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.