathleen's brain was in a whirl. Was Julie's mind
unbalanced? She knew that the Frenchwoman's fiancé and two brothers had
been killed early in the war. Had grief for them and anxiety for her
beloved country developed hallucinations? One thing was apparent--it
would never do to disagree with her in her overwrought condition.
Kathleen laid her arm protectingly about her shoulders and gave her a
squeeze. She was very fond of the warm-hearted Frenchwoman.

"Do not worry, Julie. I will see that father takes every precaution to
safeguard his invention." She hesitated. "I, too, sympathize deeply with
France." "God bless thee, mademoiselle."

With a movement full of grace Julie raised Kathleen's hand to her lips,
then glided from the room, her slippers making no noise on the thick
carpet.

Left alone Kathleen picked up her box of flowers and walked thoughtfully
into her sitting-room. Her interview with Julie had depressed her. As she
passed her desk she saw a note addressed to her lying on it, but
recognizing Sinclair Spencer's handwriting she tossed it down again
unopened. It would keep to read later. She walked over to the pier glass
and began to adjust the flowers which Miller had sent her. More
interested in his note which accompanied his gift, she had at first taken
them for violets, but looking more closely at the corsage bouquet she
found it contained cornflowers. Again she read his note:

"MY DARLING:

"I send you the harbinger of spring, of hope, of happiness. Ever fondly
your lover,

"CHARLES."

Back to Kathleen's memory came a vision of waving wheat in a field on the
outskirts of Berlin and scattered among the grain grew the
cornflower--_Kaiser blumen_. She raised her hand to her hot cheeks. How
came Miller to send her flowers which he knew were connected with that
past he so ardently wished forgotten?




CHAPTER IX

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY


Whitney scanned the long drawing-room and library beyond in comic
despair. The furniture of both rooms, which opened out of each other,
had been carried into another part of the house, and in its place were
rows on rows of gilt chairs, while in the bow window stood an
improvised platform.

"Can I get you a seat, sir?" asked Vincent, placing a pitcher of ice
water and tumblers on the speaker's table.

"No, thanks; my days as parliamentarian are over, thank the Lord. I have
learned, Vincent, that when the Sisters in Unity hold an election it's
safer to be on the other side of the bolted door."

"Yes, sir." Vincent removed a cherished Sevres vase from its customary
abiding place on the mantel and tucked it carefully under his arm. "Miss
Kathleen is looking for you, sir. I think I hear her in the hall now,
sir," and he hastened into the library as Kathleen stepped into the
drawing-room.

"Where have you been since dinner, Dad? I went from the top of the house
to the bottom looking for you."

"Had to go over to the drugstore to get a prescription filled. Can I do
anything for you?"

"Yes. Come and spend the evening with me," she coaxed.

Whitney laughed. "Can't, my dear. I have important work ahead of
me tonight."

"It must wait until tomorrow," coaxingly, stroking his cheek softly. "I
don't like these lines, Dad. Your health is more to be considered than
your work."

Whitney's air of tolerance turned to one of determination. "You are
wrong; my work is of primary importance. It's only a matter of hours now,
Kathleen; then I can loaf for the rest of my days."

She shook her head. "Unless you take rest you cannot stand the strain.
Mother tells me you worked all last night and far into the morning."

"My brain is clearer at night, and I have always required very little
sleep." He frowned with growing impatience. "There is no use discussing
the subject." He spoke in a tone which forbade further argument.

"Dad," Kathleen lowered her voice and moved closer to him, "has it
occurred to you that--that people are unduly curious about your
invention?"

Whitney eyed her keenly. "It has," he admitted tersely, "and I have taken
precautions." He stared at the clock and frowned impatiently. "Nearly
eight--the meeting will commence soon; let's get out of here."

"Wait, Dad," Kathleen laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I cannot
bear to think of you alone in the attic--so far away from--"

"Sisters in Unity--the very best of reasons for going to the attic--"

"Let me come with you," eagerly. "I'll bring my own work and not say a
word to you. I'm nervous, Daddy, I--I don't want to be by myself
tonight--and there's something I want to--to--" her voice broke.

Whitney glanced at Kathleen in surprise. What had come over her?

"Oh, come along," he agreed roughly. "Only remember, I won't be tormented
with small talk."

Kathleen's eyes brightened with relief as she accompanied him into the
hall. As they appeared the elevator door opened and Mrs. Whitney stepped
out into the hall.

"Why, I thought you were lying down, Kathleen; you said that you were
too tired to come in later to our club meeting and hear Senator Foster's
address on 'Peace,'" she exclaimed, and not waiting for an answer, turned
to Whitney. "Can you spare me a moment, Winslow? I wish your advice," and
with a quick tilt of her head she indicated the small reception room on
the left of the front door. "Come in here."

"Certainly, Minna. Don't wait for me, Kathleen," but the girl paused
irresolutely.

"Shall I go to the studio?" she asked.

"No, you cannot get in; the door is locked. Go to your sitting-room and
I'll stop for you on the way to the studio."

"Honest Injun, Dad?" And her father, nodding vigorous assent, watched her
go up the stairs, then with a brisk step entered the reception room.

"How charming you look, Minna!" he exclaimed, in honest admiration.

"You think so?" and Mrs. Whitney dimpled with pleasure. "I do want to win
the election tonight--and clothes count for so much in woman's politics."

"I back you to win against all comers," and Whitney gave her shapely
shoulder a loving pat as he stooped to kiss her. "What is the matter with
Kathleen tonight? Her behavior troubles me."

His wife laughed softly. "She is suffering from an old complaint--she
is in love."

"What!" Whitney stared at her in blank astonishment. "With whom?" and
sudden, sharp anxiety lay behind the abrupt question.

"I suspect--Captain Miller."

"Miller? That silent--" Whitney checked his impetuous words. "Miller?
Good Lord!"

"What can you tell me about Captain Miller?" Her feminine curiosity was
instantly aroused at his quick change of expression.

"Just what I have seen of him and nothing more. He never talks of
himself."

"Such a relief," sighed Mrs. Whitney. "There is Randall Foster--talks
always of his own achievements. Wait until Kiametia Grey marries him. I
sometimes wonder...."

"I can't see that we are directly concerned with that romance," broke in
Whitney with characteristic impatience. "What's your opinion of Miller?"

"I rather like him; he's very agreeable, good-looking, and seems to have
plenty of money...."

"Then you...."

"Favor his suit? Yes," tranquilly.

"But, heavens, Minna, you know nothing about Captain Miller's past."

"You can inquire about it; in fact, I think it is your duty to do so. He
calls here entirely too frequently not to be asked his intentions."

"What the--" Whitney reddened angrily and his voice rose. "A nice task
you put before me. I dis--"

"Sh!" Rising hurriedly, Mrs. Whitney laid a warning hand on his
arm. "There's the bell, and this room is needed for the cloaks.
Where is Julie?"

Paying no attention to her husband's apparent desire to say something
more, Mrs. Whitney stepped into the hall. Whitney stood in deep thought
for a brief moment, then hastened after her, but his hope to slip
upstairs unseen was frustrated. Miss Kiametia Grey, enveloped in a heavy
fur coat, promptly hailed him and as he stood chatting to her in the hall
the front door again opened and Henry, the chauffeur, who had been
requisitioned to assist Vincent, ushered in Sinclair Spencer.

"Good evening, Mrs. Whitney," Spencer's loud cheery voice boomed through
the hall, and under cover of his jovial manner he scanned Whitney and his
wife. Had Kathleen spoken to them of his proposal of marriage that
morning and her refusal? "Just dropped in to see your husband, Mrs.
Whitney; hadn't hoped for the pleasure of seeing you. Hello, Whitney.
Evening, Miss Grey." But the spinster, with a stiff bow, slipped past the
lawyer and into the reception room without seeing his outstretched hand.
Spencer's florid complexion turned a deeper tint as he met Henry's blank
stare, but a covert glance at the Whitneys convinced him that they had
not seen Miss Kiametia's rudeness.

"Do take Mr. Spencer upstairs, Winslow," suggested Mrs. Whitney, as the
chauffeur opened the door to admit more guests. "I have a meeting of my
club tonight, Mr. Spencer, and therefore..."

"Certainly, certainly; please don't let my presence put you out," with a
courteous bow. "Come on, Whitney, let's go up to your studio," and he
followed his host into the elevator.

Whitney stopped the car at the first bedroom floor. "We will be far
more comfortable in my wife's boudoir than in my studio," he said. "Go
ahead, Spencer, first door to your right. I'll stop in my bedroom and
get some cigars."

Glancing curiously about the large attractive hall, Spencer entered the
daintily furnished boudoir, and was examining the many water colors and
photographs which hung on the walls, when Whitney came in carrying a
cigar box and a tray containing Scotch and vichy.

"That's some of Kathleen's work," he explained, observing that the
lawyer had picked up a miniature of Mrs. Whitney. "She is clever with
her brush."

"Very clever," agreed Spencer enthusiastically. "There is no one,
Whitney, whom I admire as I do your daughter," drawing a lounging
chair near the table on which his host put the tray. "Why does
Kathleen avoid me?"

"Does she?"

"She does," with bitter emphasis. "And it cuts--deep."

"You are supersensitive," protested Whitney politely. "I do not for a
moment believe Kathleen would intentionally hurt your feelings."

Spencer did not answer at once, and chafing inwardly at being kept from
his work in the studio, Whitney glared first at his guest and then at the
clock, but the hint was lost.

Suddenly Spencer's right fist came down on the table with a resounding
whack. "Kathleen turned me down this morning." Whitney's eyes were
riveted on his guest but he said nothing, and Spencer continued
earnestly. "I want you to use your influence...."

"No." The monosyllable was spoken quietly, but the gleam in Whitney's
eyes was a silent warning. "We will leave my daughter's name out of the
discussion. Was there anything else you wished to see me about? If
not...." and he half rose.

Instead of answering Spencer lolled back in his chair and, taking his
time, lighted a cigar.

"Your note for twenty thousand dollars is due in ten days," he announced.
"Are you prepared to take it up?"

There was a protracted pause before Whitney spoke. "Are you willing
to let me curtail your note with a payment of five thousand
dollars?" he asked.

"No."

Whitney's hand closed spasmodically over the bottle of whiskey, and he
was livid with anger as he glared at the younger man. Spencer's good
looks were marred by signs of recent dissipation, and the coarse lines
about his thin lips destroyed the air of refinement given him by his
well-cut clothes. Whitney cast a despairing look about the room, at the
pretty knick-knacks, pictures, and handsome furniture--all indicated a
cultivated woman's taste. How his wife loved her belongings!

With the curtailing of his income through the shrinking and non-payment
of dividends, he had drawn upon his principal and--keeping up
appearances was an expensive game. Every piece of property that he owned
was heavily mortgaged, and every bit of collateral was already deposited
to cover notes at his bank. Slowly Whitney's fingers loosened their grip
upon the bottle of whiskey.

"Well," and his voice cut the stillness like a whiplash. "What is your
pound of flesh?"

Spencer knocked the ash from the end of his cigar into the tray with care
that none should fall upon the polished mahogany table top.

"Kathleen might reconsider--eh?" suggestively. "And--eh--there is your
invention--_your latest invention_."

It was approaching midnight when Whitney stepped alone into the hall. The
hum of voices rose from the room below; evidently Vincent had neglected
to close the drawing-room doors, or else the Sisters in Unity needed air.
Listening intently, he judged from the direction of the voices that the
women had not gone into the dining-room.

Whitney walked toward the elevator, paused, then continued down the hall
and without rapping entered Kathleen's sitting-room. But he stopped on
the threshold on beholding Kathleen sitting before her desk with her head
resting upon its flat top, sound asleep. By her side lay paint box and
brushes and a half-completed miniature of Captain Miller. Without
disturbing her, Whitney crept softly from the room.




CHAPTER X

SISTERS IN UNITY


It was a very much flurried Vincent who admitted Senator Randall Foster,
and helped him off with his overcoat.

"They're still argufying," he said, indicating the closed drawing-room
doors with a jerk of his thumb. "I'll get word to Mrs. Whitney, sir, that
you have come."

"No, no, don't interrupt the meeting," hastily interposed the Senator. "I
may be a few minutes early. Can I see Mr. Whitney?"

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir. Come this way," and Vincent moved toward the
elevator shaft. "I don't believe Mr. Whitney has gone to his studio, yet,
sir; he never takes anyone there, and I haven't seen Mr. Spencer leave."

"Mr. Spencer?" Foster drew back. "Is he with Mr. Whitney?"

"Yes, sir, so Henry told me."

"After all, I don't believe I'll disturb Mr. Whitney, Vincent. Is there
some place I can wait downstairs?"

"Yes, sir, the reception room." The butler led the way to it "I'm afraid,
sir, you'll find it very uncomfortable in here, sir," looking at the
racks of coats and cloaks, "but"--brightening--"here's a copy of the
evening paper; Mr. Whitney must have left it; and this chair, sir--"

"Yes, yes, Vincent, thank you, I'll be all right." Foster took possession
of the solitary uncovered chair. "This is an excellent opportunity of
reading over my speech. Be sure and let me know, Vincent, the instant I
am wanted in the drawing-room."

"Surely, sir. I'll tell Mrs. Whitney that you are here, sir," and
Vincent retired.

Inside the closed drawing-room and library the atmosphere was surcharged
with electricity. Miss Kiametia Grey, who had locked horns with her
opponents on numerous subjects, sat back, flushed and victorious; she was
beginning to feel the fatigue incident to having borne the brunt of the
discussion, and was secretly longing to have the meeting adjourn to the
dining-room where she suspected Mrs. Whitney had provided a bountiful
supper. She felt the need of refreshments, if only a Roman punch.

Mrs. Whitney was also feeling the strain. She had designated a sister
official to occupy the chair when the nominating speeches were in order,
and was awaiting the announcement of the result of the ballot with inward
trepidation. Her composed manner and smiling face won Miss Kiametia's
admiration; she was herself of too excitable a temperament to keep her
equanimity unimpaired, and she watched Mrs. Whitney's calm demeanor and
unruffled poise, conscious of her own disheveled appearance. She missed
Kathleen; the latter's presence had become an almost virtual necessity to
the spinster. Despite the disparity in ages, their tastes were similar,
and both had a keen sense of humor. It had added zest to the spinster's
enjoyment of the season's gayeties to have Kathleen with her, and she had
watched the girl's gradual absorption in Captain Miller with lynx eyes.
The obliteration of Sinclair Spencer as a possible suitor had filled her
with delight. But she had seen Spencer in the house that very night. What
did that mean? What was he there for? Surely, Kathleen had not....

A stir in the back of the room recalled Miss Kiametia's wandering
thoughts, and she leaned eagerly forward to hear the report of the
chairman of the tellers. Mrs. Whitney was elected and Miss Kiametia had
also carried the day. Round after round of hearty applause greeted the
announcement, and as it died out the two successful candidates for first
and second place in the organization stepped to the platform. But after
expressing her thanks, Miss Kiametia again resumed her seat among the
members, while Mrs. Whitney took up the duties of presiding officer.

As the regular business of the meeting drew to a close one of the members
rose, and on being recognized announced that she had a resolution to
offer, and read in a high singsong voice:

"Be it resolved that this organization of Sisters in Unity indorse the
peace movement, and that it use its wide influence to check the tendency
toward militarism which injudicious and misguided Americans hope to foist
upon the American public."

Applause greeted the speaker, and a gray-haired woman across the room
demanded recognition from the chair.

"I would like to say a few words in favor of that resolution," she began,
finally catching Mrs. Whitney's attention. "Our wars with England, our
mother country, were but as the wrangle of relatives. The leaders in the
warring nations in Europe today are all related. Let us keep clear of all
international entanglements. Let us have peace. Through peace this
country has achieved greatness. Peace and prosperity go hand in hand.
Peace uplifts; war retards. Militarism is a throw-back to feudal days. On
its lighter side, militarism is an appeal for gold lace and brass
buttons. A man puts on our uniform because it is a thing of show, in
other words, conspicuous ..."

"Madam chairman!" Her face flaming, an irate woman arose. "No, I don't
care whether I'm in order or not; I will be heard--Mrs. Lutz is quite
right, the United States uniform _is_ conspicuous, and has been
conspicuous on many a bloody battlefield since 1776. The uniform is
honored alike in court and camp in every nation of the world."

As she sat down pandemonium reigned. Instantly Miss Kiametia was on her
feet, and her strident call, "Madam chairman, madam chairman," rose
repeatedly above the hubbub. Mrs. Whitney pounded for order and gave the
spinster the floor.

"I rise to a question of information," explained Miss Kiametia, in tones
which echoed through the rooms. "Is this an indignation meeting or an
assemblage of Sisters in Unity?" she demanded, and sat down. In the
comparative quiet that ensued, the peace resolution was seconded and
passed by a small majority.

Mrs. Whitney stepped to the edge of the platform. "Senator Randall
Foster has very kindly consented to address us tonight," she said. "So
distinguished a lawmaker needs no introduction to this organization. Mr.
Senator," as Foster entered through the door held open for him by
Vincent, "we invite you to the platform."

Bowing his thanks, Foster joined Mrs. Whitney and immediately began one
of those adroit, well-worded addresses which had made him a marked man
in the Senate. "I come to you a special pleader," he continued, with
growing earnestness, "to spread the gospel of peace. It is your
privilege to weld public opinion, and opinion can be as a yoke upon a
man's neck. In this free America opinion governs. Jingoes would try to
plunge us into war. When a boy is given an airgun, his first impulse is
to go out and shoot it off. Arm the men of this country and their
impulse will be the same. A small standing army does not tend to
militarism; its size does not lend itself to the issuing of imperative
mandates; and mandates, ladies, lead to war.

"It is especially a woman's duty to demand peace. In war, upon the woman
falls the suffering and the sacrifice. The lover, the brother, the
father, the son may find honorable death upon the field, but at home the
woman pays. God pity the woman left desolate and alone, her loved ones
sacrificed on the altar of militarism!

"And mothers? What of your children and the fate of yet unborn
generations? Are they brought into the world to be tools of militarism?
Lift up your voice for peace; carry the message, 'Peace on earth' to the
very portals of Congress. Make any and every sacrifice, but guard your
man child."

As Foster stopped speaking enthusiastic applause broke out, and a rising
vote of thanks was given him. As the gratified Senator stepped down from
the platform he found himself by Miss Kiametia's side.

"I did it to please you, Kiametia," he whispered, holding her hand
tightly. "Have I earned one kind word?"

Miss Kiametia favored him with a quick expressive look and a faint blush.

"You are a staunch friend," she said warmly, and Foster brightened.
"Only--only why did you lay such stress on the 'man child'? Nearly all
are spinsters in this peace organization."




CHAPTER XI

A MAN IN A HURRY


Heavy clouds hung low and not a star was visible. The darkness was
intensified by the gleam of distant city lights, for in that section of
Washington lying to the southwest of Pennsylvania Avenue a defective fuse
had caused the dimming of every electric light in the vicinity. Far up on
one of the roofs a man, crouching behind the meager shelter offered by a
chimney, blessed the chance which fortune provided.

Crawling on hands and knees, he cautiously made his way to the edges of
the roof, on which he had dropped from the higher building next door, and
looked down. His eyes straining in the darkness, every sense alert to
danger, he scanned intently each window ledge and cornice. No hope there.
Not even a lead pipe or telephone wires afforded a hold for desperate,
gripping fingers. Unlike the building adjoining on the south, the new
house had no party wall, and a gulf too wide to jump separated it from
its northern neighbor. The sheer drop to the garden beneath was suicidal.

The man lay for a few seconds striving to collect himself. He could not
return the way he had come. He would be caught like a rat in the trap
with the arrival of dawn, if not before. Perhaps his pursuers were on his
trail already. The thought spurred his numbed body to action, and lifting
his head he glanced along the flat roof. Toward the center of it rose a
box-like structure with apparently an arched skylight above it. A little
distance away from the structure, he distinguished the outlines of what
appeared to be a scuttle. Warily he approached it, and using every
precaution to make the least possible sound, he attempted to raise the
scuttle. A long sigh of relief escaped him as he succeeded. The scuttle
was not locked.

He paused long enough to glance keenly about him. There was no sign of
another human being, but a sound smote his ear. Someone was moving on the
pebbled roof of the building he had just left. Without an instant's delay
he groped about until his feet touched the rung of a ladder, and drawing
to the scuttle behind him, he made his way down the ladder.

On reaching the bottom he paused in indecision. He could make out nothing
in the inky blackness, and with every sense alive to danger, he waited.
But apparently his entrance had disturbed no one, and taking heart of
grace, he pulled out a tiny flashlight and pressed the button.

The light revealed a large attic partly filled with trunks and worn
furniture. A large wine closet, the bottles shining as the light fell on
them through the slat partition, occupied one part of the attic, while a
wall partition, with closed door, ran across the entire western side. To
his right, the man made out the head of a narrow staircase. He was making
his way to the staircase when his acute hearing caught the sound of a
softly closing door on the floor below and approaching footsteps.

Casting a hunted look about him, he spied a closed closet door. He doused
his light while making his way to the closet, and jerked open the door,
at the same time throwing out his right hand, the better to judge the
depth of the dark closet. His groping fingers closed on cold steel. His
heart lost a throb, then raced madly on, as he clung weakly to the metal.
An elevator shaft, and he had mistaken it for prison bars!

For a second his chilled body was shaken with hysterical desire for
laughter; then his strong will conquered. He had not forgotten the
advancing footsteps. A desperate situation required desperate chances.
Stepping back he closed the outer door of the elevator shaft and pressed
the button for the elevator. Which would reach him first--the person
creeping upstairs or the automatic electric elevator?




CHAPTER XII

A SINISTER DISCOVERY


Mrs. Whitney sat up in bed and contemplated her husband reproachfully as
he entered her room.

"Have you been working all night?" she inquired.

Whitney nodded absently as he stooped to kiss her. "Now, don't worry,
dear; work will not injure me. I've just had a cold shower and feel ten
per cent better, and all ready for my breakfast. You are the one who
looks tired; that's a very becoming cap you are wearing, but you need
more color here," pinching her cheek. "I don't like to see you so pale.
Were the Sisters in Unity as strenuous as ever?"

"Just about--but, Oh, Winslow, I was elected...."

"That was a foregone conclusion, you modest child." Again Whitney kissed
her. "Congratulations, my darling, though why you should want it...."

Mrs. Whitney laughed good-naturedly. "I'm too happy today to argue the
question," she broke in.

"Kiametia Grey frightened us all last night by fainting ..."

"Fainting! Kiametia? I thought she was as tough as a horse?"

"So she is usually, but she has been doing too much socially, and late
hours do not agree with a woman of her years."

"She isn't so old," protested Whitney.

"She is older than I, and I'm not so young," Mrs. Whitney, whose years
sat lightly upon her, jerked a dainty dressing-gown about her shoulders.
"Kiametia did faint and when she came to, declared it was the overheated
atmosphere of the rooms and the continuous talking which had upset her."

"Well, you must admit, Minna, the Sisters are famous for noisy
discussions. Kiametia is generally able to hold up her end of an
argument. I am sorry she had to give in to superior numbers," Whitney
laughed. "You'll never convince me that she fainted."

"She did, too; and felt so badly that I persuaded her not to go home, but
to spend the remainder of the night in our blue bedroom."

"Good heavens!" Whitney gazed blankly at his wife. "Did she--did ..."

"No, she did not stay there," pausing dramatically. "She found Sinclair
Spencer sound asleep in the bed." She waited expectantly for her
husband's comment, but getting no reply, she burst out, "What was he
doing there--how came he to be there?"

"I was foolish enough to offer him whiskey." Her husband seated himself
carefully on the edge of the bed, "Spencer had been drinking before he
came to see me, and a very little more made him tipsy. I was fearful that
if I took him downstairs he would try and break up your meeting, so
persuaded him to go and lie down on the bed in the blue room."

"Sometimes, Winslow, for a thoughtful man, you ball things up
dreadfully," sighed Mrs. Whitney. "Why did you select that room? You
always put your friends in the hall bedroom."

"Never gave the matter of the rooms a thought." Whitney moved restlessly;
he hated to see a woman cry, and his wife looked perilously upon the
point of tears. In spite of his assertion that he did not miss the loss
of sleep, his nerves were not under full control. Ordinarily not a
drinking man, he had stopped on his way from his bedroom to help himself
to the small amount of Scotch left in the bottle.

"Such a scene as I had with Kiametia," groaned Mrs. Whitney sighing
dismally at the recollection. "Finally, I convinced her that I knew
nothing of Mr. Spencer's presence, and she consented to sleep in the
hall bedroom."

"I'm glad Kiametia discovered Spencer in time." His chuckle developing
into a laugh, Whitney rose and walked to the door. "It's no crying
matter, my dear. Kiametia will be the first to enjoy the joke."

"If it had been anyone but Sinclair Spencer!" Mrs. Whitney shook her head
forlornly. "She has developed an intense dislike for him."

"And Kiametia is usually a woman of discernment." His sarcasm passed
unheeded, and he opened the hall door. "Hurry and dress, Minna, I'll wait
for you in the dining-room. Heavens! What's that?"

A muffled cry, long drawn out, agonizing, vibrated through the stillness.

Spellbound, husband and wife eyed each other, then Whitney stepped into
the hall just as Miss Kiametia tore out of her bedroom.

"What is it?" she demanded. "Oh, stop it, stop it!" clapping her hands
over her ears as the cry rose again.

"It comes from the elevator shaft, sir," panted Vincent, appearing up the
stairs, Henry, the chauffeur, close at his heels. Without moving, Whitney
stared stupidly at the two servants, and it was Henry who laid a
trembling finger on the elevator button. As they heard the automatic car
come to a standstill on the other side of the closed mahogany door there
was a second's pause; then Miss Kiametia, summoning all her fortitude,
laid her hand on the door knob and pulled it open. A horrified
exclamation escaped her as her eyes fell upon Kathleen, whose bloodless
face was pressed against the iron grating of the inner door, to which she
was clinging for support.

"Let me out," she pleaded, her eyes dark with horror. "Let me out."

At sight of his daughter Whitney recovered himself. "Stand back,
Kathleen," he directed. "Then we can slide open the door." He had to
repeat his words twice before she took in their meaning. Releasing her
hold upon the grating, she covered her face as if to shut out some
terrifying spectacle. As Henry pushed back the door, she collapsed into
her father's arms.

"Bring Kathleen in here," called Mrs. Whitney from her doorway, where she
had stood, too frightened to move. "There are smelling salts on my
bureau. What can have brought on this attack of hysterics, Kiametia?"

"The Lord knows. Perhaps the machinery's out of order and she's been
stuck between floors." The spinster, suddenly remembering her extremely
light attire, backed toward her room.

Whitney, reentering the hall, caught her words. "Go to Kathleen, Minna;
she asked for you," and as his wife turned back into her bedroom, he
added, "See if there is anything wrong with the elevator, Henry."

Obediently the chauffeur stepped through the narrow entrance to the
elevator and into the steel cage. The next instant he turned an ashy face
toward his companions.

"Look!" he gasped. "Look!" And his shaking hand pointed to that part of
the elevator concealed by the solid wall of the shaft from the view of
those standing in the hall. With one accord they crowded into the
elevator, and a stricken silence prevailed.

Crouching on the floor at the far end of the shallow cage was Sinclair
Spencer. The rays of the overhead electric lamp, by which the cage was
lighted, showed plainly the gash in his throat, while crimson stains on
his white shirt added to the ghastly tableau. Death was stamped upon the
marble whiteness of his upturned face.

"Good God!" Whitney reeled back and but for Vincent's arm would
have fallen.

"Here, sir, sit here, sir," and the butler half lifted him to a chair in
the hall. "Go get whiskey, Henry," noting the pallor of Whitney's face.
"Quick, man!"

"Telephone for a doctor, Vincent," directed Miss Kiametia, pulling
herself together. She had been the first to bolt out of the elevator. "I
will stay with Mr. Whitney until you get back," and flashing her a
grateful look, the butler, relieved to have responsibility taken from his
shoulders, fled downstairs after Henry.

Miss Kiametia laid trembling hands on Whitney's bowed shoulders.

"It's awful, Winslow," she stammered. "Awful!"

As he paid no attention to her, but stared vacantly at the floor before
him, she paced to and fro, always careful, however, never to go in the
direction of the elevator. The exercise brought back some semblance of
self-control, and her eyes were beginning to take on their wonted snap
when Whitney rose unsteadily and stepped toward the elevator. Miss
Kiametia's voice stopped him on its threshold.

"I wouldn't go in there again," she advised. "Wait until the
coroner comes."

"The coroner?" staring stupidly at her.

"Yes, hadn't you better send for him?"

Whitney's hands dropped to his side with a hopeless gesture. "The
coroner," he muttered. "God help us!"

"Winslow!" Mrs. Whitney appeared in the doorway, tears streaming down
her white cheeks. "Kathleen is completely unnerved; come and help me
quiet her."

At that moment Henry arrived, tray in hand. "I couldn't find the whiskey,
sir," he explained, breathless with hurry. "But here's some cognac, sir.
Let me pour it out," and he handed a filled liqueur glass to Whitney, who
swallowed the stimulant at a gulp.

"Shouldn't mind having some of that myself," announced Miss Kiametia.
"Bring the tray here, Henry," walking over to a table. "And, Winslow,
take a glass to Kathleen; it will do her good. Henry, did Vincent
telephone for the doctor?" she added below her breath, as Whitney and his
wife disappeared in the latter's bedroom and closed the door.

"Yes, Miss Grey, but he was out. So Vincent rang up the hospital and
the coroner."

"Good." Miss Kiametia debated a moment whether or not to take more
cognac, and ended by refilling her glass. "Stay right in this hall,
Henry; don't leave it for a moment until the doctor comes. I'm going in
to dress."

As the door closed behind the spinster, Henry stood in deep thought, then
pouring out a glass of cognac he hastily drank it. Setting down the
glass, he tiptoed over to the elevator, but one look at the still figure
crouching with head thrown back and sightless eyes turned to the ceiling
sent him back into the center of the hall. Drawing out his handkerchief,
he mopped his damp forehead.

From Mrs. Whitney's bedroom came the murmur of voices, and Henry,
darting a quick, searching look about the empty hall, slipped over to
the door and applied his ear to the keyhole. The sound of approaching
footsteps and voices warned him of the arrival of the physician, and
when Vincent appeared, followed by two men, he was standing on guard
near the elevator shaft.

A quick word of explanation sufficed, and then the younger of the
newcomers entered the elevator. He recoiled at sight of Spencer, then
advancing tested the dead man's pulse and heart.

"This is a case for you, Penfield," he exclaimed backing out into the
hall, and without a word the coroner took his place beside Spencer. The
young physician turned to Vincent. "Didn't you tell me that someone was
ill and required medical assistance? Mr. Spencer is dead; I can do
nothing for him."

Without answering, Vincent tapped on Mrs. Whitney's door, and Whitney's
voice bade him enter. "Dr. Hall, sir," announced the butler. "Want him to
come in, sir?--Yes, sir; this way, Doctor," and he pulled to the door
after the physician. The elevator drew Vincent's eyes as a magnet draws
steel, and he started violently at sight of the coroner beckoning to him
from its entrance.

"Call up Police Headquarters," directed Penfield. "Tell them I am here,
and ask to have Detective Mitchell and three plain-clothes men sent over
at once. Be quick about it," and his peremptory tone caused the agitated
butler to hasten his usually leisurely gait. Henry started to follow him,
but the coroner called him back. "Explain to me exactly what happened
when Mr. Spencer was found," he said, stepping into the hall.

The tale lost nothing in Henry's telling, and Penfield was gnawing his
fingernails, a trick he had if perplexed, when Vincent escorted the
detective and plain-clothes policemen into the hall. The coroner rose
with alacrity.

"Glad you could come, Mitchell," he said. "Let me put you in possession
of all facts so far known," and he repeated all that Henry had told him.
Mitchell listened in silence; only the gleam in his eyes attested his
interest, as his face remained expressionless. And that gleam deepened as
he stepped into the elevator and examined Spencer. When he came out he
was wrapping his handkerchief around a knife. Exchanging a glance with
the coroner, he turned to Vincent.

"Show my men over the house," he directed, "and you," addressing
Henry, "inform Mr. Whitney that Coroner Penfield and I would like to
see him at once."

"I am here." Whitney, who had entered the hall unnoticed a second before,
joined the group. "What can I do for you?"

"Answer a few questions," and Penfield, observing the strain under which
he was laboring, pushed a chair in his direction. "Sit down, Mr.
Whitney." He turned back to Henry. "You need not wait," and the chauffeur
reluctantly went down the stairs. The coroner waited an appreciable
moment before again speaking to Whitney. "Was Mr. Spencer visiting you?"
he questioned.

"Only for the night."

"When did you see him last?"

"About midnight."

"And where was that?"

"In the bedroom across the way," pointing to it, and the detective
crossed the hall and entered the room, the door of which was closed.

"And what was Mr. Spencer doing the last time you saw him?" asked the
coroner, with quiet persistence.

"Falling asleep," tersely. "Spencer was drunk," added Whitney after a
pause. "His behavior led me to believe that he would intrude upon my
wife's guests if he went downstairs, so I suggested that he spend the
night here." Whitney drew a long breath, "Is Spencer really dead?"

"Yes."

Whitney shrank back in his chair; he had aged in the past hour, and he
was conscious that his hands were trembling. "I feared so," he muttered,
"I feared so. Can"--clearing his throat--"can Spencer be moved?"

"Not just yet; there are certain formalities to be gone through with
first." Penfield paused to make an entry in his notebook. "Of course,
there will be an autopsy--at the morgue. Oh, Mitchell," as the detective
returned, "have you any questions to ask Mr. Whitney?"

Before answering the detective drew up a chair near Whitney. "I am
told your daughter's screams aroused the household," he said. "Can I
see Miss Whitney?"

"No, you must wait until she is composed; the doctor is just
administering an opiate," replied Whitney hastily. "Kathleen has been
through a most harrowing experience."

"I see." Mitchell drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair. Whitney
eyed the two men askance. Their manner, combined with the events of the
morning, was telling on him. At any price he must break the silence--he
could endure it no longer.

"I wish to God," he exclaimed, "Spencer had chosen any other spot to kill
himself in than our elevator!"

The coroner was the first to reply. "The wound was not self-inflicted."

"What!" Whitney sprang to his feet. "Do you mean--Spencer was murdered?"

"Yes." Both men never moved their gaze from Whitney's ashen face. "Were
all members of your family on good terms with Mr. Spencer?"

"They were," Whitney moistened his parched lips, and only the detective
caught his furtive glance behind him.

"Did anyone beside your immediate family spend last night in this house,
Mr. Whitney?" he asked.

"No--yes," confusedly. "Miss Kiametia Grey...."

"Winslow"--Mrs. Whitney, fully dressed, stepped into the hall from her
boudoir. "Pardon me," with a courteous inclination of her head as the
coroner and Mitchell rose. "Winslow, I've asked the servants, and they
tell me she has disappeared...."

"She? Who?" chorused the three men.

"Julie, my French maid."




CHAPTER XIII

HIDE AND SEEK


Charles Miller was generally an early riser, but the head waiter at the
Metropole was surreptitiously scanning his watch before giving the signal
to close the dining-room doors, when the Captain walked in and took his
accustomed seat at a distant table. Miller had but time to glance at the
headline, "Stormy Cabinet Meeting Predicted at White House Today," in his
morning newspaper, when eggs and toast were placed before him. His
attentive waiter poured the hot coffee and placed cream and sugar in his
cup without waiting for instructions.

"Eggs all right, sir?" he asked anxiously, a trace of accent in his
pleasant voice.

"Yes, thanks." Miller looked at him casually. "I haven't seen you before;
where's Jenkins?"

"Transferred to the café, sir," smoothing a wrinkle out of the tablecloth
as he spoke. "I'll try to give satisfaction, sir."

Miller nodded absently. "Oh, it's all right," he said, stifling a yawn,
and propping his newspaper against his coffee pot, ate his breakfast
leisurely, so leisurely that the other habitués of the hotel had finished
their breakfast and departed before he pushed back his chair. Turning, he
signed to his waiter to bring his check, and not appearing to do so,
watched his approach with keen interest.

"Been a steward, haven't you?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir." The waiter pocketed the tip with alacrity. "Hamburg-American
Line, sir."

"Thought so." Miller signed his name with careful attention to each
stroke of the pencil. "How many of you are employed here?"

"Eight, sir. The lines are tied up; we must have work, and it's hard to
get good berths, sir, with so many ships interned."

"Quite so," Miller rose. "Your name--?"

"Lewis. Just a moment, sir," as Miller started to cross the deserted
dining-room, "Shall I reserve the table for you for luncheon, sir?"

"Luncheon?" Miller reflected. "I rather think not."

"Thank you, sir." The waiter's manner was apologetic. "I asked, sir,
because, sir, today the Cabinet officers lunch here, and...."

"They require your undivided attention?" mildly. "I quite
understand--Ludwig." Their eyes met, then Miller turned on his heel.
_"Auf wiedersehen"_ he exclaimed under his breath, and the waiter's
stolid expression changed to one of relief.

Miller, who had checked his overcoat and hat before entering the
dining-room, wasted no time but entered a public telephone booth. When he
emerged he was whistling cheerily, and the doorkeeper watched him hail a
street car with curious eyes.

"Always running in and out," he muttered. "It beats me when he sleeps."

First stopping at a florist's and then a jeweler's establishment, Miller
bent his footsteps toward the Portland, and to his satisfaction found
Senator Foster enjoying a belated breakfast in his apartment.

"I'm glad to discover a man keeping later hours than I," he remarked,
accepting the chair Foster pulled forward. "You must have an easy
conscience to sleep so late in the morning."

"Or enjoyed the devil of a night--er--mare." The Senator's face was
flushed and his strong voice husky. "You mistake; this is luncheon, not
breakfast. Keep me company? No?" Foster pecked viciously at his lamb chop.
"I've no appetite at all. Caught a beastly cold at the Sisters in Unity
meeting last night. Cough all the time--beastly climate, Washington."

"Why stay here?"

"Oh, Congress...."

"But that adjourned three weeks ago."

Foster frowned, then smiled. "A woman's whim--we are not always
independent, Miller"--a shrug completed the sentence. "Change your mind
and have some Scotch?"

"No, thanks." Miller drew his chair closer to his companion, and lowered
his voice. "I called this morning, Senator, to ask some questions about
Winslow Whitney."

Foster's smile vanished, and the glance he shot at Miller was sharp.

"It depends on the questions," he began stiffly, "whether they are
answered or not."

"Quite right," with unruffled composure. "I shall ask nothing which
cannot be answered with propriety." Miller ceased speaking to light a
cigarette. "All Washington knows Whitney is a man of wealth"--his keen
eyes detected the sudden alteration in Foster's expression--"of standing
in the social and business world, but has he achieved success as an
inventor?"

"Yes," was the instant and unqualified response, and Miller's eyes
lighted, but it was some seconds before he put another question.

"Are you familiar with his latest invention?"

"You mean his camera for use in aeroplanes?"

"Yes. Do you think it has any hope of success?"

"I believe so; Whitney declares the experiments are entirely
satisfactory."

"Have you seen results of the tests?"

"Whitney showed me views of New York City and its environs taken from an
aeroplane. They were--wonderful--" the Senator puffed nervously at his
cigar--"perfect maps."

"Indeed?" Miller made no effort to conceal his eager curiosity. "At what
height were they taken?"

"Ah, that I do not feel at liberty to disclose. How, when, and where this
new camera can be utilized is of interest to all military men; but as
Whitney's friend, I could not divulge details he may desire kept secret,
even if I knew them."

"Pardon me, I thought you his most intimate friend...."

"I am, but not his confidant. And as his friend, I cannot discuss his
private affairs with you."

"I don't agree with you there." Miller tossed his cigarette stub into the
iron grate. "Would it not be a friendly act to place Whitney in a
position to coin money?"

"Ah, so that is why you take an interest in his invention?" Foster
laid down his cigar and contemplated his companion closely. "You wish
to buy ..."

"Exactly."

"Is the purchaser to be the same for whom you are collecting horses and
ammunition?"

"Yes."

Foster did not answer at once, and Miller, without seeming to do so, took
silent note of the handsome appointments of the dining-room. The silver
service on the sideboard, the cut-glass decanters and liqueurs seemed
somewhat out of place in a bachelor apartment. Somewhat puzzled, Miller
looked more fully at his host, hoping to find an answer to his unspoken
doubts. Careful of his dress, deportment, and democracy, Foster had early
gained the sobriquet "Dandy," but there was nothing effeminate in his
spare though muscular form, and his long under jaw indicated bull-dog
obstinacy. Confessing to fifty, Foster did not look his age by ten years.

"I shall have to ponder your question, Miller." As he spoke Foster rose.
"Frankly, I've been striving to interest our Government in Whitney's
invention, and that is one of the things which has kept me in Washington.
Suppose we go and see Whitney now. I know that he is anxious to dispose
of his invention--he is hard pressed for money,''

"Indeed!" The pupils of Miller's eyes contracted suddenly. "Possibly
Whitney will give me a hearing, and I need not offer"--he stopped,
looked at his cigarette case, returned it to his pocket, and followed
Foster out of the room--"a large sum," he finished, helping the Senator
into his overcoat.

Foster laughed shortly. "You will get no bargain. Whitney's politeness is
on the surface; underneath he is as hard as nails, and suspicious--" The
Senator's cough cut short his speech and echoed down the corridor as he
closed the door to his apartment. "Won't even let me look at the camera,
much less let me examine the lens, specifications, drawings, plate, et
cetera. In fact, refused to give me any details, although he knows I must
have the information so as to interest others in his invention."

"But surely he has had the camera tested thoroughly?"

"Oh, yes. It has leaked out that the lens is so powerful and the
mechanical parts of the camera so perfect that maps of the country taken
at a remarkable height depict fortifications to the minutest detail. No
one knows the method employed to bring about such a result. That is the
secret locked inside Whitney's studio and his brain. Whitney is a genius,
and unlike others of his ilk, is extremely modest about his own
achievements. He covers his real nature under a mantle of eccentricity. I
doubt if his wife and daughter really gauge his capabilities." A violent
fit of coughing interrupted him, and he did not speak again for some
minutes. As the elevator reached the ground floor, Foster saw his
chauffeur standing near the office. "My car at the door?" he asked, as
the man approached.

"Yes, sir," touching his cap. "Will you drive, sir?"

"Not today, too much cold, don't want pneumonia. Jump in, Miller." Foster
signed to him to enter first. "Take us to the Whitneys', Mason," he
directed, and sprang into the tonneau.

Five minutes later they stopped in front of the Whitney house, and
directing his chauffeur to wait, Foster accompanied Miller up the steps,
but before either could touch the bell, the door was opened by Vincent
whose white face brightened at the sight of the Senator.

"Step right in, sir," he begged. "The master was just telephoning for
you, sir." Vincent paused and looked doubtfully at Miller. "Did you wish
to see Miss Kathleen, sir?"

"Yes," taking out his visiting card.

"Miss Kathleen is sick in bed." Vincent appeared still more confused, but
Foster, standing somewhat in shadow, caught Miller's look of alarm which
the butler missed.

"What is the matter with Miss Kathleen?" demanded Miller, and there was
no mistaking the feeling in his voice and manner.

"She had a shock, sir, a most awful shock." While speaking Vincent
tiptoed toward the library; he felt that he could never make a loud noise
in that house again. "An awful shock," he repeated. "We all felt it."

"What do you mean?" Foster laid an impatient hand on the old
servant's shoulder.

"Why, sir, he's dead...."

"Whitney?" The question sprang simultaneously from Foster and Miller.

"No, no, sir. Mr. Sinclair Spencer, sir. He was murdered"--Vincent
shuddered as the last word crossed his lips.

His hearers stared stupidly at each other, and then at the butler. "Who
murdered him?" asked Miller, the first to recover speech.

"We don't know--they say Julie; leastways we only know for positive that
Miss Kathleen was with him ..."

Miller turned first white then red, and an angry gleam lit his eye as he
stepped nearer the agitated servant.

"That will do. Go tell Mr. Whitney we are here," and his tone caused
Vincent to hurry away in deep resentment.

Foster gazed dazedly at Miller. "What can have happened?" he asked. "Was
Spencer so foolish as to bait Winslow ..."

"Careful," cautioned Miller, his quick ear detecting a footstep in the
adjoining drawing-room. An instant later Miss Kiametia Grey stepped into
the library.

"Thank goodness you have come," she exclaimed, darting toward Foster.
"I've wanted you so much ..."

"My darling"--Foster, forgetful of Miller's presence, clasped her hand in
both of his.

"There--there--this isn't any time for sentiment," and Miss Kiametia's
chilly tone recalled the Senator to the fact that they were not alone.
Looking a trifle foolish, he dropped her hand and stepped back.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, coldly. "You said you needed me."

"Well, so I do, as legal adviser," with unflattering emphasis. "Good
morning, Captain Miller; I did not recognize you at first. I suppose you
have both heard of Sinclair Spencer's tragic death."

"Yes, but none of the particulars," answered Miller. "And also that
Kathleen is ill. Do tell me how she is," and though he strove to conceal
his anxiety, his manner betrayed his emotion to the sharp-eyed spinster.

"The doctor gave her an opiate," she said quickly. "She will be herself
again when she awakes. Her condition does not worry me." She hesitated,
shot a quick furtive look at Miller's intent face, and added: "But I am
alarmed by the mystery surrounding Sinclair Spencer's death."

"Tell us the details," urged Foster.

"Details," echoed the spinster. "There are none. We were awakened this
morning by Kathleen's screams, rushed into the hall and found her in the
elevator with Sinclair Spencer's dead body. She appeared completely
unstrung, could make no coherent statement, and when the doctor came, was
given an opiate." She paused and looked hopelessly at the two men. "We
know no more of the murder than that."

"We must wait until Kathleen awakens," said Whitney, and Miss Kiametia
started violently at the sound of his voice; so absorbed had the others
been in her remarks that his quiet entrance a few minutes before had
passed unnoticed. "I trust that she will then be more composed."

"Did she say nothing to you and Minna when you were with her before the
doctor arrived?" questioned Miss Kiametia, smothering her eagerness with
difficulty.

"Nothing that made sense." Whitney ran his fingers through his gray hair
until it stood upright. "She babbled Spencer's name, alternating with the
moaning cry, '_Kaiser blumen_.'"

"'_Kaiser blumen_!' What in the world--" The spinster checked her hasty
speech on catching sight of Detective Mitchell loitering just inside the
library door. "Do you want to see Mr. Whitney?" she asked, raising her
voice a trifle, and all turned to face the detective as he advanced
toward them. Bowing gravely to Senator Foster and Captain Miller,
Mitchell stopped opposite the spinster, but his first remark was directed
to Whitney.

"Your wife tells me, sir, that the French maid, Julie, has been in your
employ over four years."

"She has," acknowledged Whitney, making no effort to conceal his
impatience. "Will you kindly postpone your questions, Mitchell, until
later; I desire to converse with my friends now."

"I will intrude but a moment longer." Mitchell slipped one hand inside
his coat pocket. "When will it be convenient, sir, for you to take me
into your studio?"

Whitney looked at the detective as if he did not believe his ears.

"Why the devil should I take you through my studio?" he thundered, his
anger rising. "I take no one there--you understand, no one."

"Pardon me, these are exceptional circumstances. As an officer of the law
it is my duty to examine the entire premises where a crime has been
committed. On reaching your attic, I found the door leading to your
studio locked, and I have come downstairs, sir, to ask you to take me
into that room."

"And I absolutely refuse."

"In that case, sir," there was a steely glint in Mitchell's eyes
which betokened trouble, "I shall send for a locksmith and have the
bolt forced."

"Wait," Foster laid a restraining hand on Whitney's shoulder as the
latter made a hasty step in the detective's direction. "I assure you,
Mitchell, that the so-called studio is Mr. Whitney's workshop; he is, as
you no doubt know, an inventor." Whitney opened his mouth to speak, then
closed his jaws with a snap. "Mr. Whitney is now engaged upon a most
important invention. It is quite natural that he does not wish...."

"It is hardly a matter of wishes, Mr. Senator," broke in Mitchell. "A
murder has been committed here, and it is imperative that everything be
done to apprehend and convict the criminal."

"Ha!" Whitney's snort was almost a triumphant challenge. His altered
demeanor did not escape the shrewd eyes watching him so keenly. "So you
think I murdered Spencer?"

"I have not said what I think," retorted the detective brusquely. "Come,
sir, we are wasting time; take me over your studio at once."

Whitney's haggard face reddened with anger; twice he opened and shut his
mouth, then thinking better of his first impulse, he turned on his heel.

"Follow me," he directed ungraciously. As he stepped toward the doorway
he looked back and encountered Miller's intent gaze. The Captain's gray
eyes, their devil-may-care sparkle dampened by anxiety for Kathleen,
broad forehead, and firm mouth inspired confidence. He looked a man whose
word could be relied on. Whitney, harassed by conflicting doubts, and
agonizing apprehensions, acted on impulse. "Come with us, Captain. We'll
be right back, Kiametia; you and Foster wait for us here."

By common consent the three men avoided the elevator and walked up
stairs. On reaching the attic, Whitney made at once for his studio and
inserting keys in the double lock turned the wards, and opened the door.

"Go in," he said, and waited until the two men had preceded him in the
room, then entered and closed the door, shooting the inner bolt. The
detective looked around as the faint click of the metal caught his ear.
"Force of habit," explained Whitney. "Hurry and make your examination,
Mitchell; I wish to rejoin my friends downstairs as quickly as possible.
Have a seat, Captain?"

But Miller declined, and stood watching Mitchell as he made a thorough
search of the apartment. Nothing escaped his attention, and such
furniture as the room boasted was minutely scrutinized, even the Cooper
Hewitt lights and cylinder arc lights being switched on to assist in the
examination. Models, large sink, darkroom, cabinets, tool chest, drawing
tables, and small chemical laboratory were subjected to a thorough
search. Miller's silent wonder grew; nowhere did he perceive a model
resembling a camera, or the camera itself.

Whitney, sitting astride an ordinary wooden chair, followed the
detective's movements with sardonic amusement, which now and then found
vent in a grim smile. Whitney's expression was not lost upon Miller, who,
finding him a more interesting study than Mitchell, watched him intently
while appearing to be deeply engaged in examining an elevator model.

"Isn't this the design copied in building your elevator, Mr.
Whitney?" he asked.

"Yes; that is the model I made when the elevator was built. It was one of
the first installed in a private residence in Washington."

"It is somewhat different from others that I have seen," commented the
detective, replacing a bottle carefully on a shelf. "The cage is so very
shallow in depth and so long in width."

"I had to cut my coat according to my cloth," curtly. "This house is very
old and the outer walls are of unusual thickness, also the inner ones,
which accounts for the peculiar shape of the elevator. The brick shaft
had to be built to conform to the walls and staircase. I also invented
that safety air brake catch," he added, as Miller ran the elevator to the
top of the shaft and released the cage with a sudden jerk. The elevator
slipped down a flight, then automatically adjusted itself and stopped.

"A clever idea," said Miller admiringly. "When I first used your
elevator, Mr. Whitney, I was struck by its unexpected capacity to hold
six people. Its shallowness is deceptive."

"That's so." Whitney stared at the clock suggestively. "Kathleen, as a
child, used to slip in unseen, and as the majority of the people enter
the elevator facing the floor button plate with their backs to where she
stood, she gave her governesses many scares."

The detective stopped to examine the elevator model carefully, and
pressed the button marked "Attic." "Persons entering the elevator
instinctively pull to the inner door with their left hand and push the
floor button with the right, and they would be standing with their backs
to where Spencer lay," he said.

"And anyone could have started the elevator without knowing of his
presence," put in Miller softly, and the detective nodded assent.

"You have no floor indicator connected with the elevator, Mr. Whitney,"
commented Mitchell thoughtfully.

"No." Whitney rose abruptly. "Finished your search?" Not waiting for a
reply he prepared to leave, and a covert sneer crossed his lips as he
asked, "Found anything criminal?"

"Only these bottles," indicating the shelves near the laboratory.
"There's enough poison here to kill a regiment."

"And only for use in photography," Whitney busied himself in adjusting
shades which the detective had raised or lowered the better to see the
room. "Rather a commentary on the laws governing the sale of poisons,
Mitchell; can't buy them at a druggist's, but any man, woman, or child
can go into a photographic supply store and buy any quantity of deadly
poison and no questions asked."

"Perhaps," was Mitchell's sole comment, as he removed a stopper from a
blue glass bottle and sniffed at its contents.

"Hm! You are of an inquiring turn of mind." Whitney's eyes contracted
suddenly. "May I remind you that Spencer, whose death you are
investigating, was stabbed."

"With a dull knife," answered Mitchell, setting down the bottle. "And it
must have taken muscular force to drive the knife home."

Whitney was suddenly conscious of both men's full regard, and his thin,
wiry figure stiffened. His eyes snapped with pent-up feeling.

"Is a man to be convicted of crime because it is physically possible for
him to commit murder?" he demanded harshly, and not waiting for an answer
unbolted the door. "I fear, Mitchell, you have wasted both my time and
yours. Remember this, sir." He stepped directly in front of the
detective. "Those making a charge must prove it. Now go."




CHAPTER XIV

A QUESTION OF LOYALTY


Miss Kiametia Grey waited until the sound of Whitney's, Miller's and the
detective's footsteps had died away down the hall before addressing
Senator Foster.

"Suppose we sit over there," she suggested, indicating a large
leather sofa, and not waiting for his assent, walked over to it and
seated herself.

The sofa stood with its back to one of the windows, and from its broad
seat its occupants would have a complete view of the attractive library
with its massive furniture, huge old-fashioned chimney, and
bookcase-lined walls. Foster, following Miss Kiametia, was startled by a
glimpse of her face as she stepped into the sunlight whose merciless rays
betrayed the new lines about her closely compressed lips. A touch of
rouge enhanced her pallor. Suddenly conscious of his intent regard she
seated herself, turning her back squarely to the light.

"Sit there," she exclaimed pettishly, pointing to a Morris chair which
stood close to the sofa. "I prefer to have the person I'm talking to
face me." Without remark Foster made himself comfortable, first, however,
pulling down the shade to protect his eyes from the glare of sunlight.

"We can't be overheard," began Miss Kiametia. "At least I don't think we
can," and her sharp glance roved inquiringly about the room. "What was
Sinclair Spencer doing in that elevator?"

"Going downstairs," hazarded the Senator, "or up."

"Or waiting."

"Eh?" Foster shot a quick look at her. "Waiting? What for?"

"That is what we have to discover," and Miss Kiametia sat back and folded
her hands.

"Yours is hardly a reasonable supposition. People do not usually wait in
elevators, Kiametia."

"There's no law against it," was her tart reply. "I have very good reason
to believe Spencer was _not_ going out of the house."

"May I ask what that reason is?"

"He wore no shoes," and for an instant a smile hovered on her lips as she
caught his startled expression. She was woman enough to enjoy creating a
sensation, and it was not often that she surprised the Senator.

"Is that so!" he exclaimed thoughtfully. "That puts a somewhat different
complexion on the matter."

"It does. Why was Sinclair Spencer gallivanting about this house in his
stocking feet?"

Foster played with his watch chain. "Upon my word, I don't know," he
replied at last.

"Well, you might hazard a guess." But Foster's only answer was a negative
shake of his head. "Pshaw! use your imagination--suppose Spencer was
unduly inquisitive about Winslow's invention--"

"Stop, Kiametia!" Foster held up a warning hand. "You are treading on
dangerous ground. Be sure of your facts before suggesting that a man of
Winslow's known integrity is involved in--murder."

"How you men do jump at conclusions," grumbled Miss Kiametia. "I believe
Julie, the maid, killed Spencer because she found him snooping around
where he had no business to be."

"Why should the maid play watchdog?"

"Because she's French, stupid; and I believe, firmly believe, Sinclair
Spencer was in the pay of Germany. Both he and the maid were after
Winslow's invention, one to steal, the other to protect."

"You have astonishing theories." Foster leaned back and regarded her in
silence, then resumed, "Suppose you give me an exact account of what
transpired this morning."

He listened with rapt attention to the spinster's graphic description of
the finding of Kathleen and Sinclair Spencer in the elevator.

"Strange, very strange," he muttered, as she brought the recital to an
end. "How did Kathleen come to enter the elevator without seeing its
occupant?"

"You take it for granted that Spencer was dead at that time?" asked
the spinster.

A look of horror crept into Foster's eyes. "Kiametia, what do you mean to
insinuate? Your question implies--"

"Nothing," hastily. "I only want you, with your sane common sense, to
kill an intolerable doubt. Kathleen cannot--_cannot_ know anything of
this crime."

"If you doubt, why not ask Kathleen how and when she came to be in the
elevator with Spencer's dead body?"

"Kathleen is still under the effects of the opiate, and you heard what
Winslow said a few minutes ago about her behavior before the
physician's arrival."

"Don't worry." Foster laid a soothing hand on hers. "Kathleen's condition
is not surprising under the circumstances; the shock of finding
Spencer's dead body was quite enough to produce hysteria and irrational
conduct. When herself, her explanations will clear up the mystery.
Therefore, why harbor a doubt of her innocence?"

"If you had seen the expression of her eyes," exclaimed Miss Kiametia.
"It betrayed more than shock and horror. If ever I saw mental anguish
depicted, a naked soul in torment, I saw it then. God help the child!"
She paused and stared at Foster. "Why should Kathleen betray such
emotion? Sinclair Spencer was less than nothing to her."

"He was very attentive," said Foster slowly. "I have even heard it
reported last fall that they were engaged."

"Engaged? Fiddlesticks!" Miss Kiametia's head went up in a style
indicative of battle. "Imagine Kathleen caring for a man who openly
boasted he had held the best blood of America in his arms--she isn't that
kind of girl!"

"Come, Spencer wasn't so unattractive," protested Foster. "I hold no
brief for him; in fact, some of his business transactions were shady; but
upon my word, he was exceedingly good-looking, and if I remember rightly,
you encouraged him to come to your apartment."

"I've done some remarkably stupid things occasionally," said Miss
Kiametia composedly. "That was one of them."

"Kiametia!" called a voice in the hallway, and the next moment the
portières parted and Mrs. Whitney walked into the library. "Oh, there you
are, my dear; I feared you had gone. I am so glad to see you, Senator,"
clasping Foster's extended hand warmly. "Winslow and I both hoped you
could come to us. We want your advice."

"I am entirely at your disposal." As he spoke, Foster dragged forward a
comfortable chair. "Sit here, Mrs. Whitney; you look quite done up," and
his sympathetic tone and manner brought tears to her hot, tired eyes.

"It is such a comfort to see two such dear friends," she said, looking
gratefully at them. "And to talk to you openly, away from those dreadful
detectives. I haven't had an opportunity to speak privately to Winslow.
Detective Mitchell is his shadow."

"A little brief authority," Foster shrugged his shoulders. "How is
Kathleen?"

"Sleeping, thank God!" Mrs. Whitney lowered her voice. "I really feared
for her reason before the doctor came. I could not soothe her, or quiet
her wild weeping." She stopped to glance hastily over her shoulder.
"Vincent said something about Captain Miller having called--is the
Captain here?"

"He has gone upstairs with your husband and Detective Mitchell," answered
Foster. "Tell me, Mrs. Whitney, was Sinclair Spencer visiting you for any
length of time?"

"Oh, no; his stopping here last night was quite unexpected; in fact so
unexpected to me that I accidentally put Kiametia in the same room
with him."

"I didn't stay there," hastily ejaculated the spinster, crimsoning. "The
moment I saw him in bed, I fled."

"Was he asleep?" questioned Foster; Miss Kiametia had not told him these
details in her description of events at the Whitney residence.

"I presume so; his eyes were closed--thank goodness!" she added under
her breath, and quickly changed the subject "Any news of Julie's
whereabouts, Minna?"

"Apparently not; I telephoned to Police Headquarters half an hour ago,
and the desk sergeant said they had found no trace of her."

"Where is your maid's bedroom, Mrs. Whitney?" asked Foster.

"She rooms with the cook on the third floor."

"What does the cook say about Julie's disappearance?"

"She is as mystified as the rest of us; declares Julie went to bed at the
same time she did, and that when she awoke this morning, the covers on
Julie's bed were thrown back. Thinking Julie had preceded her downstairs,
she dressed and attended to her usual duties. It was not until I rang for
Julie that the other servants realized that none of them had seen her
this morning. Not one, apparently, has the faintest idea as to when she
disappeared, and where."

"So!" ejaculated Foster unbelievingly. "I imagine the police will jog
their memories."

"Let us hope they will succeed in finding Julie," snapped Miss Kiametia.
"I confess the situation is getting on my nerves. If she committed the
murder, she should suffer for it. If not, she should come forward and
prove her innocence."

"It is essential that Julie be found," agreed Foster. "For my
part, I...."

"Beg pardon, sir," and Vincent approached. "This note has just come for
you," presenting his silver salver to the Senator. "There's no answer,
sir. The clerk at the Portland sent the messenger here with it, as it was
marked 'Immediate.'"

With a word of apology to his companions, Foster tore open the envelope
and hastily scanned the written lines.

"I must leave at once," he announced, carefully placing the note in his
leather wallet. "I had forgotten entirely that I had an important
business engagement. Please tell Winslow, Mrs. Whitney, that I will come
back this evening; and you must both count on me if there is anything I
can do for you."

"Won't you wait for Captain Miller?" asked Miss Kiametia, concealing her
disappointment at the abrupt termination of the interview.

"Miller? I'm afraid not. Please tell him I was called away and that I
leave my touring car at his service."

"If you plan to do that, may I get your chauffeur to take me home?" asked
Miss Kiametia quickly.

"Why, of course; I only wish that I could accompany you." Foster
wavered, he desired most ardently to see the spinster alone, but the
note was urgent, and considering the source, could not be ignored.
"Good-bye." Shaking hands warmly with Mrs. Whitney and Miss Kiametia, he
hastily departed.

Foster's appointment consumed over an hour, and on leaving the
government building where it had taken place, he walked aimlessly through
the city streets, so deep in thought that he gave no heed to the
direction he was taking. His absorption blinded him to the appearance of
an inconspicuously dressed, heavily veiled woman who, at sight of him,
shrank back under cover of the archway leading to a movie theater, until
he had passed safely up the street. She was about to step out on the
sidewalk again when the sight of a man walking rapidly down the street in
the direction Foster had disappeared, caused her to remain in partial
concealment. The woman peered at the last man irresolutely, while
pretending to examine a gaudy, flaring poster of the movie, one hand
pressed to her rapidly beating heart. Coming to a sudden decision, she
hastened after him, and nearing an intersecting street, overtook him.

"Captain Miller," she called timidly, and at sound of his name, Miller
turned toward her.

"Yes?" his hand raised toward his hat at sight of a woman. "You
called me?"

"Yes, Captain." She drew nearer. "You do not recognize me, but"--sinking
her voice--"I am Julie."

"Julie?" he echoed.

"_Oui, monsieur_," in rapid French. "Mademoiselle Kathleen's maid. Ah,
monsieur, for the love you bear her, advise _me_ now. It is for her sake,
not for mine."

The Captain eyed her intently. "I don't catch your meaning," he said, in
her native tongue.

"You have surely heard, Captain, of the death of that devil,
Spencer"--Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman's eyes sparkled with rage.
"Well, Captain, his death was--justified."

"I have no doubt of it," agreed her companion. "But, in the eyes of the
law, it will be termed...."

"Murder." Her white lips barely formed the word, and she glanced
fearfully behind her. Her half-conscious action recalled the Captain to
their surroundings, and he, too, glanced up the street. Apparently they
had it to themselves; in that unfrequented part of the city there were
few passers-by. The Captain's eyes narrowed; he preferred never to be
conspicuous; a crowded street was more to his liking.

"Suppose we move on," he suggested, but the Frenchwoman held back.

"I have spent all the morning at the moving pictures," she said. "There
it is dark. Let us find another."

"Very well; we can talk as we go," and the Captain suited his step to
hers. "And suppose also that we confine our remarks to English."

"As monsieur pleases." She half repented her impulsive act. She had
intrusted her secret to another. Would that other prove loyal? A faint
shiver crept down her spine, and she pressed one mitted hand over the
other. "I seek seclusion, monsieur, because--I know too much."

"'A little knowledge'"--the Captain did not finish the quotation. "Let us
turn down here," and not waiting for her consent, he piloted her up a
side street. "You do not, then, wish to make a confidant of the police?"

"_Non, non, monsieur_," lapsing again into rapid French. "I think only of
Mademoiselle."

A sudden gleam lighted the Captain's eyes. "Kathleen," his voice lingered
on her name. "You think she is in danger?"

"I do, monsieur, in great danger. Did I not see"--she paused in her
hasty speech and bit her tongue; one indiscretion was leading to another.
"It matters not what I saw, monsieur--I am sometimes nearsighted."

"In that case, your eyes will be examined if testifying in a trial for
murder," and he smiled covertly as he saw the fear tugging at her
heart-strings. "Enough, Julie; I will respect your confidences. You
know--how, I do not inquire--of my deep affection for Mademoiselle
Kathleen...."

"Who would not love her?" broke in Julie passionately. "So generous, so
fearless and loyal! Ah! she will be faithful to France--she will guard
her father's secret--aye, even to the bitter end."

"Hush! not so loud," admonished the Captain, laying a steadying hand on
her arm. "Let me think a moment." Totally unconscious of the tears which
fell one by one on her white cheeks, the excited Frenchwoman kept step
with him in silence for three blocks; then the Captain roused himself.
"You are willing to shield Mademoiselle Kathleen at all costs?" he asked.

"_Oui, monsieur._"

"And you think you can best accomplish that result by avoiding the
police?"

"_Oui, monsieur_."

"Have you money?"

"A little, monsieur." She turned her troubled countenance toward him. "I
cannot travel far."

"It is wiser not to travel at all." The Captain slackened his walk before
an unpretentious red brick residence. "The landlady of this house takes
paying guests and asks no questions. Here you can remain _perdue_," with
emphasis, "and no one inside will trouble you; but be cautious, Julie,
how you venture on the street day or night."

"But, monsieur"--Julie drew back--"I do not fear for myself, only for
mademoiselle, and I like not to be indoors all day. The police, they will
only trouble me with questions should I return to the Whitneys."

"If you do not return to the Whitneys, Julie, the police will think
you guilty."

"Me, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"But--but--" stammered the Frenchwoman, overwhelmed. "I have committed no
crime. I but left because I could not bear to tell what I know."

"Your departure is construed as a confession of guilt." The Captain bent
his handsome face nearer hers. "It is only a question, Julie, of the
depth of your affection for Mademoiselle Kathleen. Are you willing to
shield her at all costs?"

The Frenchwoman faltered for a second, then drew herself proudly erect.
"_Oui, monsieur_. Mademoiselle was kind to me when I lost all--my lover,
my brothers died for France. There is no one who cares for me now but
mademoiselle. I shall not betray her."

"Good!" The Captain wrung her hand. "Come," and he led the way into
the house.




CHAPTER XV

THE GAME, "I SPY"


Barely pausing to dip his pen in the inkstand, Charles Miller covered
sheet after sheet of thin paper with his fine legible writing. As he
reached the final word he laid down his pen and stretched his cramped
fingers and gently rubbed one hand over the other. For the first time
conscious of the chill atmosphere, he rose and moved about the room.
Stopping before the steam heater to turn it on, he walked back to his
desk and carefully read what he had written, correcting a phrase here and
there. Finally satisfied with the result, he selected an envelope and
placing the papers inside, sealed and addressed it. For a second he held
the envelope poised over the unstained blotting-paper, then raising it
gently, breathed on the still wet ink. At last convinced that it was dry,
he placed the envelope in the pocket of his bathrobe, and picking up his
pajamas went into the bathroom which opened out of his bedroom, and
closed the door.

Five seconds, fifteen seconds passed, then the long curtains before the
window alcove gently parted and a man looked into the empty room. With
head and shoulders protruding he waited until the sound of running water
reached his ears, then advanced softly into the room. The desk was his
objective point, and his nimble fingers made quick work of sorting its
meager contents. His search was unrewarded; there was not a scrap of
incriminating writing in any drawer, and the neat pile of blotting-paper
was untouched.

The intruder's expression altered; curiosity gave way to doubt. Without
wasting time he replaced every article where he found it, pausing
occasionally to listen to the sound of splashing coming from behind the
closed bathroom door. Convinced there was no immediate danger of
interruption from that quarter, he walked swiftly to the closet and
minutely examined Miller's clothing. Just as he was leaving the closet a
box-shaped leather bag marked "Underwood" attracted his attention, and
pushing aside a bundle of soiled underclothing, he knelt down and
inserted a skeleton key in the lock, and after a second's work, forced
back the wards and opened the lid of the box. The typewriter it contained
proved uninteresting, and putting back everything as he had found it, he
returned to the window by which he had entered. Pushing it open, he
climbed out on the ledge and, closing the window behind him, by the aid
of ropes swung himself over to a near-by fire escape and disappeared
inside a room opening from it.

The slight sound occasioned by the closing of his bedroom window was
drowned in Miller's cheery whistle as he emerged from the bathroom.
Refreshed and invigorated by his bath, he switched off the lights and
climbed into bed.

The sunlight was streaming in the windows when he awoke, and it was a
full minute before his sleepy senses grasped the fact that someone was
pounding on the hall door. Hastily donning his bathrobe, he turned the
key and opened the door. Henry, the Whitneys' chauffeur, was standing on
the threshold.

"May I have a word with you, sir?" he asked.

"Certainly, come in," and Miller, conscious of his negligé attire and
that two pretty women were passing down the hall, precipitously retreated
into his bedroom. "Shut the door after you." He waited until his order
had been followed, then demanded impetuously: "How is Miss Kathleen?"

"Better, sir."

"Thank God!" The fervid exclamation escaped him unwittingly, and a faint
tinge of red stained his cheeks as he met Henry's attentive regard. "Did
you give her my note?"

"I sent it to her by the nurse, sir; Miss Kathleen still keeps her room,"
said Henry respectfully. "Vincent tells me that she refused even to see
her mother and father."

"Have you an answer for me?" as the servant paused.

"The nurse came to the kitchen and gave me these"--pulling a letter and
package out of his pocket--"to deliver personally to you, sir; Miss
Kathleen asked to have them sent at once."

Taking them Miller examined the addresses; the note was the one he had
written Kathleen, and the package bore the label of a prominent jeweler,
upon which was written Kathleen's full name in Miller's handwriting. Both
were unopened. Miller placed them in his pocket with unmoved face.

"Why did you not deliver them to me last night?" he asked curtly.

"I started to, sir, but seeing you walking with Baron von Fincke down
Massachusetts Avenue, sir, I...." Henry's eyes wavered and fell before
Miller's scrutiny.

"Followed me?" prompted the latter, bending forward.

"Only a little way"--quickly. "I did not like to intrude, sir, and by
following hoped to get a chance to give you Miss Kathleen's package and
note. I lost sight of you at Thomas Circle, sir, and went home. That is
the gospel truth, sir, as sure as my name is--Heinrich."

Miller viewed the chauffeur in silence. "So!" he exclaimed, and a pleased
smile brightened his face. "Naturalized, or born in this country?"

"Born here, sir, of naturalized parents." The chauffeur twisted his cap
nervously. "German-American, sir."

"There is no such thing, Heinrich." Miller's voice deepened. "The hyphen
cannot be recognized. You are either American or German."

The chauffeur straightened himself, and his heels clicked together as he
raised his hand in salute.

"Hoch der Kaiser!"

The words were echoed by Miller as he sprang forward and grasped the
chauffeur's hand. "For the Fatherland!" he added in German. "Why have you
not declared yourself before?"

"Until last night, Herr Captain, I was not absolutely sure you were one
of us. But later in the evening Baron von Fincke...."

"Stood sponsor for me," finished Miller, thrusting his hand in his pajama
pocket, and thereby pushing an envelope still deeper in it. "What have
you to report? Wait, speak English; the walls have ears."

The chauffeur whitened and moved closer to Miller. "Was Mr. Spencer in
your confidence?"

"No."

"And the Baron did not trust him," said Heinrich, reflectively. "If he
was not one of us, how came he to be killed?"

"God knows." Miller threw out his hands in a hopeless gesture. "I don't."

"But there must be some motive for the crime," argued the chauffeur.
"Miss Kathleen must have suspected something before taking ..." Powerful
hands on his throat choked his utterance.

"Never mention Miss Kathleen's name in that connection again," commanded
Miller, his voice low and stern. "You hear me, you dog!" and he shook
Heinrich until his teeth rattled, then released him.

"Pardon," gasped the badly frightened man. "I meant no offense."

"See that you follow my instructions hereafter."

"Yes, sir"--Heinrich caressed his throat tenderly, and looked at Miller
with a new respect. "I was only going to mention, sir, that Mr. Spencer
meddled in what did not concern him. I believe he suspected what I have
come to believe."

"And what is that?"

"That this photography business is only a blind."

"A blind?" Miller looked thoughtfully at his companion. "Suppose you pull
up a chair; wait, first hang your cap over the keyhole of the hall door."
While waiting for Heinrich to follow his instructions Miller seated
himself. "A blind?" he repeated. "No, no, Heinrich, you are mistaken; Mr.
Whitney has invented a very perfect aeroplane camera, of that I am
thoroughly convinced. And our country needs it...."

"Undoubtedly, sir," Heinrich almost stuttered in his growing excitement.
"But he has invented something that we need more...."

"What is that?"

"I don't know, sir."

Miller, who had been leaning forward in his eagerness, drew back. "Don't
waste my time, Heinrich," he said roughly.

"Your time won't be wasted," protested the German. "Have patience and let
me explain. I cannot manage this affair alone, I need assistance--and
--you are a frequent caller at the Whitney house...."

"Well, what then?"

"Mr. Whitney may be persuaded to take you to his studio ..." the
chauffeur hesitated.

"Proceed," directed Miller shortly. "You can count on me."

"Good," the chauffeur hitched his chair closer. "Day before yesterday I
carried a telegram up to the studio. Not hearing any sound in the room, I
carefully turned the knob of the door and found it unlocked. For months I
have tried that door, hoping for just such luck," he interpolated.
"Opening it very softly, I saw Mr. Whitney standing with his back to me,
and facing the muzzle of a rifle. I had only time to note that the rifle
was braced on two iron brackets and that Mr. Whitney was holding a string
which was attached to the trigger; when I saw a flash, the rifle's
recoil--and Mr. Whitney still standing just where he was."

Miller stared incredulously at Heinrich, down whose face sweat was
running; the man was obviously telling the truth--at least, what he
believed to be the truth.

"Wake up, Heinrich," he said skeptically, and the chauffeur
flushed hotly.

"It's God's truth I'm telling you," he declared solemnly. "For the sake
of the Fatherland, believe me."

"I will," and Miller's fist came softly down on his desk. "Did you hear
no report?"

"None; there was a Maxim silencer on the rifle." "I see--and blank
cartridges in the breech."

"That is what I first thought on seeing Mr. Whitney still standing,"
admitted Heinrich. "I believed he was trying to commit suicide. Then I
heard him exclaim: 'God be thanked! I've solved the problem; it stood
the test.'"

"Hardly a suicide's speech." Miller stared at Heinrich. "Probably he was
testing the Maxim silencer."

"No, Herr Captain." The chauffeur almost jumbled his words over each
other in his haste. "An instant after the flash, I saw Mr. Whitney sway
upon his feet, recover his balance, and stand upright."

"The blast of powder must have caused that."

"He was fully the length of the room from the muzzle of the rifle. There
were no powder marks on his vest and coat when he opened the door in
response to my knock a few minutes later. You see, Herr Captain, as soon
as I got back my wits, I closed the door. When Mr. Whitney pulled out
his gold pencil from his vest pocket to sign for the telegram I heard
something drop on the floor, and letting the receipt slip fall, I
stooped over and picked up with it--this--" and he laid on the desk a
Mauser bullet.

Miller examined it curiously. His companion was the first to break the
silence. "It is flattened on one side, Herr Captain."

"I see it is." Miller weighed the bullet in his hand. "You have something
more to tell me, Heinrich; out with it."

"Yes, Herr Captain. That night I bribed Vincent to let me valet Mr.
Whitney, and I found the vest he wore that afternoon. In it, over the
heart, was a round hole."

"Did the bullet fit it?"

"Exactly." There was a protracted silence, which the chauffeur broke with
a question. "What do you make out of it, sir?"

Miller did not answer directly. "Was Mr. Whitney wearing his ordinary
business suit?" he inquired.

"Yes, Herr Captain."

"You are sure he wore nothing over it?"

"Absolutely positive."

Miller handed back the bullet. "It rather looks as if Mr. Whitney has
invented some wearing apparel which Mauser bullets cannot penetrate," he
said slowly, "or else...."

"Yes, Herr Captain."

"You are a great liar."




CHAPTER XVI

AT THE MORGUE


Shortly before three o'clock on that same afternoon in which Heinrich had
confided in Miller, dashing turnouts and limousines, their smartly
liveried coachmen and chauffeurs asking now and then the direction from
street-crossing policeman, trotted and tooted their way down busy Seventh
Street toward the wharves, their destination a modest two-storied
stuccoed building bearing the words, "D. C. Morgue." The inquest on
Sinclair Spencer was to be held there at three o'clock.

Spencer's tragic death twenty-four hours before had indeed created a
sensation in the nation's Capital. The wildest rumors were afloat. Was it
deliberate murder or suicide? The press, ever keen to scent sensational
news, had devoted much space to the little known facts and hinted at even
more startling developments; all of which but whetted the curiosity of
the public. The social prominence of the Whitneys had precipitated them
still further into the limelight; not often did the smart set have so
choice a titbit to discuss, and gossip ran riot. It had few facts to
thrive upon, as both the coroner and the police refused to give out the
slightest detail.

"Good gracious!" ejaculated Miss Kiametia, as the touring car in which
she and Senator Foster were riding threaded its tooting way through the
many vehicles. "This street resembles Connecticut Avenue on Saturday
afternoon. Where _is_ the morgue?"

"Right here," and Foster sprang out of the car with alacrity as it drew
up to the curb. He had been, for his cheery temperament, singularly
morose, and Miss Kiametia's attempt to make conversation during their
ride had failed. The spinster's talkativeness was a sure indication that
her nerves were on edge; she usually kept guard upon her tongue.

"Do you suppose the Whitneys are here?" she asked, adjusting her veil
with nervous fingers as she crossed the uneven sidewalk.

"Probably; I imagine we are late. Look out for that swing door."
Foster put out a steadying hand. "This way," turning to the left of
the entrance.

"One moment, sir," and Detective Mitchell, who with several others from
the Central Office had been unobtrusively keeping tab on each new
arrival, joined them. "Miss Grey, being a witness, must stay with the
others in this room. The inquest is being held in that inner room, Mr.
Senator. Will you sit over here, Miss Grey...."

But the spinster hesitated; she relied upon Foster more than she was
willing to admit, and the promise of his presence had reconciled her to
the prospect of a trying afternoon.

"I prefer to go with you," she objected, turning appealingly to him.

"But, Kiametia, you can't," interposed Foster hurriedly. "The law forbids
it. I will be in the next room should you need me." He gave her hand a
reassuring squeeze, then glanced hastily about the room. In one corner
the Whitney servants, their inward perturbance showing in their white
scared faces, sat huddled together, but there was no sign of Mr. and Mrs.
Whitney and Kathleen. Apparently he and Miss Kiametia were earlier than
he had at first thought. Turning from Miss Kiametia, he addressed
Detective Mitchell in a low tone.

"Have you caught Julie, the French maid?" he asked.

"All developments in the case will be brought out at the inquest,"
replied Mitchell politely, and Foster, his curiosity unsatisfied, walked
away. He found the room used for inquests crowded to the doors, and made
his way through the knot of men standing about, to the reporters' table,
where a seat had been reserved for him by the morgue master. Across the
east end of the room was the raised platform upon which stood a long
table and chairs for the coroner, the deputy coroner, and the witnesses,
while to their left were the six chairs for the coroner's jury. As the
Senator seated himself he spied Charles Miller among the men standing at
the back of the room. There was a vacant chair next to his, and after a
few hurried words with the coroner, Foster beckoned Miller to join him.

"I called you up repeatedly this morning," said Miller, pushing his chair
closer to the Senator so as to make room for a reporter on his left. "But
your servant declared you were not at home."

"I spent most of the morning at the Whitneys' and lunched with Miss Grey.
Horrible affair, this; the Whitneys are all unstrung."

"Did you see Kathleen?"

"No," Foster stroked his chin nervously. "She has steadily refused to see
anyone, even her parents. Her conduct is most strange."

"I don't agree with you," warmly. "She has undergone a great shock,
finding a friend dead in an elevator...."

"Ah, did she?" The words seemed forced from Foster; he would have given
much to recall them on seeing the look that flashed in Miller's eyes.

"She did," he asserted tersely. "Kathleen is the soul of honor--you have
but to know her to appreciate that--she and evil can never be associated
together."

"You are a warm champion," exclaimed Foster. "I should almost imagine--"

"That I am engaged to her?" calmly. "Quite true, I am."

Foster drew back. "I--I beg pardon," he stammered in some confusion. "I
had no idea affairs had progressed so far--I am sorry I spoke as I did."

"You were but echoing what I hear on all sides," answered Miller
bitterly.

"True," Foster nodded. "Kathleen's extraordinary silence, when by a few
words she could explain what happened yesterday morning before her
screams aroused the household, is causing unfavorable comment and
unfortunate conjecture."

"The mystery will be explained this afternoon," and quiet confidence rang
in Miller's pleasantly modulated tones. "Hello, I see some members of the
Diplomatic Corps are present."

"And the so-called 'four hundred,'" growled Foster. The close atmosphere
had started him coughing, and he scowled at Baron Frederic von Fincke
who was seated near by. "Where is the jury?" he asked, as soon as the
paroxysm of coughing was over.

"Viewing the body in that room." Miller indicated a closed door to his
right. "The jury is sworn in there by the morgue master."

As he spoke the door opened and the six men, led by the morgue master,
filed into the room and took their places, and the low hum of
conversation died away as the coroner, stepping to the platform, stated
briefly the reason for the inquest, and summoned Dr. Hall, of the
Emergency Hospital, to the witness chair. He was quickly sworn by the
morgue master, and in response to the coroner's question, stated that he
had reached the Whitney residence shortly after eight o'clock Wednesday
morning in answer to a telephone call.

"Tell the jury what you found on your arrival," directed the coroner.

"I was shown upstairs by the butler, whose incoherent remarks led me to
suppose that someone was ill in the elevator. On entering it I found Mr.
Spencer, whom I knew slightly, lying there dead."

"Did you make a thorough examination?"

"Only enough to prove that life was extinct. The butler informed me that
my services were needed by Miss Whitney, and I went at once to her."

"In what condition did you find her?"

"Hysterical. To quiet her, I finally administered an opiate, and sent for
a trained nurse."

"Did you consider her case dangerous?"

"No, but she was completely unstrung; her nervous system had undergone a
severe shock, and I feared for her mental condition if not given
immediate relief and complete rest."

"Have you seen her today?"

"Yes, this morning."

"How was she?"

"Much improved."

"Did Miss Whitney speak to you of Mr. Spencer?"

"She did not."

"Did you question her on the subject of the mystery surrounding Mr.
Spencer's death?"

"I did not. In her condition I judged it a topic to be avoided. I also
cautioned her parents not to discuss it with her unless she voluntarily
alluded to it."

"How long had Spencer been dead, Doctor, when you saw him?"

"I cannot answer positively, as I did not make a thorough examination,
but judging from appearances, I should say he had been dead at least
four hours."

Miller shot a triumphant look at Foster, then turned his attention to the
coroner, who was scanning his notebook.

"I think that is all, Doctor," he announced, "you are excused."

There was a slight pause, and the deputy coroner, who had been taking the
testimony, laid down his pen and gently massaged his hand. The next
instant at the coroner's direction, the morgue master ushered in
Detective Mitchell. The detective, after being duly sworn, told his full
name and length of service in the District force, and briefly described
his arrival at the Whitney residence.

"You examined the body in the elevator?" questioned the coroner.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Was Mr. Spencer dressed?"

"Yes, sir, except for coat, waistcoat, collar, and shoes."

"Are these the clothes he had on at the time of his death?" The coroner
pointed to a pile of wearing apparel lying on the desk.

"Yes, Doctor."

"Did you search for the weapon with which Mr. Spencer's throat
was gashed?"

"At once, sir," answered Mitchell promptly. "At the back of the elevator
near the body I found this"--holding up a short bone-handled knife which
he took from his coat pocket. "The blade was covered with blood."

Coroner Penfield took the knife and after examining it, handed it to the
foreman of the jury who, upon scanning it closely, passed it on to his
companions.

"Have you ever seen such a knife before?" questioned the coroner. "The
blade is a peculiar shape."

"Yes, sir; that shape of knife is sometimes used in modeling clay and by
glaziers when handling putty."

Penfield and the deputy coroner exchanged glances, then the coroner
resumed his questions. "Did you examine the bedroom Mr. Spencer occupied
Tuesday night, Mitchell?"

"I did, sir."

"Had the bed been slept in?"

"Apparently it had, sir. The pillows and covering had been tossed about."

"Did you find anything in the room belonging to the deceased?"

"Yes, the coat and waistcoat of his suit, his collar and shoes."

"Was there any indication, besides the tossing of the bedclothes, that
the deceased had made preparations to sleep there?"

"Yes; I found a pair of pajamas lying on the floor near the bed,
apparently hastily discarded, as they were turned wrong side out."

"Did you examine the deceased's clothes?"

"Yes, sir. They were what any gentleman would wear in the evening. In his
pockets I found a wallet containing twenty dollars in bills, three
dollars in loose change, and his keys. Here they are, sir," and Mitchell,
as he mentioned each ticketed article, laid them on the table before the
coroner, who examined them carefully.

"Was there anything about the room which especially claimed your
attention?" Mitchell paused and glanced thoughtfully at his polished
shoes. "Let me alter that question," said the coroner hastily. "Did
you find any indication in the room that Mr. Spencer expected to
return to it?"

"His clothes were there, and the electric light by the bureau was
burning, notwithstanding the fact that it was nearly nine o'clock in
the morning."

The coroner consulted his papers, "That is all just now," and Mitchell
departed. "Ask Mr. Whitney to step here," directed Penfield, a second
afterward.

"Beg pardon, sir," and the morgue master stepped before the platform.
"Mr. Whitney went back to his residence to escort his daughter here. Mrs.
Whitney, however, is waiting in the next room."

"Very well, bring Mrs. Whitney here," and the coroner left his seat to
assist her to the platform. Mrs. Whitney's customary self-control and air
of good breeding had not deserted her, and whatever her inward
tribulation at appearing before a coroner's jury, it was successfully
concealed as she repeated the oath after the morgue master.

"Your full name?" questioned Coroner Penfield.

"Minna Caswell Whitney, daughter of the late Judge William Caswell, of
New York."

"You were married to

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