The Cab of the Sleeping Horse Part 32

But with Harleston's entry the affair a.s.sumed quite a different aspect; and it is no reflection on you, Marston, that your expedition to his apartment didn't succeed; though somewhat later Crenshaw did act as a semi-reasonable man, and secured the letter--only to foozle again like an imbecile. The play in the hotel last night, as schemed by us, should have gone through and eliminated Clephane and Harleston for a time; but Harleston upset things by his quick action and sense of danger--moreover, he guessed as to Clephane, for the management got wise and made a search, and the dear lady found Harleston and me in Peac.o.c.k Alley--and she pre-empted him."

Marston blinked and said nothing.

"Why don't you say something?" she asked sharply.

"What is there to say that you don't already know," he replied placidly.

"Very little, Marston, about the subject in hand," she replied curtly.

"And now let us see how matters stand to date. First--the French Amba.s.sador knows that a cipher letter to him from his Foreign Minister has been intercepted and is in the hands of the American State Department. Second--as it is in letter cipher, there isn't much likelihood of it being translated. Third--the matter covered by the letter must be something that they are reluctant to send by cable; for you know, Marston, that the United States, in common with European nations, requires all telegraph and cable companies to forward immediately to the State Department a copy of every cipher message addressed to a foreign official. Maybe they are not able to translate it, but of that the sending nation cannot be sure and it makes it very careful, particularly when the local government is affected.

Fourth--France will have to choose between consuming a week in getting another letter from Paris to Was.h.i.+ngton, or she will have to chance the cable with the risk of America learning her message."

"What do you think France will do?" Marston asked.

"If the letter concerned my mission, she will risk the cable," Mrs.

Spencer replied. "She would far rather disclose the affair to the United States, than to let Germany succeed."

"May she not be content now to warn the United States?" suggested Marston.

"It's quite possible. All depends whether the letter concerns my mission. We have been informed by the Wilhelm-stra.s.se that it probably does, and directed to prevent its delivery to the French Amba.s.sador.

We've succeeded in preventing, but bungled it over to the United States--the one country that we shouldn't have aroused. What in the devil's name ails your a.s.sistants, Marston--particularly Crenshaw?"

"To be quite candid," Marston replied, "he had a grouch; he thought that Sparrow and I flub-dubbed the matter of the cab, and deliberately tried to lose him when we went to the Collingwood. And when he did come, he drew his gun on us until he understood."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"He thought that it was a scheme of Sparrow to injure him in your eyes.

It seems that he and Sparrow are jealous of your beautiful eyes."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "What have I, or my beautiful eyes, to do with Crenshaw and Sparrow?"

"What usually happens to the men who are a.s.sociated with you in any enterprise: they get daffy over you."

"Because they get daffy over me is no excuse for stupid execution of the business in hand," she shrugged. "_You_ never have been guilty of stupidity, Marston."

"Because I've managed never to be a fool about you--however much I have been tempted to become one."

"Have been, Marston?" she inflected.

"Have been--and _am_," he bowed. "I'm not different from the rest--only--"

She curled herself on a divan, and languidly stretched her slender rounded arms behind the raven hair.

"Only what, Marston?" she murmured.

"Only I know when the game is beyond me."

"So, to you, I'm a game?"

"Of an impossible sort," he replied. "I admire at a distance--and keep my head."

"And your heart, too, _mon ami_?"

"My heart is the servant of my head. When it ceases so to be, I shall ask to be detached from the Paris station."

"Are you satisfied with your present a.s.signment?"

"Much more than satisfied; very much more than satisfied."

She held out her hand to him, and smiled ravis.h.i.+ngly.

"We understand each other now, Marston," she said simply; which tied Marston only the tighter to her--as she well knew. And Marston knew it, too. Also he knew that he had not the shade of a chance with her--and that she knew that he knew it. It was Madeline Spencer's experience with men that such as she tried for she usually got. There were exceptions, but them she could count on the fingers of one hand. Harleston--though for a time he was on the verge of submission--was an exception. And for that she was ready to rend him at the fitting opportunity; the more so because her own feelings had been aroused. As they were once before with Armand Dalberg--who had calmly put her in her place, and tumbled her schemes about her ears.

All her life there would be a weak spot in her heart for Dalberg; and, such is the peculiarly inconsistent nature of the female, a hatred that fed itself on his scorn of her.

She had dared much with Dalberg--and often; and always she had lost. The Duke of Lotzen was only a means to an end: money and exquisite ease.

Left with ample wealth on his decease, she, for her excitement and to be in affairs, had mixed in diplomacy, and had quickly become an expert in tortuous moves of the tortuous game.

Then one day she encountered Harleston, and bested him. With a rare good nature for a diplomat, he had taken his defeat with a smile, at the same time observing her manifold attractions with a careful eye and an indulgent mind for the past. Which caused her to look at him again, and to think of him frequently; and at last to want him for her own--after a little while. And he had appeared not averse to the wanting--after a little while. Now, just as he was about to succ.u.mb, he was suddenly whisked away by another woman--that woman simply a later edition of herself: the same figure, the same poise, the same methods, the same allurements; but younger in years, fresher, and, she admitted it to herself, less acquainted with the ways of men. And now she had lost him; and never would she be able to get him back. Another woman had filched him from her--filched him forever from her, she knew.

Therefore she hated Mrs. Clephane with a glowing hate.

"Have you seen the--_man_?" Marston asked, when her attention came back to him.

She nodded. "I've had a communication from him."

"Anything doing?"

"Not yet. He will duly apprise me. Meanwhile we, or rather I, am to remain quiet and wait expectantly."

"He thinks you are alone?"

"Of course. He would be off like a colt if he thought that I had a corps of a.s.sistants."

"The longer the delay the more chance France has to repeat the letter by cable," Marston remarked.

"Certainly--but I shan't be fool enough to tell him so, or anything as to the letter. He would end negotiations instantly."

"When are you to see him?"

"This afternoon at three."

"At Chartrands?"

"No, in Union Station."

"It's a long way to go," Marston observed.

"So I intimated, but without avail."