The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Cab of the Sleeping Horse, by John Reed Scott, Illustrated by William van Dresser This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Cab of the Sleeping Horse Author: John Reed Scott Release Date: February 18, 2005 [eBook #15094] [Date last updated: March 5, 2005] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAB OF THE SLEEPING HORSE*** E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci, Joshua Hutchinson, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team The Cab Of The Sleeping Horse By John Reed Scott AUTHOR OF The Woman in Question, The Man In Evening Clothes, etc. Frontispiece By William Van Dresser She Threw Up Her Hand, And A Nasty Little Automatic Was Covering The Secretary's Heart. Drawn by William Van Dresser. (Chapter 24.) A.L. Burt Company Publishers New York Published by arrangement with G.P. Putnam's Sons 1916 Contents Contents I—The Photograph II—The Voice On The Wire III—Visitors IV—Crenshaw V—Another Woman VI—The Grey-Stone House VII—Surprises VIII—The Story IX—Decoyed X—Skirmishing XI—Half A Lie XII—Carpenter XIII—The Marquis XIV—The Slip Of Paper XV—Identified XVI—Another Letter XVII—In The Taxi XVIII—Doubt XIX—Marston XX—Playing The Game XXI—The Key-Word XXII—The Rataplan XXIII—Caught XXIV—The Candle Flame The Cab of The Sleeping Horse I—The Photograph "A beautiful woman is never especially clever," Rochester remarked. Harleston blew a smoke ring at the big drop-light on the table and watched it swirl under the cardinal shade. "The cleverest woman I know is also the most beautiful," he replied. "Yes, I can name her offhand. She has all the finesse of her sex, together with the reasoning mind; she is surpassingly good to look at, and knows how to use her looks to obtain her end; as the occasion demands, she can be as cold as steel or warm as a summer's night; she—" "How are her morals?" Rochester interrupted. "Morals or the want of them do not, I take it, enter into the question," Harleston responded. "Cleverness is quite apart from morals." "You have not named the wonderful one," Clarke reminded him. "And I won't now. Rochester's impertinent question forbids introducing her to this company. Moreover," as he drew out his watch, "it is half-after-twelve of a fine spring night, and, unless we wish to be turned out of the Club, we would better be going homeward or elsewhere. Who's for a walk up the avenue?" "I am—as far as Dupont Circle," said Clarke. "All hands?" Harleston inquired. "It's too late for exercise," Rochester declined; "and our way lies athwart your path." "I don't think you make good company, anyway, with your questions and your athwarts," Harleston retorted amiably, as Clarke and he moved off. "Who is your clever woman?" asked Clarke. "Curious?" Harleston smiled. "Naturally—it's not in you to give praise undeserved." "I'm not sure it is praise, Clarke; it depends on one's point of view. However, the lady in question bears several names which she uses as expediency or her notion suits her. Her maiden name was Madeline Cuthbert. She married a Colonel Spencer of Ours; he divorced her, after she had eloped with a rich young lieutenant of his regiment. She didn't marry the lieutenant; she simply plucked him clean and he shot himself. I've never understood why he didn't first shoot her." "Doubtless it shows her cleverness?" Clarke remarked. "Doubtless it does," replied Harleston, neatly spitting a leaf on the pavement with his stick. "Afterward she had various adventures with various wealthy men, and always won. Her particularly spectacular adventure was posing, at the instigation of the Duke of Lotzen, as the wife of the Archduke Armand of Valeria; and she stirred up a mess of turmoil until the matter was cleared up." "I remember something of it!" Clarke exclaimed. "By that time she had so fascinated her employer, the Duke of Lotzen, that he actually married her—morganatically, of course." "Again showing her astonishing cleverness." "Just so—and, cleverer still, she held him until his death five years later. Which death, despite the authorized report, was not natural: the King of Valeria killed him in a sword duel in Ferida Palace on the principal street of Dornlitz. The lady then betook herself to Paris and took up her present life of extreme respectability—and political usefulness to our friends of Wilhelm-strasse. In fact, I understand that she has more than made good professionally, as well as fascinated at least half a dozen Cabinet Ministers besides. "Wilhelm-strasse?" Clarke queried. Harleston nodded. "She is in the German Secret Service." "They trust her?" Clarke marvelled. "That is the most remarkable thing about her," said Harleston, "so far as I know, she has never been false to the hand that paid her." "Which, in her position, is the cleverest thing of all!" Clarke remarked. They passed the English Legation, a bulging, three-storied, red brick, dormer-roofed atrocity, standing a few feet in from the sidewalk; ugly as original sin, externally as repellent as the sidewalk and the narrow little drive under the porte- cochère are dirty. "It's a pity," said Clarke, "that the British Legation cannot afford a man-servant to clean its front." "No one is presumed to arrive or leave except in carriages or motor cars," Harleston explained. "They can push through the dirt to the entrance." "Why, would you believe it," Clarke added, "the deep snow of last February lay on the walks untouched until well into the following day. The blooming Englishmen just then began to appreciate that it had snowed the previous night. Are they so slow on the secret-service end?" "They have quite enough speed on that end," Harleston responded. "They are on the job always and ever—also the Germans." "You've bumped into them?" "Frequently." "Ever encounter the clever lady, with the assortment of husbands?" "Once or twice. Moreover, having known her as a little girl, and her family before her, I've been interested to watch her travelling—her remarkable career. And it has been a career, Clarke; believe me, it's been a career. For pure cleverness, and the appreciation of opportunities with the ability to grasp them, the devil himself can't show anything more picturesque. My hat's off to her!" "I should like to meet her," Clarke said. "Come to Paris, sometime when I'm there, and I'll be delighted to present you to her." "Doesn't she ever come to America?" "I think not. She says the Continent, and Paris in particular, is good enough for her." Harleston left Clarke at Dupont Circle and turned down Massachusetts Avenue. The broad thoroughfare was deserted, yet at the intersection of Eighteenth Street he came upon a most singular sight. A cab was by the curb, its horse lying prostrate on the asphalt, its box vacant of driver. Harleston stopped. What had he here! Then he looked about for a policeman. Of course, none was in sight. Policemen never are in sight on Massachusetts Avenue. As a general rule, Harleston was not inquisitive as to things that did not concern him—especially at one o'clock in the morning; but the waiting cab, the deserted box, the recumbent horse in the shafts excited his curiosity. The cab, probably, was from the stand in Dupont Circle; and the cabby likely was asleep inside the cab, with a bit too much rum aboard. Nevertheless, the matter was worth a step into Eighteenth Street and a few seconds' time. It might yield only a drunken driver's mutterings at being disturbed; it might yield much of profit. And the longer Harleston looked the more he was impelled to investigate. Finally curiosity prevailed. The door of the cab was closed and he looked inside. The cab was empty. As he opened the door, the sleeping horse came suddenly to life; with a snort it struggled to its feet, then looked around apologetically at Harleston, as though begging to be excused for having been caught in a most reprehensible act for a cab horse. "That's all right, old boy," Harleston smiled. "You doubtless are in need of all the sleep you can get. Now, if you'll be good enough to stand still, we'll have a look at the interior of your appendix." The light from the street lamps penetrated but faintly inside the cab, so Harleston, being averse to lighting a match save for an instant at the end of the search, was forced to grope in semi-darkness. On the cushion of the seat was a light lap spread, part of the equipment of the cab. The pockets on the doors yielded nothing. He turned up the cushion and felt under it: nothing. On the floor, however, was a woman's handkerchief, filmy and small, and without the least odour clinging to it. "Strange!" Harleston muttered. "They are always covered with perfume." Moreover, while a very expensive handkerchief, it was without initial—which also was most unusual. He put the bit of lace into his coat and went on with the search: Three American Beauty roses, somewhat crushed and broken, were in the far corner. From certain abrasions in the stems, he concluded that they had been torn, or loosed, from a woman's corsage. He felt again—then he struck a match, leaning well inside the cab so as to hide the light as much as possible. The momentary flare disclosed a square envelope standing on edge and close in against the seat. Extinguishing the match, he caught it up. It was of white linen of superior quality, without superscription, and sealed; the contents were very light—a single sheet of paper, likely. The handkerchief, the crushed roses, the unaddressed, sealed envelope—the horse, the empty and deserted cab, standing before a vacant lot, at one o'clock in the morning! Surely any one of them was enough to stir the imagination; together they were a tantalizing mystery, calling for solution and beckoning one on. Harleston took another look around, saw no one, and calmly pocketed the envelope. Then, after noting the number of the cab, No. 333, he gathered up the lines, whipped the ends about the box, and chirped to the horse to proceed. The horse promptly obeyed; turned west on Massachusetts Avenue, and backed up to his accustomed stand in Dupont Circle as neatly as though his driver were directing him. Harleston watched the proceeding from the corner of Eighteenth Street: after which he resumed his way to his apartment in the Collingwood. A sleepy elevator boy tried to put him off at the fourth floor, and he had some trouble in convincing the lad that the sixth was his floor. In fact, Harleston's mind being occupied with the recent affair, he would have let himself be put off at the fourth floor, if he had not happened to notice the large gilt numbers on the glass panel of the door opposite the elevator. The bright light shining through this panel caught his eye, and he wondered indifferently that it should be burning at such an hour. Subsequently he understood the light in No. 401; but then it was too late. Had he been delayed ten seconds, or had he gotten off at the fourth floor, he would have—. However, I anticipate; or rather I speculate on what would have happened under hypothetical conditions—which is fatuous in the extreme; hypothetical conditions never are existent facts. Harleston, having gained his apartment, leisurely removed from his pockets the handkerchief, the roses, and the envelope, and placed them on the library table. With the same leisureliness, he removed his light top-coat and his hat and hung them in the closet. Returning to the library, he chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, struck a match, and carefully passed the flame across the tip. After several puffs, taken with conscious deliberation, he sat down and took up the handkerchief. This was Harleston's way: to delay deliberately the gratification of his curiosity, so as to keep it always under control. An important letter—where haste was not an essential—was unopened for a while; his morning newspaper he would let lie untouched beside his plate for sufficiently long to check his natural inclination to glance hastily over the headlines of the first page. In everything he tried by self-imposed curbs to teach himself poise and patience and a quiet mind. He had been at it for years. By now he had himself well in hand; though, being exceedingly impetuous by nature, he occasionally broke over. His course in this instance was typical—the more so, indeed, since he had broken over and lost his poise only that afternoon. He wanted to know what was inside that blank envelope. He was persuaded it contained that which would either solve the mystery of the cab, or would in itself lead on to a greater mystery. In either event, a most interesting document lay within his reach—and he took up the handkerchief. Discipline! The curb must be maintained. And the handkerchief yielded nothing—not even when inspected under the drop-light and with the aid of a microscope. Not a mark to indicate who carried it nor whence it came.—Yet stay; in the closed room he detected what had been lost in the open: a faint, a very faint, odour as of azurea sachet. It was only a suggestion; vague and uncertain, and entirely absent at times. And Harleston shook his head. The very fact that there was nothing about it by which it might be identified indicated the deliberate purpose to avoid identification. He put it aside, and, taking up the roses, laid them under the light. They were the usual American Beauties; only larger and more gorgeous than the general run—which might be taken as an indication of the wealth of the giver, or of the male desire to please the female; or of both. Of course, there was the possibility that the roses were of the woman's own buying; but women rarely waste their own money on American Beauties—and Harleston knew it. A minute examination convinced him that they had been crushed while being worn and then trampled on. The stems, some of the green leaves, and the edges of one of the blooms were scarred as by a heel; the rest of the blooms were crushed but not scarred. Which indicated violence—first gentle, then somewhat drastic. He put the flowers aside and picked up the envelope, looked it over carefully, then, with a peculiarly thin and very sharp knife, he cut the sealing of the flap so neatly that it could be resealed and no one suspect it had been opened. As he turned back the flap, a small unmounted photograph fell out and lay face upward on the table. Harleston gave a low whistle of surprise. It was Madeline Spencer. II—The Voice On The Wire "Good morning, madame!" said Harleston, bowing to the photograph. "This is quite a surprise. You're taken very recently, and you're worth looking at for divers aesthetic reasons—none of which, however, is the reason for your being in the envelope." He drew out the sheet of paper and opened it. On it were typewritten, without address nor signature, these letters: DPNFNZQFEFBPOYVOAEELEHHEJYD BIWFTCCFVDXNQYCECLUGSUGDZYJ ENRYUIGYBSNRTDUHJWHGYZIPEPA WPPOIMCHEIPRFBJXFVWWFTZNJPY UFJDILDCEMBRVZDAYVAWALUMOFN FCVDPGLPWFUUWVIEPTKVIPUMSFZ NPSJJRFYASGZSDACSIGYUOFCEXA AOIDJJFCJPSONPKUUYVCVCTIHDP XMNOYKENHUSKHYMSFRRPCYWSLLW SMVPPUNEIFIDJLZRWEHPQGODFUZ TCEMQIQWNFYJTAALUMHJXILEEHY ISOVOAZUCUDINBRLUZICUOTTUSV LPNFFVQFANPVCYJHILTPFISGHCW HYICPPNFDOUOCLDUWEIVIPJNQBV ZLMIJRVKDSFRLWEGBKQYWSFFBEI YORHMYSHTECPUTMPJXFNRNEEUME ILJBWV. "Cipher!" commented Harleston, looking at it with half-closed eyes.... "The Blocked-Out Square, I imagine. No earthly use in trying to dig it out without the key-word; and the key-word—" he gave a shrug. "I'll let Carpenter try his hand on it; it's too much for me." He knew from experience the futility of attempting the solution of a cipher by any but an expert; and even with an expert it was rarely successful. As a general rule, the key to a secret cipher is discovered only by accident or by betrayal. There are hundreds of secret ciphers—any person can devise one—in everyday use by the various departments of the various governments; but, in the main, they are amplifications or variations of some half-dozen that have become generally accepted as susceptible of the quickest and simplest translation with the key, and the most puzzling without the key. Of these, the Blocked-Out Square, first used by Blaise de Vigenèrie in 1589, is probably still the most generally employed, and, because of its very simplicity, the most impossible of solution. Change the key-word and one has a new cipher. Any word will do; nor does it matter how often a letter is repeated; neither is one held to one word: it may be two or three or any reasonable number. Simply apply it to the alphabetic Blocked-Out Square and the message is evident; no books whatever are required. A slip of paper and a pencil are all that are necessary; any one can write the square; there is not any secret as to it. The secret is the key-word. Harleston took a sheet of paper and wrote the square: ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ BCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZA CDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZAB DEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABC EFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCD FGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDE GHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEF HIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFG IJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGH JKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHI KLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJ LMNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJK MNOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKL NOPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLM OPQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMN PQRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNO QRSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP RSTUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ STUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQR TUVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRS UVWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRST VWXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTU WXYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUV XYZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVW YZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWX ZABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY Assume that the message to be transmitted is: "To-morrow sure," and that the key-word is: "In the inn." Write the key- word and under it the message: INTHEINNINTH TOMORROWSURE Then trace downward the I column of the top line of the square, and horizontally the T column at the side of the square until the two lines coincide in the letter B: the first letter of the cipher message. The N and the O yield B; the T and the M yield F; the H and the O yield V, and so on, until the completed message is: BBFVVZBJAHKL The translator of the cipher message simply reverses this proceeding. He knows the key-word, and he writes it above the cipher message: INTHEINNINTH BBFVVZBJAHKL He traces the I column until B is reached; the first letter in that line, T, is the first letter of the message—and so on. Simple! Yes, childishly simple with the key-word; and the key-word can be carried in one's mind. Without the key- word, translation is impossible. Harleston put down the paper and leaned back. Altogether it was a most interesting collection, these four articles on the table. It was a pity that the cab and the sleeping horse were not among the exhibits. Number one: a lady's lace handkerchief. Number two: three American Beauty roses, somewhat the worse for wear and violent usage. Number three: a cipher message. Number four: photograph of Madame—or Mademoiselle—de Cuthbert, de Spencer, de Lotzen. There was a pretty plot behind these exhibits; a pretty plot, or he missed his guess. It might concern the United States—and it might not. It would be his duty to find out. Meanwhile, the picture stirred memories that he had thought long dead. Also it suggested possibilities. It was some years since they had matched their wits against each other, and the last time she rather won out—because all the cards were hers, as well as the mise en scène. And she had left— His thought trailed off into silence; and the silence lasted so long, and he sat so still, that the ash fell unnoticed from his cigarette; and presently the cigarette burned itself into the tip, and to his fingers. He tossed it into the tray and laughed quietly. Rare days—those days of the vanished protocol and its finding! He could almost wish that they might be again; with a different mise en scène, and a different ending—and a different client for his. He was becoming almost sentimental— and he was too old a bird for sentiment, and quite too old at this game; which had not any sentiment about it that was not pretence and sham. Yet it was a good game—a mighty entertaining game; where one measured wits with the best, and took long chances, and played for high stakes; men's lives and a nation's honour. He picked up the photograph and regarded it thoughtfully. "And what are to be the stakes now, I wonder," he mused. "It's another deal of the same old cards, but who are players? If America is one, then, my lady, we shall see who will win this time—if you're in it; and I take it you are, else why this picture. Yet to induce you to break your rule and cross the Atlantic, the moving consideration must be of the utmost weight, or else it's purely a personal matter. H-u-m! Under all the circumstances, I should say the latter is the more likely. In which event, I may not be concerned further than to return these—" with a wave of his hand toward the exhibits. For a while longer he sat in silence, eyes half closed, lips a bit compressed; a certain sternness, that was always in his countenance, showing plainest when in reflective thought. At last, he smiled. Then he lit another cigarette, took up the letter and the photograph, and put them in the small safe standing behind an ornate screen in the corner—not, however, without another look at the calmly beautiful face. The roses he left lie on the table; the steel safe would not preserve them in statu quo; moreover, he knew, or thought he knew, all that they could convey. He swung the door shut; then swung it open, and looked again at the picture—and for sometime—before he put it up and gave the knob a twirl. "I'm sure bewitched!" he remarked, going on to his bedroom. "It's not difficult for me to understand the Duke of Lotzen. He was simply a man—and men, at the best, are queer beggars. No woman ever understands us—and no more do we understand women. So we're both quits on that score, if we're not quite on some others." Then he raised his hands helplessly, "Oh, Lord, the petticoats, the petticoats!" Just then the telephone rang—noisily as befits two o'clock in the morning. "Who the devil wants me at such an hour?" he muttered. The clang was repeated almost instantly and continued until he unhooked the receiver. "Well!" he said sharply. "Is that Mr. Harleston?" asked a woman's voice. A particularly soft and sweet and smiling voice, it was. "I am Mr. Harleston," he replied courteously—the voice had done it. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Harleston!" the voice rippled. "I suppose you are rather astonished at being called up at such an unseemly hour—" "Not at all—I'm quite used to it, mademoiselle," Harleston assured her. "Now you're sarcastic," the voice replied again; "and, somehow, I don't like sarcasm when I'm the cause of it." "You're the cause of it but not the object of it," he assured her. "I'm quite sure I've never met you, and just as sure that I hope to meet you today." "Your hope, Mr. Harleston, is also mine. But why, may I ask, do you call me mademoiselle? I'm not French." "It's the pleasantest way to address you until I know your name." "You might call me madame!" "Perish the thought! I refuse to imagine you married." "I might be a widow." "No." "Or even a divorcée." "And you might be a grandmother," he added. "Yes." "And doing the Maxixe at the Willard, this minute." "Yes!" she laughed. "But you aren't; and no more are you a widow or a divorcée." "All of which is charming of you, Mr. Harleston but it's not exactly the business I have in hand." "Business at two o'clock in the morning!" he exclaimed. He had tried to place the voice, and had failed; he was becoming convinced that he had not heard it before. "What else would justify me in disturbing you?" she asked. "Yourself, mademoiselle. Let us continue the pleasant conversation and forget business until business hours." "When are your business hours, Mr. Harleston—and where's your office?" "I have no office—and my business hours depend on the business in hand." "And the business in hand depends primarily on whether you are interested in the subject matter of the business, n'est- ce pas?" "I am profoundly interested, mademoiselle, in any matter that concerns you—as well as in yourself. Who would not be interested in one so impulsive—and anything so important—as to call him on the telephone at two in the morning." "And who on his part is so gracious—and wasn't asleep," she answered. Harleston slowly winked at the transmitter and smiled. He thought so. What puzzled him, however, was her idea in prolonging the talk. Maybe there was not any idea in it, just a feminine notion; yet something in the very alluring softness of her voice told him otherwise. "You guessed it," he replied. "I was not asleep. Also I might guess something in regard to your business." "What?" "No, no, mademoiselle! It's impertinent to guess about what does not concern me—yet." "Delete the word 'yet,' Mr. Harleston, and substitute the idea that it was—pardon me—rather gratuitous in you to meddle in the first place." "I don't understand," said Harleston. "Oh, yes you do!" she trilled. "However, I'll be specific—it's time to be specific, you would say; though I might respond that you've known all along what my business is with you." "The name of an individual is a prerequisite to the transaction of business," he interposed. "You do not know me, Mr. Harleston." "Hence, your name?" "When we meet, you'll know me by my voice." "True, mademoiselle, for it's one in a million; but as yet we are not met, and you desire to talk business." "And I'm going to talk business!" she laughed. "And I shall not give you my name—or, if you must, know me as Madame X. Are you satisfied?" "If you are willing to be known as Madame X," he laughed back, "I haven't a word to say. Pray begin." "Being assured now that you have never before heard my voice, and that you have it fixed sufficiently in your memory— all of which, Mr. Harleston, wasn't in the least necessary, for we shall meet today—we will proceed. Ready?" "Ready, mademoiselle—I mean Madame X." "What do you intend to do, sir, in regard to the incident of the deserted cab with the sleeping horse?" she asked. "I have not determined. It depends on developments." "You see, Mr. Harleston, you were not in the least surprised at my question." "For a moment, a mere man may have had a clever woman's intuition," he replied. "And, I suppose, the woman will be expected to aid developments." "Isn't that her present intention?" "Not at all! Her present intention is to avoid developments so far as you are concerned, and to have matters take their intended course. It's to that end that I have ventured to call you." "What do you wish me to do, Madame X?" "As if you did not know!" she mocked. "I'm very dense at times," he assured her. "Dense!" she laughed. "Shades of Talleyrand, hear the man! However, as you desire to be told, I'll tell you. I wish you to forget that you saw anything unusual on your way home this morning, and to return the articles you took from the cab." "To the cab?" Harleston inquired. "No, to me." "What were the articles?" "A sealed envelope containing a message in cipher." "Haven't you forgotten something?" "Oh, you may keep the roses, Mr. Harleston, for your reward!" she laughed. She had not missed the handkerchief, or else she thought it of no consequence. "Assuming, for the moment, that I have the articles in question, how are they to be gotten to you?" "By the messenger, I shall send." "Will you send yourself?" "What is that to you, sir?" she trilled. "Simply that I shall not even consider surrendering the articles, assuming that I have them, to any one but you." "You will surrender them to me?" she whispered. "I won't surrender them to any one else." "In other words, I have a chance to get them. No one else has a chance?" "Precisely." "Very well, I accept. Make the appointment, Mr. Harleston." "Will five o'clock this afternoon be convenient?" "Perfectly—if it can't be sooner," she replied, after a momentary pause. "And the place?" "Where you will," he answered. He wanted her to fix it so that he could judge of her good faith. And she understood. "I'm not arranging to have you throttled!" she laughed. "Let us say the corridor of the Chateau—that is safe enough, isn't it?" "Don't you know, Madame X, that Peacock Alley is one of the most dangerous places in town?" "Not for you, Mr. Harleston," she replied. "However—" "Oh, I'll chance it; though it's a perilous setting with one of your adorable voice—and the other things that simply must go with it." "And lest the other things should not go with it," she added, "I'll wear three American Beauties on a black gown so that you may know me." "Good! Peacock Alley at five," he replied and snapped up the receiver. III—Visitors "The affair promises to be quite interesting," he confided to the paper-knife, with which he was spearing tiny holes in the blotter of the pad. "Peacock Alley at five—but there are a few matters that come first." He went straight to the safe, unlocked it, took out the photograph, the cipher message, and the handkerchief, carried these to the table and placed them in a large envelope, which he sealed and addressed to himself. Then with it, and the three American Beauties, he passed quickly into the corridor and to an adjoining apartment. There he rang the bell vigorously and long. He was still ringing when a dishevelled figure, in blue pajamas and a scowl, opened the door. "What the devil do you—" the disturbed one growled. "S-h-h!" said Harleston, his finger on his lips. "Keep these for me until tomorrow, Stuart." And crowding the roses and the envelope in the astonished man's hands, he hurried away. The pajamaed one glared at the flowers and the envelope; then he turned and flung them into a corner of the living- room. "Hell!" he said in disgust. "Harleston's either crazy or in love: it's the same thing anyway." He slammed the door and went back to bed. Harleston, chuckling, returned to his quarters; retrieved from the floor a leaf and a petal and tossed them out of the window. Then, being assured by a careful inspection of the room that there were no further traces of the roses remaining, he went to bed. Two minutes after his head touched the pillow, he was asleep. Presently he awoke—listening! Some one was on the fire-escape. The passage leading to it was just at the end of his suite; more than that, one could climb over the railing, and, by a little care, reach the sill of his bedroom window. This sill was wide and offered an easy footing. If the window were up, one could easily step inside; or, even if it were not, the catch could be slipped in a moment. Harleston's window, however, was up—invitingly up; also the window on the passage; it was a warm night and any air was grateful. He lay quite still and waited developments. They came from another quarter: the corridor on which his apartment opened. Someone was there. Then the knob of his door turned; he could not distinguish it in the uncertain light, yet he knew it was turning by a peculiarly faint screech—almost so faint as to be indistinguishable. One would not notice it except at the dead of night. The door hung a moment; then cautiously it swung back a little way, and two men entered. The moon, though now low, was sufficient to light the place faintly and to enable them to see and be seen. For a brief interval they stood motionless. They came to life when Harleston, reaching up, pushed the electric button. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" he asked, blinking into their levelled revolvers. They were medium-sized men and wore evening clothes; one was about forty-five and rather inclined to stoutness, the other was under forty and rather slender. They were not masked, and their faces, which were strange to Harleston, were the faces of men of breeding, accustomed to affairs. "You startled us, Mr. Harleston," the elder replied; "and you blinded us momentarily by the rush of light." "It was thoughtless of me," Harleston returned. He waved his hand toward the chairs. "Won't you be seated, messieurs —and pardon my not arising; I'm hardly in receiving costume. May I ask whom I am entertaining." "Certainly, sir," the elder smiled. "This is Mr. Sparrow; I am Mr. Marston. We would not have you put yourself to the inconvenience, not to mention the hazard from drafts. You're much more comfortable in bed—and we can transact our business with you quite as well so; moreover if you will give us your word to lie quiet and not call or shoot, we shall not offer you the slightest violence." "I'll do anything," Harleston smiled, "to be relieved of looking down those unattractive muzzles. Ah! thank you!—The chairs, gentlemen!" with a fine gesture of welcome. "We haven't time to sit down, thank you," said Sparrow. "Time presses and we must away as quickly as possible. We shall, we sincerely hope, inconvenience you but a moment, Mr. Harleston." "Pray take all the time you need," Harleston responded. "I've nothing to do until nine o'clock—except to sleep; and sleep is a mere incidental to me. I would much rather chat with visitors, especially those who pay me such a delightfully early morning call." "Do you know what we came for?" Marston asked. "I haven't the slightest idea. In fact, I don't seem to recall ever having met either of you. However—you'll find cigars and cigarettes on the table in the other room. I'll be greatly obliged, if one of you will pass me a cigarette and a match." Both men laughed; Sparrow produced his case and offered it to Harleston, together with a match. "Thank you, very much," said Harleston, as he struck the match and carefully passed the flame across the tip. "Now, sirs, I'm at your service. To what, or to whom, do I owe the honour of this visit?" "We have ventured to intrude on you, Mr. Harleston," said Marston, "in regard to a little matter that happened on Eighteenth Street near Massachusetts Avenue shortly before one o'clock this morning." Harleston looked his surprise. "Yes!" he inflected. "How very interesting." "I'm delighted that you find it so," was the answer. "It encourages me to go deeper into that matter." "By all means!" said Harleston, pushing the pillow aside and sitting up. "Pray, proceed. I'm all attention." "Then we'll go straight to the point. You found certain articles in the cab, Mr. Harleston—we have come for those articles." "I am quite at a loss to understand," Harleston replied. "Cab—articles! Have they to do with your little matter of Eighteenth and Massachusetts Avenue several hours ago?" "They are the crux of the matter," Marston said shortly. "And you will confer a great favour upon persons high in authority of a friendly power if you will return the articles in question." "My dear sir," Harleston exclaimed, "I haven't the articles, whatever they may be; and pardon me, even if I had, I should not deliver them to you; I've never, to the best of my recollection, seen either of you gentlemen before this pleasant occasion." "My dear Mr. Harleston," remarked Sparrow, "all your actions at the cab of the sleeping horse were observed and noted, so why protest?" "I'm not protesting; I'm simply stating two pertinent facts!" Harleston laughed. "We will grant the fact that you've never seen us," said Marston, "but that you have not got the articles in question, we," with apologizing gesture, "beg leave to doubt." "You're at full liberty to search my apartment," Harleston answered. "I'm not sensitive early in the morning, whatever I may be at night." "The letter is easy to conceal," was the reply, "and the safe yonder is an impasse without your assistance." "The safe is not locked," Harleston remarked. "I think I neglected to turn the knob. If you will—" "Don't disturb yourself, I pray," was the quick reply, the revolver glinting in his hand; "we will gladly relieve you of the trouble." "I was only about to say that if you try the door it will open for you," Harleston chuckled. "Go through it, sir," he remarked to the younger, "and don't, I beg of you, disturb the papers more than necessary. The key to the locked drawer is in the lower compartment on the right. Proceed, my elderly friend, to search the apartment; I'll not balk you. The thing's rather amusing—and entirely absurd. If it were not—if it didn't strike my funny-bone—I should probably put up some sort of a fight; as it is, you see I'm entirely acquiescent. Your tiny automatics didn't in the least intimidate me. I could have landed you both as you entered. I've got a gun of a much larger calibre right to my hand. See!" and he lifted the pillow and exposed a 38. "Want to borrow it?" "Why didn't you land us?" Marston asked, as he took the 38. "It wouldn't have been kind!" Harleston smiled. "When visitors come at such an hour, they deserve to be received with every attention and courtesy—particularly when they come on a mistaken impression and a fruitless quest." The man looked at Harleston doubtfully. Just how much of this was bluff, he could not decide. Harleston's whole conduct was rather unusual—the open door, the open safe, the unemployed revolver, were not in accordance with the game they were playing. He should have made a fight, some sort of a fight, and not— "The letter's not in the safe," Sparrow reported. "I didn't think it was," said the other, "but we had to make search." "You're very welcome to look elsewhere and anywhere," Harleston interjected. "I'll trust you not to pry into matters other than the letter. By the way, whose was the letter?" "His Majesty of Abyssinia!" was the answer. "Taken by wireless, I presume." "Exactly!" "Then, why so much bother, my friend?" Harleston asked. "If you do not find it, you can get others by the same quick route." "The King of Abyssinia never duplicates a letter." "When," supplemented Harleston, "it has been carelessly lost in a cab." "Just so. Therefore—" "I repeat that I have not got the articles," said Harleston, a bit wearily, "nor are they in my apartment. You have been misinformed. I find I am getting drowsy—this thing is not as absorbing as I had thought it would be. With your permission I'll drop off to sleep; you're welcome to continue the search. Make yourselves perfectly at home, sirs." He lay back and drew up the sheet. "Just pull the door shut when you depart, please," he said, and closed his eyes. "You're a queer chap," remarked Sparrow, pausing in his search and surveying Harleston with a puzzled smile. "One would suppose you're used to receiving interruptions at such hours for such purposes." "I try never to be surprised at anything however outré," Harleston explained. "Good-night." The two men looked at the recumbent figure and then at each other and laughed. "He acts the part," said the elder. "Have you found anything?" "Nothing! It's not in the safe nor the writing-table—nor anywhere else that is reasonable. I've been through everything and there's nothing doing." "You're not going?" Harleston remarked. "You're asleep, Mr. Harleston!" Marston reminded. "The letter is here: we've simply got to find it." "A letter is easy to conceal," the younger replied. "There's nothing but to overturn everything in the place—and so on; and that will require a day." "So that you replace things, I've not the slightest objection," Harleston interjected. "Bang away, sirs, bang away! Anything to relieve me from suspicion." "It prevents him from sleeping!" Sparrow laughed. "Also yourselves," Harleston supplemented. "However, you for it, remembering that cock-crow comes earlier now than in December, and the people too are up betimes. You risk interruption,​ I fear, from my solicitous friends." And even as he spoke the corridor door opened and a man stepped in. From where he lay, Harleston could see him; the others could not. "'Pon my soul, I'm popular this morning!" Harleston remarked, sitting up. Instantly the new-comer covered him with his revolver. "What did you say?" Sparrow inquired from the sitting-room, just as the stranger appeared around the corner. Like a flash, the latter's revolver shifted to him. "Easy there!" said he. Sparrow sprang up—then he laughed. "Easy yourself!" said he. "Marston, let this gentleman see your hand." Marston came slowly forward until he stood a little behind but sufficiently in view to enable the stranger to see that he himself was covered by an automatic. "For heaven's sake, Crenshaw," said Sparrow, "don't let us get to shooting here! If you wing me, Marston will wing you, and we'll only stir up a mess for ourselves." "Then hand over the letter," said Crenshaw "Do you fancy we would be hunting it if we had it?" "I don't fancy—produce the goods!" "We haven't the goods," Marston shrugged. "We can't find it." Sparrow shook his head curtly. "It's the truth," Harleston interjected. "They haven't found the goods for the very good reason that the goods are not here. Plunge in and aid in the search; I wish you would; it will relieve me of your triple intrusion in one third less time. I'm becoming very tired of it all; it has lost its novelty. I prefer to sleep." "I want the letter!" Crenshaw exclaimed. "I assumed as much from the vigour of your quest," Harleston shrugged. "The difficulty is that I haven't the letter. Neither is it in my apartment. But you'll facilitate the search if you'll depress your respective cannon from the angle of each other's anatomy and get to work. As I remarked before, I'm anxious to compose myself for sleep. You can hold your little dispute later on the sidewalk, or in jail, or wherever is most convenient." "Mr. Harleston," said Marston, "do you give us your word that the letter is not in your apartment?" "You already have it," Harleston replied wearily. "Then, sir, we'll take your word and withdraw." "Thank you," said Harleston. "He has it somewhere!" Crenshaw declared, fingering his revolver. "My dear fellow," Marston returned, "we are willing to accept Mr. Harleston's averment." "He knows where it is—he took it—let him tell where it is hidden." "What good will that subserve? We can't get it tonight, and tomorrow will be too late." "And all because of you two meddlers." "Three meddlers, Crenshaw!" Marston laughed. "You must not forget your sweet self. We've bungled the affair, I admit. We can't improve it now by murdering each other—" "We can make it very uncomfortable for the fourth meddler," Crenshaw threatened, eyeing the figure on the bed. "Haven't you made me uncomfortable enough by this untimely intrusion?" Harleston muttered sleepily. "What is your idea in not offering any opposition?" Crenshaw demanded. "Is it a plant?"