The Cab of the Sleeping Horse Part 19

X

SKIRMISHING

On the slender chance of finding Mrs. Clephane, Harleston made another tour of the rooms and corridor on the first floor.

It was without avail--save that he noticed Madeline Spencer and her escort were still at dinner. They did not see him--and he was very well content. Later he would want a word with them--particularly with her; and he preferred to meet her alone. She was a very beautiful woman, and very alluring, and the time was, and not so long ago, when he would have gone far out of his way to meet her; but another face--and business--occupied him at present. Moreover, the business had to do with Mrs. Spencer, and that shortly. Therefore he was content to be patient.

Mrs. Clephane first.

So he went on to the private office and the manager.

"I've just taken another look over this floor," he said; "Mrs. Clephane is not to be seen."

"We paged her, also," returned Banks; "and we've had every vacant room in the house examined without result. Here's the diagram; let us go over it, perhaps we can get a lead from it. About half of the guests are personally known to the hotel; they are either permanent guests or have been coming here for a long time. However, pick out any that you suspect and we'll try to find a way to get into their rooms. We are always at the service of the government, particularly the State Department."

Harleston ran his eyes over the diagram, searching for Madeline Spencer.

It was barely possible that she was registered under one of her own names. He found it at last--or thought he had: No. 717:--Madame Cuthbert and maid.

"What do you know of her?" he asked, indicating No. 717.

"Nothing whatever, except that she seems to have plenty of money, and looks the lady."

"When did she come?"

"Three days ago."

"What is No. 717?"

"Two bedrooms, a parlour, and a bath."

"I should like to know if she has had callers, and who they are; also, if the house detective knows anything of her movements?"

"One moment, sir," said Banks--

"And you might inquire also," Harleston added, "as to the bald-headed man who is her companion this evening?"

"Very good, sir," said Banks, and went out.

"I tell you there are quite too many women in this affair," Harleston muttered--and went back to inspecting the chart.

And the more he inspected, the more hopeless grew his task. If Mrs.

Clephane had been lured to one of the rooms, it would be next to impossible to find her. There were a hundred well-dressed and quiet-mannered guests who seemed beyond suspicion; and yet it was in the room of one of these un.o.btrusive guests, who had never so much as looked at Mrs. Spencer, that Mrs. Clephane was held prisoner. There was small hope--none, indeed--that a search of Madeline Spencer's apartment would yield even a clue. She was not such a bungler; though that she was the directing spirit in the entire affair he had not the least doubt. Her photograph fixed the matter on her; and while he was quite sure she was not aware of the photograph, yet she was aware of the letter, had made a desperate effort to prevent its delivery, and now was making a final effort to prevent Mrs. Clephane from advising the French Amba.s.sador of its loss.

As to him, Mrs. Spencer was not concerned. His possession of the letter, under such circ.u.mstances, effectually closed his mouth; if he happened to know for whom the letter was intended, his mouth was closed all the tighter. It was a rule of the diplomatic game never to reveal, even to an ally, what you know; tomorrow the ally may be the enemy. Harleston might yield the letter to superior force or to trickery, but he would never babble of it.

The door opened to admit Banks.

"The detective has nothing whatever as to Madame Cuthbert," he explained. "He says she is apparently a lady, and nothing has occurred to bring her under his notice. For the same reason, no list of her callers has been made--though the desk thinks that they have been comparatively few. The man with whom she dined this evening is a Mr.

Rufus Martin. He has been with her several times. He is a guest of the hotel--room No. 410."

"Can you have her apartment and Martin's looked over without exciting suspicion?"

"I think we can manage it," Banks responded. "Indeed, I think we can manage to have all the rooms inspected; I have already told the detective what we suspect, and he has put on an employee's uniform and with a basket of electric bulbs is now testing the lights in every occupied room. The moment he finds Mrs. Clephane, or anything that points to her, he will advise us."

"Good!" said Harleston. "Meanwhile, I'll have another look in Peac.o.c.k Alley."

He was aware that he was acting on a pure hunch. He realized that his theory of Mrs. Clephane's imprisonment in the house was most inconsistent with the facts. Why did they release her last night, if they were fearful of her communicating to the French Amba.s.sador the loss of the letter? And why should they take her again this evening? It was all unreasonable; yet reason does not prevail against a hunch--even to a reasoning man, who is also a diplomat.

He sauntered along the gay corridor bowing to those he knew. As he faced about to return, he saw Madeline Spencer, alone, bearing down upon him.

The moment their eyes met, she signalled a glad smile and advanced with hands extended.

"Why, Guy!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise this is!"

"And what a charming pleasure to me, Madeline," he added, taking both her hands and holding them. "I thought you were in Paris; indeed, I thought you would never leave the City of Boulevards."

"So did I, yet here I am; yet not for long, I trust, Guy, not for long."

"America's misfortune," he whispered.

"Or fortune!" she laughed. "It's merely a matter of viewpoint. To those who have knowledge of the comparatively recent past, Madeline Spencer may be a _persona non_. However--" with a shrug of her shapely shoulders and an indifferent lift of her fine hands. "Won't you sit down, Mr.

Harleston; that is, if you're not afraid for your reputation. I a.s.sume that here you have a reputation to protect."

"I'm quite sure that my reputation, whatever it be, won't suffer by what you intimate!" he smiled, and handed her into a chair.

"You were much surprised to see me, _n'est-ce pas_?" she asked low, leaning close.

"Much more than much," he replied confidentially.

"Honest?" she asked, still low and close.

"Much more than honest," he answered. "It's been a long time since we met."

"Three months!"

"Three months is much more than long--sometimes."

She gave him an amused smile.

"I was thinking of you only last night," he volunteered.

"What suggested me?" she asked quickly.

"I suppose it must have been your proximity," he replied easily and instantly.