her chair and waited.
Presently the call came.
"I have Mr. Harleston for you," said the operator and switched on the
trunk.
"Where are you, Guy?--this is Madeline Spencer," said she.
"I'm at the Collingwood, Madeline. Anything I can do for you?" was the
answer.
"Yes. Be here in an hour; I must see you."
"Important?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll be there at ten-thirty."
"You're always good!" said she softly.
"Not always," he laughed, "but I will be this time."
She dressed in feverish haste, yet with great care and attention to
effects. Her gown was a lustreless black silk, trimmed with gold and
made as plain as her modiste would--and the styles permitted. Her hair
was piled high, with an elongated twist; her dead-white complexion was
unmarred by powder or rouge, and beneath the transparent skin the blood
pulsed softly pink.
Her toilet finished, and passed upon in the mirror, she sent her maid on
a shopping expedition which would occupy her until noon, and even
hurried her off. She wanted no one about, not even Elise, when she made
her last play at Harleston.
Elise gone five minutes before the hour, she compelled herself to
outward tranquillity--while she strove for inward calm. And succeeding
wonderfully well--so well, indeed, that none would ever have suspected
the agitation seething under the cold placidity. Its only evidence was
in the gentle swing of her narrow foot, and the nervous play of her
slender fingers. And even these indications disappeared at the knock on
the corridor door; and she went almost blithely and flung it back--to
Harleston bowing on the threshold.
"Punctual as usual!" she greeted.
"Because I came to one who is always punctual," he replied, taking her
hand, nor dropping it until they were well inside the reception room.
"Sit down, old enemy," said she, sinking into a chair and pointing to
another--which she had been careful to place just within reach. "You've
nothing much to do for a short while, have you?"
"I've nothing much to do any time except to keep an eye on you!" he
laughed.
"Am I so difficult?" she asked.
"You keep me fairly occupied at all times--and sometimes rather more."
"At least I endeavour not to offend your eye!" she smiled, her head on
her hand, her eyes on him.
"The only difficulty is that you are too alluring," he returned. "One is
prone to forget that his business is not to admire but to observe
dispassionately and to block your plans. You're much too beautiful,
Madeline; you usually make monkeys of all of us, and while we're held
fascinated by your loveliness you scoop the prize. It's not fair, my
lady; you play with--loaded dice."
"Flatterer!" she said, melting into another pose.
"Flatterer!" he exclaimed. "If you could but see yourself now, you would
confess the truth of the indictment. You're the loveliest thing, and you
grow lovelier every day and younger. Positively, Madeline, you're a--"
he paused for words and raised his hands helplessly.
"I'm a what?" she murmured, leaning a bit toward him.
"I haven't the word; there isn't one adequate to the--subject."
"You actually mean that?" she asked, gliding into another posture, even
more alluring.
"You know I mean it," he declared. "Haven't we agreed to be honest with
each other?"
"I've been honest!" she answered.
"Meaning that I've not been?"
"Have you?" she inflected, "I wonder, Guy."
She might just as well have asked direct his feeling for Mrs.
Clephane--and he understood perfectly the question.
He nodded, slowly but none-the-less definitely.
She took a cigarette and lighted it with careful attention, then blew
the smoke sharply against the incandescent coal.
"Guy," said she, "I'm about to speak plainly; please don't
misunderstand; I'm simply a woman, now--a weak woman, perhaps; it will
be for you to judge me at the end." She smiled faintly.
"Not a weak woman, Madeline," he replied. "Your worst enemy would not
venture to call you that."
He wondered what more was coming, and at what directed. Her tone and
attitude and deprecation of self were new to him. He had never seen her
so; always she was the embodification of calm, self-reliance, poise,
never flustered, never disturbed. A weak woman! It was so absurd as to
be ridiculous, and she was aware of it. So what was the play with so
bald a notice to beware?
"No, no, Guy," said she. "You think it's a play, but it isn't. It's the
simple truth I'm about to tell you, and as truth I pray you take it."
"I'll take it as you wish it taken," he responded, more than ever
mystified.
She carefully laid her cigarette on the receiver, then arose and leaned
against the table, her hands behind her. He arose also, but she
declined the courtesy.
"Keep your seat," she said, "and don't be alarmed, I'm not preparing to
have you daggered or garroted. Entirely the reverse, Guy. I've decided
to offer terms: to capitulate; to throw the whole thing over; to betray
my mission and get out of the service forever. No, don't smile
incredulously, I mean it."
"Good Lord!" thought Harleston. "What is coming and where do we go?"
What he said, however, was:
"Wouldn't you be incredulous if our positions were reversed? Madeline
Spencer, the very Queen of the Service, betray her trust? Impossible!"
"Thank you, Guy," said she. "I've never yet been false to the hand that
paid me--and sometimes _I've_ paid dearly for keeping faith. Now for the
first time,--and the last time, too, for if successful the service will
know me no longer--I am ready and willing deliberately to make a failure
of my mission, if you will take that failure as conclusive evidence of
my good faith." She bent a bit forward and threw into her words and
tones and attitude every grace that she possessed. "Will you do it,
Guy?"
"When you ask that way," said Harleston, "who of mankind would refuse
you anything on earth."
She was alluring, wonderfully alluring. Time was, and that lately, when
he would have succumbed. But that time was no longer; beside the
raven-hair and dead-white cheek was now another face, with peach-blow
cheek and the ruddy tresses--and the peach-blow cheek and ruddy tresses
prevailed. And so he had responded, sincere enough, in tribute to her
loveliness and in memory of what had been.
And Madeline Spencer detected the absent note; but she ignored it. She
would go through with it--make her bid:
"Almost you say that as though you meant it!" she smiled, and forced his
hand. Now he must either deny or affirm.
"I do mean it," he replied. It was all in the game, and he was obligated
to be truthful only to Mrs. Clephane.
She looked at him contemplatively, trying to read behind his words.
"What is it, Madeline?" he asked.
"I wonder!" she said speculatively.
"Can't I answer?"
"Yes, you can answer--"
"Then ask me," he invited, seeking to get something that would afford
him an inkling of her aim. Assuredly she had him guessing.
For a moment she looked him straight in the eyes; then suddenly her
glance wavered, a faint flush crept from neck to cheek, and she smiled
almost bashfully.
"Guy," said she, "I ask you to forget our profession if you can, and
take what I am about to say as free from guile or expediency--and of
supreme importance to me. I'm just a simple woman now, with a woman's
desires and affection and hopes. I've come to the parting of the ways:
on one side lie power, excitement, loneliness; on the other,
contentment, peace, companionship. I'll choose the latter, if you're
willing. You have but to say the word and I'll give up everything,
confess what I'm here for, what I've done, and what is arranged for in
the future."
"Upon what condition, Madeline?" he smiled, more puzzled than ever. He
was almost ready to believe she meant it.
She caught her breath, hesitated, blushed furiously--and answered
softly:
"Upon the condition that you marry me."
For the instant Harleston was too amazed for words; and, despite all his
training in dissimulation, his surprise was evidenced in his face. Small
wonder he had been unable to make out the play--it was not a play; she
meant it. She was ready to throw her mission overboard to attain her
personal end.
"Will you marry me, old enemy?" she whispered, putting out her hand to
him and smiting him with a ravishing smile--a smile such as she had had
for but one other man. It had been utterly lost on that other, but it
had almost won with Harleston; and it might have won now with him but
for another's smile, she of the ruddy tresses and peach-blow cheek.
"My dear Madeline," said he slowly, holding her hand with intimate
pressure, "I cannot permit you to betray yourself for me. You are--"
"Quite old enough in the ways of the world," she interjected, "to know
my own mind. I love you, Guy, and unless I've mistaken your attitude,
you love me. When our minds meet in such a matter, why should anything
be permitted to intervene?" Her hand still lay in his; her eyes held
his; her personality fairly enveloped them. With lips a little parted,
she bent toward him. "It's a bit unusual, dear, for the woman to
propose, to the man, but we are an unusual two, and the business of life
has shaken us free from the conventions of the drawing-room and frothy
society. With us there need be no cant nor pretence nor false modesty,
because there is not the slightest possibility of misunderstanding."
"And yet, Madeline, we may not defy the right and permit you to
sacrifice yourself," he opposed. "There is a standard which neither cant
nor pretence nor false modesty can affect--the standard of honour."
"Honour!" she inflected. "What is honour, such honour, when a woman
loves."
"Nothing--and therefore must the love abide; honour can't abide once it
is lost."
She shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid it's not so much my honour as your
love," she said. "A week ago, and I would have had a different
answer--in fact, I would have been the one to answer and _you_ the one
to ask. You know it quite as well as I; for when you left me that
afternoon in Paris, expecting to return in the evening, you were ready
to speak and I was ready with the answer. Then fate, in the person of an
unsympathetic Foreign Office intervened, and sent you on the instant to
St. Petersburg. We never met again until in this hotel. I have not
changed, but you have. I fear your answer does not ring quite true; it
isn't like you. Why is it, Guy?"
Never a reference to Mrs. Clephane; never an intimation--and yet Mrs.
Clephane might as well have been in the room, so living was her
presence.
"Madeline," said he, lingeringly freeing her hand, "I hardly know what
to say nor how to say it. I'm embarrassed, frightfully embarrassed; yet
you have been frank with me so I must be frank with you--even though it
hurts. I'm distressed to have been such a bungler, such a miserable
bungler, such a blind fool, indeed. The false impression must be due to
me; assuredly, without the most justifiable cause you would not have
drawn the erroneous inference. And a man who is responsible for that
inference with a woman of your experience and ability, Madeline, must
be more or less a fool, even though his intentions have been absolutely
correct."
"Which leads where, Guy?" she mocked.
"Nowhere," he replied, "I'm trying to say something, and can't say it.
But you know what it is, Madeline. I'm sorry, supremely sorry. Let us
forget this little talk, and go on as though it hadn't occurred--playing
our parts in the present game and besting the other by every means in
our power. I can't accept your offer, because I cannot pay the
consideration. It still must be _à outrance_ with us, Madeline; no
quarter given and no quarter asked."
For a space she looked at him with cold repellence, eyes black as night.
Then her eyes narrowed and she laughed, a mirthlessly sarcastic laugh,
so low that Harleston barely heard it.
"Is red hair then prettier than black, Mr. Harleston?" she asked
mockingly; "or is Mrs. Clephane's character whiter than mine?"
"That is not worthy of you, Madeline," Harleston reproved. "You're a
good sport; hitherto you've taken the count, as well as given it,
without the flutter of an eyelash--and over far more serious matters
than your humble servant, who hasn't anything to give him value."
Again the sarcastic laugh. She knew he was playing the game, two games
indeed, the diplomatic and his own. He had never forgot himself nor
regarded her for one little instant.
"As a lecturer on morals, Mr. Harleston, you are a wonder," she mocked;
"you have almost succeeded--nay quite, shall I say--in convincing
yourself. And when you--a man--do that, what is to be expected of a
woman--who is alone in the world? So I must accept your argument, and
your conclusions, and be content with my duty--and"--with a sudden
ravishing smile--"if I best you, Guy, you will have only yourself to
blame. I won't send Mrs. Clephane a present, nor will I wish you joy of
her, nor her of you; but _you_ won't look for it, and _she_ would think
it somewhat presumptuous in me to assume to know you. These red-headed
women are the very devil, Guy, after they've got you landed--also
before, but in a different way."
"What's your game, Madeline?" he smiled. It had pleased her suddenly to
veer around and resume the play; and far be it from him to balk her.
"I'll admit you have me guessing."
"I thought you believed me, Guy. My game was you--and I've lost."
"Nonsense!" he replied. "I was inclined to think so at first; your fine
acting and man's conceit, I reckon. But my conceit has been punctured,
and you've slipped a bit in your acting; therefore, to descend to the
extremely common-place, the jig is up."
"And the next lead is yours!" she laughed back.
"That is precisely why I asked you the game--so I could make an
intelligible lead."
"Ask Mrs. Clephane!" she suggested.
"I'll do it," said he--and bowed himself out.
"Do it? Of course, you'll do it," Madeline Spencer gritted, as the door
closed behind him. "I've no chance, it seems, against a red-haired
woman. The other one also had red hair." She seized a vase from the
table at her hand, and hurled it across the room. It crushed in
fragments against the wall. "Damn Mrs. Clephane!" she said softly.
XXI
THE KEY-WORD
Promptly at ten o'clock Marston walked into Carpenter's office and sent
in his card.
It found Carpenter pacing up and down, and frowning at a paper spread
open on his desk. At the messenger's apologetically discreet cough, he
glanced around and took the extended card.
"Show him in!" he snapped, and swept the paper from the desk and into a
drawer.... "Good-morning, sir!" as Marston bowed on the threshold; then,
without any preliminaries: "What success?"
"I have the French code-book," Marston replied.
"With you?"
Marston drew out the slender book. "It embraces all their codes, I
believe," he remarked.
"H-u-m!" said Carpenter thoughtfully, retrieving the paper he had just
swept into the drawer. "How are we to work it, Mr. Marston?"
"As allies," Marston replied. "I'm perfectly willing to let you have the
book and everything in it, if you will let me have a copy of the letter.
I'm confident that the key-word is here; I'm equally confident that the
letter does not involve, either directly or indirectly, the United
States. I understand that the letter is in the cipher of the Blocked-Out
Square; in this book there are two pages and more of key-words to this
Square, the last dozen or so of which are added in writing. If the
letter is in that cipher, we should have no particular difficulty in
finding the key-word. I would suggest, however, that we first try the
last word on the list--maybe we won't have to go any farther."
"Very well," said Carpenter, briskly.
The advantage was all with him. If Marston thought the letter was only a
line and that he could remember the letters used, he was in for a shock.
No man living could remember twenty spilled alphabets; and if he
attempted to make a copy it could easily be prevented. The Fifth
Secretary spread the paper on the table.
"Here is a copy of the cipher letter in question--we had it made large
for convenience," he explained. "The original is in the safe; you'll wish
to compare it with the copy, so we'll have it here."
He gave the necessary order; when the letter was brought he passed it to
Marston.
"I'll read the copy, if you'll hold the original," he said; and
proceeded to call off the letters with amazing rapidity. "Correct, isn't
it?" as he ended.
"Yes!" said Marston returning the original to Carpenter. He wanted in
every way to disarm suspicion; moreover, a copy could be made more
readily from a large typewritten edition than from the small, written
original. "Now for the code-book and the last key-word--_à l'aube du
jour_, I think it is ... yes, _à l'aube du jour_, it is," and he handed
the book across. "Shall we try it first, Mr. Carpenter?"
"By all means," said Carpenter. "Shall I set it down, or will you?"
One would never have imagined from his expression or his intonation that
he had already tried _à l'aube du jour_ for the key-word and failed;
nor that why he had failed he now knew. The book was right as to the
word, and the slip that Harleston had taken from Crenshaw's pocket-book
confirmed it. _À l'aube du jour_ was not the key-word but the key-word
was constructed from it by some arbitrary rule; and that rule was
susceptible of solution. After he was free of this fellow Marston, he
would solve the problem quickly enough. It was as sure as tomorrow. The
prescience was come.
"About twenty letters should be enough for experiment?" he suggested,
taking up a test card.
When he had written the key-word and the letters under it, he, scarcely
without reference to the Blocked-Out Square, wrote the translation.
Marston did the same, very much slower.
"It doesn't fit!" Marston announced. "You can't make anything out of
AGELUMTONZN, and so forth."
"I can't!" Carpenter smiled--and waited. Would Marston suggest the
transposed or elided word?
"I'm disappointed," Marston confessed, "I thought sure we had it. Let's
try the next key-word in the book."
They tried it, and the next, and all the rest. None of them translated
the letter.
It took more than an hour; at the end, as a full measure of good faith
and because it was of no further use to him--he having preserved a
copy--Marston insisted that Carpenter retain the original of the French
code-book and have a copy made, after which the book could be returned
to him at the Chateau. During this hour and more his hand was in and out
in his side coat-pocket. When he left the room there went with him, in
that pocket, a copy of the original letter--roughly made by the sense of
touch alone, yet none the less a copy and sufficiently distinct to be
decipherable. For years Marston had practised writing in the dark and
under all sorts of handicaps. In his pocket, a number of small slips of
paper and a pencil were concealed. He would write a line, then take his
hand from his pocket; after a time he would shift the page of paper,
write another line, and then another, and so on until the copy was made.
And all the while he was so frankly communicative, with apparently not
the slightest intent to obtaining a copy--even tearing up the paper on
which were the various trial translations--that he completely deceived
Carpenter. When he left, the latter went with him to the elevator and
bowed him down.
"I don't quite understand their game," Carpenter chuckled, as he turned
away, "but it's no matter. I took all the tricks this morning and still
have a few trumps left. I thought he certainly would try for a copy of
the letter, but he didn't even attempt it. He may have committed it to
memory, but I'll chance it."
Returning to his office he gave the code-book another careful inspection
and confirmed his impression as to its being authentic. Then he laid it
aside, and took up the letter and _à l'aube du jour_!
First he tried it in reverse position: _ruoj ud ebua'l à_. The
translation was gibberish. Then he wrote the first and last letters, the
second and next to last, the third and the third from last, and so on.
The result, too, was gibberish. Next he dropped the first word, 'à' and
tried the rest--still gibberish. He dropped also the 'l'--still
gibberish. Then, in turn, the 'a' of the third word the 'd' of the
fourth, the 'j' of the last word--all gibberish. Next he wrote the
key-word entire but transposed the 'a' from the first letter to the
last--still gibberish. He began with the _aube_--still gibberish.
"Damn!" said he.
He was persuaded that the key-word was in the sentence before him; the
code-book, Crenshaw's slip of paper, and his own hunch were convincing,
yet the combination was slow in coming.
_Du jour à l'aube_ was the next arrangement. He wrote it under the
printed words and began to apply the Square.
The D and the A yielded A; the U and the B yielded V; the J and the C
yielded E; the O and the D yielded R; the U and the E yielded T; the R
and the F yielded I.
"_Averti!_"
Carpenter gave a soft whistle of satisfaction. French, it was--his hunch
had not deceived him. The key-word was found!
Swiftly he worked out the rest of the cipher, setting down the letters
of the translation without regard to words. "_Averti_" was evident
because it was the first word. At the end, he had this result:
AVERTIQUELALLEMAGNEAENGAG
EUNOFFICIERADECELERLAFORM
ULESECRETEDESETATSUNISEMP
LOYEEACOLLODONNIERLAFULMI
COTONPOURLAPOUDRESANSFUME
EALARTILLERIEDEGROSCALIBR
EETQUEMADELINESPENCEREMIS
SAIREDELALLEMAGNEAPARISPH
OTOGRAPHIECIINCLUSEAETECH
ARGEEDELARECEVOIRNESEPEUT
DECOUVRIRLENOMDUTRAITRESP
ENCERESTPARTIEPOURNEWYORK
SURLALUSITANIAQUIDOITARRI
VERLEQUATORZEATOUTEFORCEI
NTERCEPTEZLAFORMULEOUEMPE
CHEZAMOINSQUELALLEMAGNENE
LOBTIENNESPENCERSIMPORTAN
TEALAFRANCE
There was not the least doubt as to it being in French--the last three
words, as well as the first, proved it; also that he had the correct
key-word. It only remained now to separate the result into words. And
this puzzle presented no difficulties to Carpenter; he quickly
marshalled it into form:
"_Averti que l'Allemagne a engagé un officier à déceler la formule
sécrète des États-Unis employée à collodonnier la fulmi-coton pour la
poudre sans fumeée à l'artillerie de gros calibre; et que Madeline
Spencer, émissaire de l'Allemagne à Paris,--photographiè ci, incluse--a
été de chargée la recevoir. Ne se peut découvrir le nom du traître.
Spencer est partie pour New York sur la Lusitania qui doit arriver le
quatorze. À toute force interceptez la formule; ou empêchez à moins que
l'Allemagne ne l'obtienne. Spencer pas importante à la France._"
And under it he wrote the English translation: "Informed Germany has
induced an officer to betray United States secret formula for colloding
process of treating gun-cotton for smokeless powder for high power guns,
and that Madeline Spencer, a German Secret agent in Paris, photograph
enclosed herein, is delegated to receive same. Cannot ascertain name of
traitor. Spencer sailed Lusitania, due New York, fourteenth. Take any
means to intercept formula; or at least to prevent Germany obtaining it.
Spencer not essential to France."
_Spencer not essential to France!_ Surely this woman had great power,
either of knowledge or of friends; she resided in Paris, yet France was
reluctant to lift hand against her so long as she was on French soil.
Well, he would turn the matter over to Harleston; let him decide whether
it was to be thumbs up or thumbs down for her Alluringness. Furthermore,
the meeting with Snodgrass now assumed much significance. Snodgrass was
an ex-army officer. Harleston must be warned at once.
He tried for him at the Collingwood, the Cosmopolitan, the Rataplan, and
finally at the Chateau. He got him there.
"Can you come here at once?" he asked.
"Not well," said Harleston, "I've an appointment."
"Forget it!" Carpenter exclaimed. "I've found the key-word and made the
translation. It's serious--Very well, come right in; I'll be waiting."
Harleston scribbled a note to Mrs. Clephane and sent it up by a page; he
would be back in half an hour; would she meet him in the Alley.
XXII
THE RATAPLAN