The Cab of the Sleeping Horse

XXIV—The Candle Flame XXIV—The Candle Flame The Secretary was standing by the window; with him were Mrs. Clephane and Carpenter. “How do you do, Mrs. Spencer!” he said, without waiting for the formal presentation. She dropped him—Continental fashion—a bit of curtsy and offered him her slender fingers; which, as well as the rest of her hand, he took and held. Its shapeliness together with her beauty of face and figure were instantly swept up by his appraising glance. “Your Excellency is very gracious!” she murmured bestowing on him a look that fairly dizzied him. Small wonder, he thought, that she was reputed the most fascinating and loveliest secret agent in Europe—and the most dangerous to the other party involved; it would be a rare man, indeed, who could withstand such charms, to say nothing of the alluring and appealing ways that must go

with them. If he only might try them—just to test his own fine power of resistance and adamantine will! He shot a quick glance of suppressed irritation at Harleston—and Madeline Spencer saw it and smiled, turning the smile toward Harleston. “I know what you are about to do,” the smile said. “Now do it if you can. You were afraid to trust me alone with this man; you knew how easy he would be for me. Proceed with your game, Mr. Harleston—and play it out.” Meanwhile the Secretary, still holding her hand, was saying: “Let me present the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State, Mr. Carpenter;—” and Carpenter received a smile only a little less dazzling than that bestowed on his chief—“I believe you have met Mrs. Clephane,” he ended, and only then did he release her hand. “Yes, I have met Mrs. Clephane,” she replied indifferently, and without so much as a glance her way. It was to be a battle, so why delay it? “Your Excellency,” said she, “when this appointment was made, some days ago, I thought that

it was merely to enable an insignificant woman to say that she had met a great dignitary and famous man. I think so no longer. It has assumed an international significance. I am here not as plain Madeline Spencer but as Madeline Spencer of the German Secret Service. It seems that a certain letter intended for the French Ambassador has gone astray, and has come into your possession; therefore I am to be asked to explain the matter, though I’ve never seen the letter nor know the cipher in which, I am told by Mr. Harleston, it is written. So what is it you would of me, your Excellency?” “My dear Madame Spencer,” said the Secretary, “what you say as to the original reason for this little meeting, arranged by our mutual friend, Mr. Harleston, is absolutely correct—except that it was a mere man who was desirous of being presented to a beautiful and a famous woman. It seems, however, that certain circumstances have suddenly arisen that made it imperative for the meeting to be advanced half an hour—” “What are those circumstances, may I ask?” she cut in. “I shall have to request Mr. Harleston to answer.

To be quite candid, Madame Spencer, I can only infer them; Mr. Harleston arranged them.” She turned to Harleston with a mocking smile. “I am listening, monsieur,” she inflected. “What is it you, or rather America, would of me?” “The letter you have in your possession,” said Harleston. “The letter!” she marvelled. “Why, Mr. Harleston, you know quite well that I never had the Clephane letter.” “Very true; we have the Clephane letter, as you style it; and we have also a translation . What we want from you is the letter that Captain Snodgrass took from his mail box at the Rataplan this afternoon, and gave to you in the taxi on the way to the Chateau.” She smiled incredulously. “Absurd, sir!” she replied. “Surely you are not serious!” “Let me be entirely specific,” he returned “I’ll put all my cards on the table and play them open.” “Double dummy, by all means!” she laughed, perching her lithe length on the arm of a chair,

one slender foot swinging slowly back and forth. “Your play, monsieur.” “There is no need to go back farther than this morning,” he observed. “We knew that you were to meet Captain Snodgrass and lunch with him at one o’clock at the Rataplan. Your man Marston, when he visited Mr. Carpenter this morning, managed inadvertently to furnish the key-word of the Clephane letter. Do you see whither your meeting with Snodgrass, an ex-officer of the Army, in view of the translation of the letter leads, Madeline? Marston, I might remark, was quickly apprehended; if he made a copy of the letter, he had no opportunity to use it. Well, you went to the Rataplan with Snodgrass—every movement you two made, from the time you joined Snodgrass at the Chateau until I myself put you in my cab when you returned to the hotel, was observed by numerous and competent shadows. We were convinced that you were to receive the formula—” “What formula, Guy?” “The formula mentioned in the Clephane letter,” he explained; “which formula you received from Snodgrass during the ride back from

the Rataplan to the Chateau. He received it there by post, and got it from his box as you were leaving. He even was foolish enough to open the original envelope, and to put the one enclosed, unopened in his pocket. You immediately took a taxi for the Chateau. My taxi was close behind yours; and I caught you as you were alighting and hurried you off to—” “This pleasant appointment!” she laughed. “I suppose, Guy, you want the envelope and contents—which you assume Captain Snodgrass transferred to me in the taxi; n’est-ce pas? ” “Exactly, Madeline.” “And it’s three strong men and one woman against poor me,” she shrugged—“unless Mrs. Clephane is merely a disinterested spectator.” “I am always interested in what Mr. Harleston does,” Edith replied sweetly. “Particularly when he is doing another woman,” was the retort. “It depends somewhat on the woman done,” said Edith. “Why are you here?” Mrs. Spencer laughed. “To see the end of the affair of the cab-of-the-sleeping-horse.” Mrs. Spencer shrugged and turned to Harleston. “Do you expect to end it, Guy?” she asked. “Because if you do, and this formulaic letter, that you think I have, will end it, I am sorry indeed to disappoint you. I haven’t that letter, nor do I know anything as to it.” “In that event you have the consideration which you were to pay for the letter,” Harleston returned. “My dear Guy, where would I carry this consideration?” she laughed, with a sweeping motion to her narrow lingerie gown that could not so much as conceal a pocket. “I don’t imagine that you are carrying gold or even Bank of England notes. You’re not so crude. The consideration is, most likely, a note to the German Ambassador, on the presentation of which the money will be paid in good American gold. And I’m so sure of the facts that it is either the formula or the consideration. The latter we shall not appropriate; the former we shall keep.” “And if I have neither?” she asked. “Then we get neither—though that is a consummation most unlikely.” “And how are you to determine?” “By your gracious surrender of it!” She laughed softly. “But if I am not able to be gracious?” “I trust that we shall not be obliged to go so far.” And when she would have answered he cut her short, courteously but with finality. “You’ve lost, Madeline; now be a good loser. You’ve won from me, and made me pay stakes and then some—and I’ve paid and smiled.” “Exactly! You’ve paid; I can’t pay, because one loses before one pays, and I haven’t anything to lose.” “You will prove it?” he asked. “Certainly,” said she. “Do you wish me to submit to a search?” “I don’t wish it, but you have left no alternative.” “Burr!” went the telephone. The Secretary answered. “Here is Mr. Harleston,” he said and pushed the instrument over. “This is Ranleigh,” came the voice. “We’ve searched the man, also the cab, and found nothing beyond some innocent personal correspondence.

We’ve retained the correspondence and let the man go.” “That, I suppose,” Mrs. Spencer remarked as Harleston hung up the receiver, “was to say that Mr. Snodgrass and the cab have been thoroughly searched and nothing suspicious found.” “Your intuition is marvellous,” Harleston answered. “Major Ranleigh’s report was that exactly. Consequently, Madeline, the letter must be with you.” “How about the consideration that Captain Snodgrass received from me in return for the formulaic letter?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to have had it.” “Maybe you managed both to get the letter from him and to keep the consideration. It would not be the first time I have known you to accomplish it.” “Only once—against you, Guy!” she laughed. Which was a lie; but scored for her—and, for the moment, silenced him. She shot a glance at the Secretary. He was beating a tattoo on the pad before him and looking calmly at her—as impersonal as though she were a door-jamb; and she understood; however much he

might be inclined to aid her, this was not the time for him even to appear interested. On another occasion, à deux , he would display sufficient ardour and admiration. At present it must be the impassive face and the judicial manner. The business of the great Government he had the honour to represent was at issue! There being no help from that high and mighty quarter, she turned to Harleston. “Well,” with a shrug of resignation, “I’ve lost and must pay. Here,” opening the mesh-bag that she carried, “is the—” She threw up her hand, and a nasty little automatic was covering the Secretary’s heart. He gave a shout—and sat perfectly still. Mrs. Clephane, with an exclamation of fear, laid her hand on Harleston’s arm. Carpenter was impassive. Harleston suppressed a smile. “Tell them if I can shoot straight, Guy,” Mrs. Spencer said pleasantly; “and meanwhile do you all keep your exact distance and position. Speak your piece, Mr. Harleston—tell his Excellency if I can shoot.” “I am quite ready to assume it without the testimony of Mr. Harleston, or ocular demonstration

in this immediate direction,” the Secretary remarked with a weak grin. “Tell him, if I can shoot, Guy,” she ordered. “I’ve never seen her better,” Harleston admitted “though I’m not at all fearful for your Excellency. Mrs. Spencer won’t shoot; she’s only bluffing. If you’ll say the word, I’ll engage to disarm her.” “Meanwhile what happens to his Excellency?” Madeline Spencer mocked. “Nothing whatever—except a few nervous moments.” “Try it, Mr. Secretary, and find out!” she laughed across the levelled revolver. “Train your gun on Mr. Harleston and test him,” the Secretary suggested, attempting to be facetious and failing. Mrs. Spencer might be, probably was, bluffing but he did not propose to be the one to call it; the result was quite too uncertain. He had never looked into the muzzle of a revolver, and he found the experience distinctly unpleasant—she held the barrel so steady and pointed straight at his heart. Diplomatic secrets were wanted of course, but they were not to be purchased by the life of the

Secretary of State, nor even by an uncertain chance at it. “Mr. Harleston’s life isn’t sufficiently valuable to the nation,” she replied, “I prefer to shoot you, if necessary—though I trust it won’t be necessary. What’s a mere scrap of paper, without value save as a means to detect its author, compared to the life of the greatest American diplomat? Moreover, the letter would yield you nothing as to its meaning nor its author. The meaning you already know, since you have found the key-word to the cipher; so only the author remains; and as it is typewritten you will have small, very small, prospect from it.” She had read the Secretary aright—and now she asked: “Am I not correct, your Excellency?” “I think you are,” the Secretary replied, “We all are obligated and quite ready to give our lives for our country, if the sacrifice will benefit it in the very least; yet I can’t see the obligation in this instance, can you Harleston?” “None in the least, sir, provided your life were at issue,” Harleston answered. “For my part, I think it isn’t even seriously threatened. If Mrs. Spencer will shift her aim to me, I’ll take a chance.” Mrs. Clephane gave a suppressed exclamation and an involuntary motion of protest—and Mrs. Spencer saw her. “Mrs. Clephane seems to be concerned lest I accept!” she jeered. Mrs. Clephane blushed ravishingly, and Harleston caught her in the act; whereupon she blushed still more, and turned away. “Play acting!” mocked Madeline Spencer—then, shrugging the matter aside, she turned to the Secretary. “Since we two are of one mind in the affair before us, your Excellency,” she observed, “I fancy I may take it as settled. Nevertheless you will pardon me if I don’t depress my aim until we have attended to a little matter; it will occupy us but a moment,” making a step nearer the desk and away from the others, yet still holding them in her eye. “What is it you wish, madame?” the Secretary inquired a trifle huskily; his throat was becoming somewhat parched by the anxiety of the situation. “I see you have on your desk a small blue candle; employed, I assume, for melting wax for your private seal,” she went on. “May I trouble your Excellency to light the aforesaid candle?” The Secretary promptly struck a match, and managed with a most unsteady hand to touch it to the wick. As the flame flared up, she drew a narrow envelope from her bag and tossed it on the desk before him. “Now,” said she, “will you be kind enough to look at the enclosure.” The Secretary took up the envelope and drew out the sheet. It was a single sheet of the thinnest texture used for foreign correspondence. He looked first at one side, then at the other. “What do you see, sir?” she asked. “The sheet is blank,” he replied. “Try the envelope,” she recommended. He turned it over. “It also is blank,” he said. “Sympathetic ink!” Carpenter laughed. “Just what we are about to see, wise one!” she mocked. “Now, your Excellency, will you place the envelope in the candle’s flame?” The Secretary took the envelope by the tip of one corner and held it in the blaze until it was burned to his fingers—no writing was disclosed. “Now the letter, please?” she directed. And when Carpenter would have protested, she cut him

short with a peremptory gesture. “Don’t interrupt, sir!” she exclaimed. And Carpenter laughed softly and did nothing more—being, with Harleston, in enjoyment of their chief’s discomfiture. “The letter—see—your Excellency,” she repeated with a bewildering smile. And as the flame crept down the thin sheet, just ahead of it, apparent to them all, crept also the writing, brought out by the heat. In a moment it was over; the last bit of the corner burning in a brass tray where the Secretary had dropped it. “Now, Mr. Harleston,” said Madeline Spencer, lowering her revolver as the final flicker of the flame expired, “I am ready to submit to a search.” Harleston glanced inquiringly at the Secretary. “The lady is with you,” the Secretary remarked with a sigh of relief. “Very well, sir,” said Harleston. “Ranleigh has a skilled woman in the waiting-room, she will officiate in the matter. We’re not likely to find anything, but it’s to provide against the chance.”—And turning to Madeline Spencer: “Whatever the outcome, madame, you will leave Washington

tonight and sail from New York on the morrow; and I should advise you to remain abroad so long as you are in the Diplomatic Service.” And she—knowing very well that the search was necessary, and aware that while there was nothing incriminating upon her yet from that moment, until the ship that carried her passed out to sea, she would be under close espionage—answered, pleasantly as though accepting a courtesy tendered, and with a winning smile: “I had arranged to sail tomorrow, Mr. Harleston so it will be just as intended. Meanwhile, I’m at the service of your female assistant. She will find nothing, I assure you.” “Give me the pleasure of conducting you to her,” Harleston replied, and swung open the door. “If Mrs. Clephane will trust you with me,” she inflected, flouting the other with a meaning look; which look flitted across the room to the Secretary and changed to one of interrogation as it met his eyes—calm eyes and steady, and with never a trace of the interest that she knew was behind them, yet dared not show—yet awhile. And Mrs. Clephane answered her look by a shrug; and Harleston answered that to the Secretary

by a soft chuckle. As the door closed behind them, he remarked: “At a more propitious time.” To which she responded: “Which time may never come.” Then she held out her hand. “Good-bye, Guy,” she smiled. “Good-bye, Madeline,” said he; “and good luck another time—with other opponents.” “And we’ll call this—” “A stale-mate! I didn’t win everything, yet what I lost was of no moment—” “Do you think so?” she asked sharply. “To my client, the United States,” he added. “So far as I am concerned, Madeline, we still are friends.” He put out his hand again; she hesitated just an instant; then, with one of her rare, frank smiles, she laid her own hand in it. “Guy,” she whispered, “she wasn’t as bad as she was painted; in fact, she wasn’t bad at all—and I know.” “Your Secretary of State is a peculiar man?” Mrs. Clephane observed, as she and Harleston came down the steps into the Avenue. Harleston leaned over. “I’ll confide to you that he is an egotistical and insufferable old ass,” he whispered. “And yet he thinks he is a perfect fascinator with the ladies!” she laughed. “Even now he is contemplating what a conquest he made of Mrs. Spencer. It was great fun to watch her playing him; and then how suddenly he pulled himself up and assumed a judicial manner—which deceived no one. Certainly it didn’t deceive her, for the flying look she gave him, as she went out, was the cleverest thing she did. It told him everything he wanted to know, and simply gorged his vanity. She may be, doubtless is, a bad, bad lot; yet nevertheless I can’t help liking her—and for finesse and skill she is a wonder.” Then she looked at him demurely. “You’re fond of her, Mr. Harleston, are you not?” “I’m fond of her,” he replied slowly; “but not as fond as I once was, and not so long ago, I’ll tell you more about it before we go in to dinner this evening.” “I wasn’t aware that we were to dine together In fact, I was thinking of doing something else.” “But you will dine with me now, won’t you?” he asked meaningly. Her eyes hesitated, and fell, and a bewitching flush stole into her cheek; she understood that he asked of her something more than a mere dinner. And, after a pause, she answered softly, yet not so softly but that he heard: “If you wish it, Monsieur Harleston.” *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CAB OF THE SLEEPING HORSE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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