# The Man Inside (Smith's Magazine serial)/Part 1

from Smith's Magazine, February 1914; pp. 817–854.

### Prologue.

THE long hot tropic day was drawing to its close. The shadows were gradually rising and filling the narrow street, and every now and then from the side of the open drain which ran through the middle of the street a large black carrion bird flew up. There was no sidewalk, the cobblestones running right up to the low white house walls. The windows which opened on the street were for the most part few in number, small and heavily barred. It was not by any means the best quarter in Colon. One building, more pretentious than the rest, was distinguished from its neighbors by large French windows, also protected by the iron screen or rejas.
It was impossible to tell the nationality of the one man lounging along the street. He seemed profoundly buried in his own thoughts. Dark as his skin was, and black as was his beard, there was something about him which negatived the idea that he was a Spaniard. His rolling walk suggested the sailor's life.
As he passed the building with the long French windows, the tinkle of a guitar roused his attention, and he stepped inside the front door and glanced furtively at the few men who lounged about the tables which dotted the long room. Passing by several empty tables and chairs, the stranger seated himself in the corner of the room on the side further from the street, near a window which opened on a neglected garden. A tropical vine thrust its branches against what had once been a wood-and-glass partition which formed the end of the room, the branches and leaves twining in and out among the broken panes of the window.
Some of the occupants of the room had glanced indifferently at the stranger on his entrance, but his haggard, unshaven face and worn clothing did not arouse their curiosity, and they again turned their attention to their wine.
The stranger, after contemplating the view from the window for some moments, leaned back in his chair, thrust his hands in his pockets, and stretched his long legs under the table; then indolently studied his surroundings. The men in the room were types of the born ne'er-do-well. Lazy, shiftless, they had drifted to Colon, thinking to pick up whatever spoils came their way during the construction of the Panama Canal. Drinking and gambling, gambling and drinking—the sum total of their lives.
As he studied the flushed, sodden faces, a sudden horror of himself and his surroundings shook him. He passed a nervous hand over his damp forehead. Why had his memory played him so scurvy a trick? The past few years were not pleasant to contemplate, and the future even less so. He half started from his chair, then sank back and summoned the mozo. Quickly he gave his order in fluent Spanish, and waited impatiently for the man's return. He had been fortunate at the gaming table the night before, and could purchase a moment's respite from the torments of an elusive memory. Memory, in whose wondrous train follow the joys of childhood, parents and home! The stranger's strong hand trembled as he stroked his beard. Why was he an outcast? For him alone there were no childhood and no home; his thinking life began as a full-grown man. Was there to be no awakening?
In a few moments the mozo returned, and placed a glass and bottle of liquor before him. The stranger hastily filled and drank. As the stimulant crept through his veins, a feeling of physical contentment replaced all other sensations, and, lighting a cigar, he was slowly sinking once more into reverie when from behind the partition he heard a voice:
“No names, please.”
The words, spoken clearly in English, startled him from his abstraction, and he glanced through the vine and, himself unseen, saw two men sitting at a table. They had apparently entered the patio from another part of the house.
“Quite right, I approve your caution.” The words were also in English, but with a strong foreign accent, and the speaker, a man of middle age and fine physique, laid some papers on the table before them. “Where is the senator this evening?”
“He accompanied several members of the Congressional party to inspect the plant of the quartermaster and subsistence Departments, and on his return will dine with Major Reynolds and several other officers at the hotel.”
“I see.” The foreigner drummed impatiently on the table. “You were late in keeping your appointment.”
“I had the devil's own time in finding this dive,” returned the younger man, and, as he moved his chair half around, the inquisitive stranger, peeping through the leaves of the vine, obtained a view of the speaker's boyish face. The weak mouth was partly hidden by a short black mustache; the features were well cut, and by some would have been called handsome.
The older man gave vent to a half-smothered chuckle.
“Goethals and Gorgas have reformed the Canal Zone, and the local government is trying to do the same with Panama, but, por Dios, drinking and gambling continue unnoticed in Colon,” he said, dryly. “I find a room in this house most convenient during my short visits here. No 'gringo',” he sneered, “dare show his face in this room.”
The stranger settled down in his chair, which was wedged into the corner formed by the wall of the room and the wood and glass partition, until his head was screened from the two speakers by the thick foliage of the vine. The Spaniard and the Jamaican, who had occupied the table nearest him, had gone, and the few men who still lingered over their wine at the farther end of the room paid no attention to him. He could listen without being observed.
“So you believe the people of Panama are already dissatisfied with their president?” inquired the younger man, whom the listener judged to be an American.
“I do,” came the firm reply. “And but for the presence of los tiranos del norte here there would have been already a pronunciamiento.”
“Then you think the time is ripe for carrying out your scheme?”
His companion nodded without speaking, and tugged at his gray imperial.
“If it is done at all it must be soon,” he said, finally. “American rule is not too popular here, and now is the time to act. And I pray God I shall be spared to see the fruits of the labor de los cochinos sucios reaped by another nation.”
He spoke with intense bitterness.
“And that nation?” questioned the other.
“Is better left unmentioned.”
“You do not love my countrymen,” exclaimed the American, as he drew out his cigarette case and passed it to his companion, who waved it away impatiently.
“Say rather—hate,” was the terse reply. “But I do not look on you as one of that nationality. Your mother was my dearly loved cousin, and Colombia boasts no prouder name than the one she bore before she married your father. By the love you bear her memory I entreat you to assist me in this undertaking.”
“I have promised,” said the American gruffly. “I hear that Colombia intends accepting the ten million dollars offered by the United States for certain islands near Panama.”
“Never!” The Colombian spoke with emphasis. “Our hatred lies too deep for that; it cannot be placated by an offer of 'conscience money,' no matter how great the sum.”
“The more fools you,” muttered the American, sotto voce.
“The revolt of Panama was followed by an insurrection in Colombia,” continued the other, “and the Government was overthrown. The American newspapers gave us a few paragraphs at the time. They did not mention that nearly one hundred thousand people were killed; that the horrors of civil war were augmented by pillage and murder. I was at the front with the troops, and, in my absence from home, my wife and child were murdered by some insurrectos. I tell you,” he struck the table a resounding blow with his clenched fist, “there is no Colombian living who would not gladly see the United States humiliated.”
“It is easy to see that the people in Panama are jealous of the success of the Americans,” commented the young man.
“Naturally; the United States has always advanced at the price of Latin-America.”
“How so?”
“Study your history. When the Thirteen Original States branched out, first came the 'Louisiana Purchase,' land originally settled by the French; then Florida, first settled by the Spanish, was bought by the United States. Later still, Texas seceded from Mexico, settled also by the Spanish; then came the Mexican War, and Latin America lost the territory now known as New Mexico, Arizona, and California.”
“Seems to me it would have been better if Colombia had accepted the original offer of the United States for the Panama Canal Zone.”
“Why so? The United States only offered a beggarly ten million. By waiting a year the French concession would have expired, and the Colombian Government would have received the sixty million which the United States eventually paid the French Company.”
“Instead of which you got nothing,” remarked the American dryly, “and lost Panama into the bargain.”
“Through underhand methods,” began the other hotly, then checked himself. “Enough of the past. Have you a message for me?”
For reply the young man drew out an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to his companion, who opened it and read the communication in silence.
“Good,” he said finally, tearing the note into infinitesimal pieces and carefully putting them in his leather wallet, from which he first took several letters. “Give this to the ambassador immediately on your return, and this—” he hesitated for a second—“give at once to our mutual friend.”
The American took the papers and placed them securely in an inside pocket.
“Is that all?” he inquired.
“No.” The Colombian drew out a small chamois bag whose contents emitted a slight jingling noise as he handed it to his companion. “You may find this useful. No thanks are necessary, dear boy,” laying his hand on the American's shoulder as the latter commenced speaking. “The death of my wife and child has deprived me of near relatives except you, and I propose to make you my heir.” Then, to change the subject, he added quickly, “Is there no way to induce the senator to use his influence with Congress and the administration for disarmament, and the curtailing of building more battleships?”
The American laughed disagreeably. “I think it may be done—in time.”
The Colombian's face brightened.
“Splendid! If we can stop his fervid speeches in behalf of a larger standing army and navy, we will have accomplished much. But how do you expect to alter his attitude?”
“Through a woman,” the American's lips parted in an amused smile. “There's no fool like an old fool, and the senator is no exception to the rule.”
“Indeed?” The Colombian raised his eyebrows. “And what has the woman to say in the matter?”
“Nothing. She emulates a clam.”
The eavesdropper on the other side of the partition, who had caught most of the conversation, moved ever so slightly to stretch his cramped limbs, and then pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his heated face. As he did so a small slip of paper dropped, unseen by him, from his pocket to the floor. A large black cat came softly over to him and he lifted the animal up and placed her on the table before him. He stroked the purring feline and listened intently to catch the conversation which drifted to him through the vine-covered broken window panes. Apparently the two men were preparing to leave.
“Does the senator really think to marry?” asked the Colombian, as he picked up his hat.
“I judge so. He is obviously very much infatuated with the girl's unusual type of beauty. And, believe me, she thoroughly understands the art of managing men.”
“Indeed? Who is the girl?”
“The young daughter of the famous Irish actress, Nora Fitzgerald. Senator Carew——”
Crash! The bottle and glass smashed in pieces. The eavesdropper never stopped to see the damage he had done, but with incredible swiftness and stealth was out of the room and down the street before the irate proprietor had reached the deserted table.
“Que hay?” inquired the Colombian of the proprietor.
He and the American had rushed into the room and over to the window by which the eavesdropper had been sitting.
“A drunken Spaniard knocked the bottle and glass from the table, and cleared out without paying the damage,” explained the proprietor in Spanish, as he signed to the mozo to sweep up the mess.
“What's that in your hand?”
“A card, Señor, which I have just picked up from the floor.”
“Let me have it.”
“Si, Señor, con mucho gusto.”
He quickly handed the paper to the Colombian. The American looked over his companion's shoulder as the latter adjusted his eyeglasses and held up the visiting card so that both could see its contents. With staring eyes and faces gone white they read the engraved inscription:
Mr. James Carew, Maryland.

### Chapter I.
#### After the Ball.

“Fifty-four!” bellowed the footman through his megaphone for the sixth time, and he slanted his umbrella to protect his face from the driving rain which half-blinded him. A waiting automobile, whose chauffeur had mistaken the number called, moved slowly off and gave place to a carriage and pair.
“Fifty-four,” mumbled the coachman, checking his restive horses with difficulty.
The footman turned, touched his hat, and beckoned to Cynthia Carew, who stood waiting in the vestibule. With a rueful glance at the wet sidewalk, she gathered her skirts up above her ankles and, propelled by the sturdy arm of her escort, Captain Lane, was landed breathless at the carriage door.
“In with you,” laughed Lane, as his umbrella was almost dragged from his hand by the high wind. “Your wrap is too pretty to be ruined.” Cynthia was half lifted, half pushed inside the landau. “Good night, my dearest.”
The door slammed shut; the horses, weary of long standing, started forward at the sound and raced around the corner into Massachusetts Avenue before the sleepy coachman could collect his wits.
Cynthia, on the point of seating herself, was flung toward the farther corner of the carriage by the sudden jerk. Instinctively she threw out her hand to steady herself, and her open palm encountered what was unmistakably a broad shoulder.
“Good gracious!”—recoiling and collapsing sideways on the seat. “Philip! How you frightened me.”
The light fell on a livid face, and was reflected back from glazing eyes. Then she settled herself more comfortably and, with an effort, chatted on.
“The dance really was a great—just our set you know, some of the diplomatic corps, and a number of the officers from the barracks. I hated to leave so early”—regretfully—“but I promised Uncle James. Mrs. Owen asked particularly for you, and was greatly put out because you did not appear. Honestly, Philip, I am very tired of trying to explain your sudden aversion to society. Why do you shun your friends?”
Not getting an immediate answer she repeated her question more emphatically. Still no reply. The silence caught her attention. Turning her head she scanned the quiet figure by her side.
The pelting rain, which beat drearily upon the carriage roof and windows, almost drowned the sound of rapid hoof-beats. The high wind had apparently extinguished the carriage lamps and the dim street lights failed to illuminate the interior of the rapidly moving carriage. In the semi-darkness Cynthia could not distinguish her companion's face.
“It is you, Philip?” she questioned sharply, and waited an appreciable moment; then a thought occurred to her. “Uncle James, are you trying to play a practical joke?”
Her voice rose to a higher key.
Her question was ignored.
Cynthia caught her breath sharply. Suppose the man was a stranger? She shrank farther back into her corner. If so, how came he there? Intently she studied the vague outlines of his figure.
The landau was an old-fashioned vehicle built after a commodious pattern by a past generation, and frequently used by Senator Carew on stormy nights, as the two broad seats would accommodate five or six persons with tight squeezing.
Cynthia clutched her wrap with nervous fingers. If the man had inadvertently entered the wrong carriage, the least he could do was to explain the situation and apologize. But suppose he was drunk? The thought was not reassuring.
“Tell me at once who you are,” she demanded imperiously, “or I will stop the carriage.”
At that instant the driver swung his horses abruptly to the left, to avoid an excavation in the street, and, as the wheels skidded on the slippery asphalt, the man swayed sideways, and fell upon Cynthia. A slight scream escaped her, and she pushed him away, only to have the limp figure again slide back upon her.
He was undoubtedly drunk! Thoroughly alarmed she pushed him upright, and struggled vainly to open the carriage door with her disengaged hand.
With a tremendous jolt, which again deposited the helpless figure on her shoulder, the carriage wheels struck the curb as the horses turned into the driveway leading to the porte-cochère of the Carew residence. As the horses came to a standstill the front door was thrown open, and the negro butler hastened down the short flight of steps.
Cynthia, with one desperate effort, flung the man back into his corner and, as the butler turned the stiff handle and opened the door, half jumped, half fell out of the landau.
“A man's in the carriage, Joshua,” she cried. “See who it is.”
The servant looked at her in surprise, then obediently poked his head inside the open door. Unable to see clearly he drew back and fumbled in his pocket for a match box.
“Keep dem hosses still, Hamilton,” he directed, as the coachman leaned down from his seat, and then he pulled out a match. “Miss Cynthia, yo' bettah go inter der house,” glancing at the young girl's pale countenance, “I'll 'ten to dis hyar pusson.”
But Cynthia remained where she was and peeped over the butler's shoulder. He struck a match and held it in the hollow of his hand until the tiny flame grew brighter, then leaned forward and gazed into the carriage.
The intruder was huddled in the corner, his head thrown back, and the light fell on a livid face and was reflected back from glazing eyes. Cynthia's knees gave way, and she sank speechless to the ground.
“'Fore Gawd!” gasped Joshua, “it's Marse James—an' he's daid!”

### Chapter II.
#### A Mysterious Tragedy.

The portières were pulled aside.
“Excellency, breakfast is served,”
The servant bowed deferentially toward a figure standing in the bow window. As the announcement reached his ears in the musical language of his native tongue, the Japanese ambassador turned from the window and hastened into the dining room.
A small pile of letters lay beside his plate, and he opened and read them as he leisurely ate his breakfast. Tossing aside the last note, he picked up the morning Herald, and his eyes glanced casually over the page then stopped, arrested by a three-column heading:
SENATOR CAREW DEAD
A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY
MURDER OR SUICIDE?
The ambassador pushed aside his plate and read the smaller type with growing interest.
    During the cloudburst of last night, when the heavens themselves seemed to threaten Washington, a most mysterious crime was committed in the fashionable Northwest. United States Senator James Carew, of Maryland, one of the most distinguished and influential men in political and official circles, was found dead in his carriage early this morning.
    Much mystery surrounds the case. The tragedy was not discovered until the arrival of the carriage at the Carew residence. Miss Carew, whom her uncle was escorting home from a dance, was completely prostrated from shock, and had to be carried to her room.
    Owing to the lateness of the hour, with the paper already in press, only a few meager details could be learned by the special representative of the Herald.
    Senator Carew was found by his butler, Joshua Daingerfield, huddled in a corner of the back seat of the carriage. Dr. Penfield, the coroner, was hastily summoned, as well as detectives from headquarters. While awaiting their arrival, the policeman on the beat had the horses unharnessed and taken to the stable, and left the carriage under the porte-cochère.
    On the arrival of the coroner and the detectives the body was removed from the carriage to the deceased's room in the Carew mansion. Dr. Penfield discovered that death was apparently due to a stab from a small, upright desk file which had been thrust into the body with such force that the heavy-leaded round base was pressed tightly against the clothes. The sharp point had penetrated to the heart, and death must have been instantaneous. The weapon in the wound prevented any outward hemorrhage, and Senator Carew bled internally.
    These startling details but add interest to what promises to prove a mystery unique in the annals of crime.
    Senator Carew and his family have resided here for many years, and have been prominently identified with official and residential society. The old Carew mansion, in Massachusetts Avenue south of Fourteenth Street, has been noted for its lavish hospitality. It was erected by Senator Carew's father, General Van Ness Carew, shortly before the commencement of the Civil War, and the foundations and walls were of such unwonted thickness that General Carew was pestered with inquiries as to whether he was not building a fortress!
    The inmates of the senator's household are his widowed sister, Mrs. George Winthrop, her stepson, Philip Winthrop; and her niece, Miss Cynthia Carew, daughter of the late Philip Carew, a younger brother of Senator Carew.
    Mrs. Winthrop is well known in Washington, having kept house for her brother since the death of his wife in 1881. Miss Cynthia Carew made her début last December at a memorable ball which her aunt and uncle gave for her. Since then Miss Carew has received much attention, and is regarded as one of the most popular of the winter's débutantes.
    Philip Winthrop has spent most of his life in Washington, and, since his graduation from Princeton, has been acting as private secretary for Senator Carew. He is a member of the Alibi, the Chevy Chase, and the Riding and Hunt Clubs, and is popular with his associates.
    A fearless leader, an upright American, Senator Carew has served his country well, first as representative, then as senator. Possessing the confidence and friendship of the president as he did, it was frequently prophesied that he would be the power behind the throne in deciding many of the important issues now confronting the country. His inexplicable death is therefore a severe blow to many besides his immediate family.
    The known facts at present point to murder or suicide. The negro driver, Sam Hamilton, has been arrested pending a closer examination.”
The ambassador regarded the printed lines long and thoughtfully. Then his foot pressed the electric button concealed in the carpet under the table. The bell had hardly ceased to buzz before the well-trained servant was by his side.
“Send for my motor,” came the brief order.
“It is already at the door, Excellency.”
The ambassador tossed his napkin on the table, pushed back his chair, and rose.
“My hat and coat,” he directed, walking into the hall.
In a few minutes he stepped out into the vestibule and filled his lungs with the delicious breeze that fanned his cheeks. No trace of the heavy storm of the night before was in the air. The sky was blue, and the May sunshine lit up the budding trees and shrubs. The touch of spring and new-born life was everywhere. The ambassador snapped off a spray of honeysuckle which grew along the fence protecting his parking from his neighbor's, and tucked the spray in his buttonhole as he entered the waiting motor.
“Drive to the club,” he directed briefly, as the car moved off.

### Chapter III.
#### The Broken Appointment.

Eleanor Thornton turned in bed and stretched herself luxuriously. It was good to be young and to be sleepy. For a few seconds she dozed off again; then gradually awoke, and, too comfortable to move, let her thoughts wander where they would. In her mind's eye she reviewed the events of the past months, and, despite herself, her lips parted in a happy smile. She had come to Washington in November to visit her friend, Cynthia Carew, and, delighted with the reception accorded her, had invited her cousin, Mrs. Gilbert Truxton, to chaperon her, and, on her acceptance, had rented a small furnished residence near Dupont Circle for the winter.
Mrs. Winthrop and Cynthia Carew, whom she had known at boarding school, took her everywhere with them, and her cousin, Mrs. Truxton, belonging as she did to an old aristocratic family of the District, procured her entrée to the exclusive homes of the “cave-dwellers,” as the residential circle was sometimes called.
Born also with the gifts of charm and tact, Eleanor's wild-rose beauty had made an instant impression, and she was invited everywhere. The butler's tray was filled with visiting cards, which many newcomers, anxious for social honors, longed to have left at their doors.
Eleanor was one of the older girls at Dobbs' Ferry during Cynthia's first year at that boarding school. They had taken an immense liking to each other, a liking which later blossomed into an intimate friendship. After her graduation she and Cynthia had kept up their correspondence without a break, and, true to her promise, given years before, she had left Berlin and journeyed to Washington to be present at Cynthia's début.
After the death of her mother, Eleanor had been adopted by an indulgent uncle, Mr. William Fitzgerald, of New York, and on his death had inherited a comfortable fortune.
The winter had brought numerous triumphs in its train, enough to spoil most natures. But Eleanor was too well poised to lose her head over adulation. She had sounded the depths of social pleasantries, and found them shallow. In every country she had visited all men had been only too ready to be at her beck and call—except one. The dreamy eyes hardened at the thought, and the soft lips closed firmly. She had made the advances, and he had not responded. A situation so unique in her experience had made an indelible impression. Angry with herself for even recalling so unpleasant an episode, she touched the bell beside the bed; then, placing her pillow in a more comfortable position, she leaned back and contemplated her surroundings with speculative eyes.
Her individuality had stamped itself upon the whole room. A picture or two, far above the average, a few choice books, whose dainty binding indicated a taste and refinement quite unusual; one or two Chinese vases, old when the Revolutionary War began; an ivory carving of the Renaissance; a mirror in whose lustrous depths Venetian beauties had seen their own reflections hundreds of years ago—all these things gave sure indication of study and travel, and a maturity of thought and taste which, oddly enough, seemed rather to enhance Eleanor's natural charm.
A discreet knock sounded on her door.
“Bon jour, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the maid, entering with the breakfast tray.
“Bon jour, Annette,” responded Eleanor, rousing herself; then lapsing into English, which her maid spoke with but a slight accent. “Put the tray here beside me. Must I eat that egg?”
She made a slight grimace.
“But, yes, mademoiselle.” The Frenchwoman stepped to the window and raised the shade. “Madame Truxton gave orders to Fugi to tell the cook that he must send you a more substantial breakfast. She does not approve of rolls and coffee. I think she wishes you to eat as she does.”
Eleanor shuddered slightly. “Did—did she have beefsteak and fried onions this morning?” she inquired.
“But, yes, mademoiselle,” Annette's pretty features dimpled into a smile, “and she ate most heartily.”
“Not another word, Annette. You take away my appetite. Is Mrs. Truxton waiting to see me?”
“No, mademoiselle; she was up at six o'clock and had her breakfast at half past seven.” Annette paused in the act of laying out a supply of fresh lingerie. “What have the Americans on their conscience that they cannot sleep in the morning?”
“You cannot complain of my early rising,” laughed Eleanor, glancing at the clock, whose hands pointed to a quarter to twelve.
“Ah, mademoiselle, you have lived so long away from America that you have acquired our habits.”
“You may take the tray, Annette; I have even less appetite than usual to-day.” Eleanor waited until it had been removed, then sprang out of bed. “Come back in fifteen minutes,” she called.
When the maid returned she was seated before her dressing table.
“What news to-day, Annette?” she asked, as the Frenchwoman, with skillful fingers, arranged her wavy hair, which fell far below her waist.
“Madame and Fugi——” began the maid.
“I don't want household details,” broke in Eleanor impatiently. “Tell me of some outside news, if there is any.”
“Oh, indeed, yes; news the most startling. Senator Carew——”
She paused to contemplate her handiwork.
“Well, what about him?” inquired Eleanor listlessly.
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” The hand glass slipped from Eleanor's grasp and fell crashing to the hearth. Annette pounced upon it.
“Oh, mademoiselle, the glass is broken. Quelle horreur!”
“Bother the glass.” Eleanor's foot came down with an unmistakable stamp. “Tell me at once of Senator Carew's death. I cannot believe it!”
“It is only too true,” Annette was a privileged character, and deeply resented being hurried; also, her volatile French nature enjoyed creating a sensation. She had eagerly read the morning paper, and had refrained from telling Eleanor the news until she could get her undivided attention. “Senator Carew was found dead in his carriage early this morning on his return from the dance at Mrs. Owen's.” Annette had no reason to complain, Eleanor was giving her full attention to the story. “he had been stabbed.”
The maid's hand accidentally touched Eleanor's bare neck, and she felt the taut muscles quiver. Covertly she glanced into the mirror and studied the lovely face. But Eleanor's expression told her nothing. Her cheeks were colorless and her eyes downcast.
After a barely perceptible pause Annette continued her story:
“The coachman has been arrested——”
A knock interrupted her, and she hastened to open the door, returning in an instant with a note.
“Fugi says the messenger boy is waiting for an answer, mademoiselle.”
Eleanor tore it open and read the hastily scrawled lines.
    Dear Eleanor:
    I suppose you have been told of last night's terrible tragedy. Cynthia is prostrated. She begs pitifully to see you. Can you come to us for a few days? Your presence will help us both. Affectionately,
Charlotte Winthrop.
Eleanor read the note several times, then walked thoughtfully over to her desk.
    Dearest Mrs. Winthrop: It is awful. I will come as soon as possible. Devotedly,
Eleanor.
“Give this to Fugi, Annette, then come back and pack my small steamer trunk,”
As the maid hastened out of the room; she picked up a silk waist preparatory to putting it on, but her toilette was doomed to another interruption.
“Well, my dear, may I come in?” asked a pleasant voice from the doorway.
“Indeed you may, Cousin Kate,”
Eleanor stepped across the room and kissed the older woman affectionately. Mrs. Truxton's ruddy face lighted with an affectionate smile as she returned her greeting. She did not altogether approve of her young cousin—many of Eleanor's “foreign ways” as she termed it, offended he—but Eleanor's lovable disposition had won a warm place in her regard.
“Thud!” The hand glass slipped from Eleanor's grasp. and fell crashing to the floor. Mrs. Truxton seated herself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs and contemplated the disheveled room and Eleanor's Oriental silk dressing gown with disapproval.
“Do you know the time?” she inquired pointedly.
“Nearly one,” answered Eleanor, as she discarded her dressing gown for a silk waist. “Lunch will soon be ready. I hope you have a good appetite.”
“Yes, thank you; I've been out all the morning,” reproachfully. “Mrs. Douglas has asked me to dine with her this evening, and, I think, Eleanor, if it will not interfere with your arrangements, that I will accept the invitation.”
“Do so by all means,” exclaimed Eleanor heartily. “I hope she won't talk you deaf, dumb, and blind.”
“She is rather long-winded,” admitted Mrs. Truxton, tranquilly. “On the telephone this morning she took up twenty minutes telling me of the arrival here of her nephew, Douglas Hunter—— Good gracious, child”—as Eleanor's silver powder box rolled on the floor with a loud bang—“how you startle one!”
“I beg your pardon,” Eleanor was some seconds picking it up, for her fingers fumbled clumsily. “What were you saying, Cousin Kate?” replacing the silver on the dressing table.
“Mercy, child, how inattentive you are! I was only remarking that Douglas Hunter is no stranger to Washington. He was raised here, as he belongs to one of the first families of Georgetown.”
“I never heard of a 'second' family in Georgetown,” smiled Eleanor; then, seeing her cousin's offended expression, she hastily changed the subject. “Have you heard the shocking news of Senator Carew's”—she hesitated—“tragic death?”
“Indeed I have. Washington is talking of nothing else. Why are you packing, Annette?” as the servant entered.
“Mrs. Winthrop has just written and asked me to spend a few days with them,” explained Eleanor hurriedly. “So suppose you invite Miss Crane to stay with you in my absence.”
“Of course you cannot very well decline to go,” said Mrs. Truxton thoughtfully. “Still, I hate to have you mixed up in such an affair, Eleanor.”
“Nonsense, Cousin Kate, you must not look at it in that light,” Eleanor patted the fat shoulder nearest her affectionately. “Cynthia told me yesterday that Senator Carew had said he was going to discharge the coachman, Hamilton—a surly brute, I always thought him—for drunkenness. I have no doubt he committed the murder from revenge, and while under the influence of liquor.”
“I sincerely trust that is the correct solution of the mystery,” Mrs. Truxton looked dubious. “But there has been one fearful scandal in that family already, Eleanor, and I very much doubt if Senator Carew was killed by a servant.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
Eleanor wheeled around in her chair and faced her abruptly.
“Time will show.”
Mrs. Truxton shook her head mysteriously.
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Eleanor impatiently.
As Mrs. Truxton opened her lips to reply, Annette reëntered the room.
“Pardon, madame, you are wanted at the telephone,” and as Mrs. Truxton lifted herself carefully out of her chair and walked out of the room, she handed a package to Eleanor. “This has just come for you, mademoiselle; the boy who left it said there was no answer.”
“Annette! Annette!” came Mrs. Truxton's shrill voice from the lower hall.
“Coming, madame, coming,”
And the maid hastened out of the room shutting the door behind her.
Left alone, Eleanor turned the sealed package over curiously. The address was written in an unknown hand. Quickly breaking the red sealing wax and tearing off the paper, she removed the pasteboard cover and a layer of cotton. A startled exclamation escaped her as she drew out the contents of the box—a necklace of large rubies and smaller diamonds in an antique setting.
Eleanor, who knew the value of jewels, realized from their color and size that the rubies were almost priceless, and in the pure joy of beholding their beauty laid the necklace in the palm of her left hand and along her bare arm. After contemplating the effect for a moment, a thought occurred to her, and she pulled out the remaining cotton in the box and found at the bottom a small card. She picked it out and read the message written on the card.
“The appointment was not kept. Well done.”
The card fluttered to the floor unheeded. The pigeon-blood rubies made a crimson stain on Eleanor's white arm, strong wrist, and supple fingers.

### Chapter IV.
#### Mute Testimony.

Douglas Hunter sighed involuntarily as he left busy Fourteenth Street, and walked down Massachusetts Avenue. Twelve years' absence makes a great difference in the ever-shifting population of Washington. He felt like another Rip Van Winkle as he gazed at each passer-by in his search for a familiar face. Even the streets had changed, and he was almost appalled by the grandeur of some of the huge white palaces erected by multimillionaires on Massachusetts and New Hampshire Avenues, and the Avenue of the Presidents.
He had spent part of the morning motoring about the city with one of his cousins, and the outward and visible signs of wealth had staggered him. What had become of the unpretentious, generous-hearted hospitality, and the Old World manners and courtly greeting of the former host and hostess who had ruled so long at the National Capital? Had Mammon spoiled the old simplicity, and had Washington become but a suburb of New York and Chicago? It truly seemed as if plutocracy had displaced aristocracy.
As Douglas approached the Carew residence he glanced keenly at the handsome old mansion and at the numerous idlers loafing in the vicinity drawn there by idle curiosity. A policeman stood on guard in the driveway, and a number of photographers loitered near by, cameras in hand, waiting patiently to snapshot any member of the Carew family who might incautiously venture out of doors.
The house itself, a handsome, square, red brick and stone trimmed four-storied building, stood some distance back from the sidewalk with beautifully kept lawns divided by the carriage drive. The blinds were drawn and the ominous black streamer over the bell presented a mournful spectacle. It was the finest residence in that once fashionable locality, and Douglas decided that he preferred its solid, homelike architecture to the more ornate and pretentious dwellings in other parts of the city. As the years went by, Senator Carew had added improvements until the residence was one of the most delightful in Washington.
As Douglas turned into the walk, a large touring car wheeled into the driveway, and as it purred softly by him, he stepped back respectfully and raised his hat to the tired-faced man sitting alone in the tonneau. He did not need to glance at the small coat of arms of the United States emblazoned on the polished door, or at the two secret-service men following on their motor cycles, to recognize the distinguished occupant of the car.
As the motor stopped under the porte-cochère, the colored butler ran down the steps, and the President leaned forward and placed a note in the bowing and scraping negro's hand; then the big car continued on down the driveway and out into the street.
Douglas waited where he was for a few minutes before mounting the short flight of steps. The hall door was opened several inches on his approach, and Joshua solemnly extended his card tray, which Douglas waved aside.
“I called to see Mr. Brett. Is he here?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
Joshua opened the door still further, and inspected him carefully.
“Take my card to him and ask if he can spare me a few minutes,” and he dropped his visiting card on the tray.
“Walk in, suh,” exclaimed Joshua, impressed by Douglas' well-groomed appearance; then he hesitated, embarrassed by a sudden idea.
“I'll wait here,” volunteered Douglas, stepping inside the square hall.
“All right, suh.” Joshua closed the front door. “Just a moment, suh,” and he stepped softly across the hall and into a room.
Douglas glanced about him curiously at the spacious rooms and lofty ceilings. It was a double house. To the right of the entrance was the drawing-room, and back of that another large room, which Douglas took to be the dining room, judging from the glittering silver pieces on a high sideboard of which he had a glimpse through the door leading into the square hall. Across from the drawing-room was the room into which Joshua had disappeared, and back of that a broad circular staircase which ran up to the top floor.
Douglas was idly gazing out of the glass panel of the front door when Joshua returned, followed by a middle-aged man with a keen, clever face.
“Is it really you, Mr. Hunter?” he asked, as they shook hands warmly. “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw your card. Come this way,” and he conducted Douglas into the room he had just left, and closed the door softly behind them.
“When did you arrive in Washington?” he inquired, motioning Douglas to take a chair near the window and dropping into one opposite him.
“Yesterday.”
Douglas leaned back and studied his surroundings. His eyes traveled over the handsome carved rosewood bookcases which lined the walls, the large desk table, and the comfortable leather-covered revolving desk chair. The desk silver, the droplights, and large upholstered davenport pushed invitingly before the huge fireplace, with its shining brass fire dogs and fender, all told a tale of wealth and artistic taste—two assets not often found together. His eyes returned to Brett, and he smiled involuntarily as he caught the other intently regarding him.
Brett smiled in return.
“I was wondering why you looked me up so soon,” he admitted candidly. “Don't think I'm not glad to see you,” hastily, “but I remember of old that you seldom do things without a motive.”
“On the contrary, I am here this afternoon to find a motive—for Senator Carew's tragic death.” The smile vanished from Douglas' clear-cut features. “One moment,” as Brett opened his mouth to speak. “After reading the account of the senator's death in the morning papers, I went down to headquarters to get what additional facts I could, and they told me that you had been put on the case. So I decided to look you up in person, and here I am.”
“May I ask why you take such an interest in this case?”
“Certainly, Brett. I was coming to that. Senator Carew used his influence to get me in the Diplomatic Service, and during the past twelve years he has shown me many kindnesses, such as seeing that I was detailed to desirable posts, and so forth.”
“He wouldn't have done that, Mr. Hunter, if you hadn't made good,” broke in Brett quickly.
“I saw him last at Delmonico's, in New York, on my way to Japan, a little over a year ago,” continued Douglas. “He asked me to lunch with him, and evinced great interest in the mystery of the jewel-custom fraud which he, in some way, knew I had had a hand in exposing.”
“Sure he did. I told the department about your assistance when I was in Paris. If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have landed those swindlers. They led me a pretty dance over the Atlantic.”
“We worked together then,” said Douglas thoughtfully, “and, on the strength of our past success, I'm going to ask you to take me on as a sort of advisory partner in this Carew case.”
“Suppose you first tell me the reason for making such a request.”
“In the first place I owe a debt of gratitude to Senator Carew. For the sake of his friendship with my father years ago, he has taken a great interest in me. Secondly, I am in Washington at his request.”
Brett looked his interest, and Douglas went on rapidly:
“Some time ago I received a note from him asking me to apply for leave of absence from Tokyo, and to come direct to Washington, saying that he wished to see me on important business.”
“Did he state the nature of that business?” inquired Brett eagerly.
“No. I at once followed his suggestion and applied to the state department for leave. It was granted, and I hastened home as fast as steamer and train could bring me.”
“Did you see Senator Carew?”
“Unfortunately, no. I only reached Washington late last night. I expected to see the senator this morning, instead of which I read of his mysterious death in the morning papers.”
Brett mused for a few minutes, then roused himself.
“I am only too glad to have your assistance, Mr. Hunter.”
“Good!” ejaculated Douglas, well pleased. “Suppose you tell me all the facts in the case, so far discovered.”
Brett leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“On the face of things it looks as if the negro driver, Hamilton, was guilty.”
“Tell me what leads you to think that?” inquired Douglas quickly.
“He is the worst type of negro, a vicious brute with a taste for liquor. I have inquired about him and examined him thoroughly, and am really puzzled, Hunter, to find out why Senator Carew ever employed him.”
“Is he an old family servant?”
“No; he has only been in Carew's employ only about a year, I am told. He knows how to handle horses, and took excellent care of the senator's stable.”
“That probably explains why he was kept on,” said Douglas. “I've been told that Carew was hipped about his horses.”
“Yes. I gathered from Mrs. Winthrop that Hamilton has been drinking steadily, and his conduct to the other servants had grown intolerable. Senator Carew had to discharge him.”
“When did that happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Then, how was it that he was driving the carriage last night?”
“Oh, Carew gave him a week's notice—said he couldn't fill his place at once, and told him to stay on. Joshua tells me that Hamilton uttered some ugly threats in the kitchen that evening, but that the servants paid no attention to his black humor, as they saw he had been drinking.”
“I see in the papers that Hamilton vehemently declares his innocence.”
“He does,” agreed Brett, checking his remarks off on his fingers. “He declares he did not see Senator Carew after being discharged by him; that no one was in the carriage when he drove away from the stable at midnight; that he went directly to Mrs. Owen's residence; and that he does not know when or how Senator Carew's body was secreted in the carriage.”
“The plot thickens,” muttered Douglas. “Do you believe his statements?”
“I do, and I don't. The servants all declare that he was half drunk; therefore, I doubt if he was in a condition to pay much attention to anything, or whether his statements can be relied on. He was sobered by the shock of finding Carew's body in his carriage, and when I arrested him collapsed from fright.”
“Well, judging from the facts you have just told me, I don't much believe he killed Carew.”
“Why not?” argued Brett. “Hamilton was apparently half out of his mind from rage and drink, and his brute nature made him seek revenge. It's quite possible Carew entered the carriage thinking it would not be safe for his niece to drive home alone from the dance, and Hamilton took that opportunity to kill him.”
“I read in the evening paper that Hamilton was told to stop at the house for one of the maids, but, instead, drove directly from the stable to the dance,” said Douglas. “Therefore Carew did not enter the carriage at this door.”
“Hamilton may have been too befogged with drink to have remembered the order,” suggested the detective.
“I grant you, Brett,” said Douglas thoughtfully, “that the negro may have the nature, the desire, and the opportunity to commit murder—but why select such a weapon?”
“Probably picked up the first thing at hand,” grunted Brett.
“But a desk file is not the 'first thing at hand' in a stable,” remarked Douglas calmly. “In fact, it's the last thing you would expect to find there.”
“I don't know about that. Perhaps it was thrown away in a waste-paper basket, and Hamilton may have picked it out of the ash pile,” suggested Brett.
“What did the file look like?”
“It is of medium size; the slender steel is very sharp; the round solid base is of silver. I've shown it to several jewelers, and they all say it's like hundreds of others, rather expensive, but popular with their well-to-do customers—and that they have no means of tracing it back to any particular owner. It was something like that one,” pointing to an upright file on Senator Carew's desk.
Douglas leaned over and took it up.
“An ideal weapon,” he said softly, balancing it in his hand as his fingers closed over the round, heavy base. He removed the cork which was used to guard the sharp point, and felt it with his thumb. “It must have taken a shrewd blow to drive the file through overcoat and clothing so that it would cause instant death.”
“The senator wore no overcoat.”
Douglas looked his surprise. After a moment's silence, Brett edged his chair closer to his companion, and lowered his voice.
“You recollect how it rained last night?”
“In torrents. I have seldom seen such a cloudburst,” admitted Douglas.
“It commenced to rain about ten-thirty,” continued Brett, “and it did not stop until after three o'clock. Hamilton drove twice in that drenching rain to Mrs. Owen's and back again, first taking Miss Carew to the dance and returning with her. Senator Carew's body was discovered on the last trip home. Miss Carew told her aunt that no one was in the carriage with her when she made the first trip to the dance. Senator Carew's body was not removed until after my arrival here this morning, and I then made a thorough examination of the carriage and, with the coroner's assistance, of the body as well.” He paused, and cleared his throat. “I found that Senator Carew's clothes were absolutely dry. As I said before, he wore no overcoat. Now, how did Carew get into that carriage in that soaking downpour without getting wet?” asked Brett, settling back in his chair.
“Perhaps he was first murdered and then carried out and put into the carriage.”
“Perhaps so, but I doubt it.”
“He may have entered the carriage at the stable when Hamilton was not around.”
“I thought of that,” returned Brett, “and as soon as it was daylight examined the yard and the alley. The concrete walk from the house to the stable is being laid now and cannot be used, so that one has to tread on the ground, which is extremely soft and muddy. The alley is a long one, and Carew's stable is about in the center of it, and the rain, settling in the holes of the uneven cobbles, made walking very unpleasant. I am telling you all these details because of another discovery I made,” went on Brett slowly. “The senator's shoes had been recently polished and the blacking was not even stained.”
Douglas leaned back and bit his thumb nail, a childish habit of which he had never been able to break himself.
“Where did Carew spend the evening?” he asked finally.
“That is what I have not been able to find out,” growled Brett. “Mrs. Winthrop told me she had not seen her brother since breakfast; that he went to the capitol as usual in the morning. She was told, on entering the house just before dinner, that he would not return for that meal, but they did not state where he was going.”
“Upon my word it's a very pretty problem,” commented Douglas softly.
“It is,” agreed Brett, rising and slowly pacing the room.
He glanced piercingly at Douglas, who was thoughtfully contemplating a life-size portrait of one of Carew's ancestors which hung above the mantel over the fireplace. Douglas Hunter's clear-cut features, broad forehead, and square jaw indicated cleverness and determination. When Douglas smiled the severe lines relaxed and his smooth-shaven face was almost boyish. He had a keen sense of the ridiculous, which prevented him from taking himself too seriously. In the past Brett had conceived a high regard for the other's quick wit and indomitable courage.
“This is Senator Carew's study or library,” he said, stopping before the desk, “and I was giving the room my special attention when you came in.”
“Have you met with any success?” inquired Douglas quickly.
“So far only one thing; it may be a clew or it may not. Under this writing pad I found this blotter,” holding up a square white sheet. “It has been used only once, first on one side then on the other, so that by holding it in front of this mirror you can read quite clearly. See——”
Douglas rose, stepped behind Brett, and peeped over his shoulder into the silver-mounted mirror, which the latter had removed from its place on the mantel.
The large, bold writing was fairly legible.
“What do you make out of it?” asked Brett impatiently.
Obediently Douglas read the words aloud:
:“Am writing in case I don't see you before you——”
Then the writing broke off.
“He must have been interrupted,” explained Brett, “and clapped down the blotter on top of the sheet so that whoever entered couldn't see the written words. Now look at the other side.” And he turned over the blotter on which only a few words were traced.
:“I have discovered——”
read Douglas.
“What do you think of it?” asked Brett, putting the blotter in an inner pocket of his coat.
“It depends on when it was written.”
Douglas' eyes strayed to the door. Surely Brett had closed it when they entered; now it stood partly open into the hall. He pointed silently to it, and by common impulse both men stepped out into the hall.
Listening intently, they heard a faint rap on one of the doors in the upper hall. Then a high-pitched, quivering voice reached them:
“Eleanor, Eleanor, I'm so glad you've come. I'm nearly sick with misery. They quarreled, Eleanor; they quarreled——”
The voice voice caught in a sob; the door slammed shut.
The two men glanced at each other, their eyes asked the same question. Who quarreled?

### Chapter V.
#### Circumstantial Evidence.

A slight sound behind him caused Douglas to wheel swiftly around. A pretty woman, with astonishment written largely in her round eyes, stood regarding the two men. She was carrying a hand bag.
“Whom do you wish to see?” asked Brett sharply.
“No one, monsieur,” replied Annette, her accent denoting her nationality. “I am Miss Thornton's maid.”
Douglas started. “Eleanor”—“Miss Thornton!”—was it possible that she could mean the Eleanor Thornton he used to know?
“I am taking her bag to her room, as she is spending the night here,” added the servant.
“Indeed.” Brett inspected her keenly. “When did Miss Thornton enter the house?”
“A few minutes ago, monsieur,” vaguely. “Joshua showed mademoiselle in while I stopped a moment to speak with the chauffeur, and he left the front door open so that I could enter.”
At that moment the butler appeared from the dining room carrying a tray on which were glasses and a pitcher of ice water.
“Joshua, is this Miss Thornton's maid?” asked Brett.
“Yessir,” Joshua ducked his head respectfully as he answered the detective. “Annette, Miss Eleanor done hab her same room next do' ter Miss Cynthia's. Yo' kin take her things right upstairs, and tell Miss Eleanor I done got der ice water fo' her.”
With a half curtsey, Annette stepped past the two men, and ran quickly up the staircase.
“Stop a moment, Joshua,” ordered Brett, as the butler started to follow the maid. “Who opened the door into the library a few moments ago?”
“'Deed I dunno, suh; I been so busy takin' in cyards I ain't noticed particular.”
“Who has been in the hall besides yourself?” persisted Brett.
“Ain't no one,” began Joshua, then paused. “Now, I do recollect dat Marse Philip cum in right smart time ergo, suh. He axed fo' yo', and I tole him yo' was in de lib'ry. I 'specks he mighter been a-lookin' fo' yo'.”
“Ah, indeed; where is Mr. Winthrop now?”
“Ah dunno, suh.”
“Well, find him, Joshua, and tell him I wish to see him—at once.”
Brett's pleasant voice had deepened, and Joshua blinked nervously.
“Yessir, I'll tell him, suh, 'deed ah will,” he mumbled as he started upstairs.
“What's all this questioning about?” he demanded loudly. “I've had enough of this, you——” His hands clenched, and the blood flamed his pale face.
As Douglas and Brett walked across the hall to enter the library, a man stepped out of the drawing-room.
“Are you looking for me, Mr. Brett?”
The question was asked courteously enough, and Douglas was the more astonished to encounter a hostile stare as the newcomer glanced at him.
“I hope you can give me a few minutes of your time,” said Brett. “Will you be so good as to step into the library?”
He stood aside to allow Philip Winthrop to enter first. Douglas followed them into the room, and locked the door. As the key clicked slightly, Winthrop frowned and his pale face flushed.
“That is only a precaution against eavesdroppers,” explained Douglas quickly.
“Mr. Winthrop, this is Mr. Douglas Hunter, who is assisting me in my efforts to unravel the mystery surrounding Senator Carew's death, and with your permission will be present at this interview.“
“Why, certainly,” exclaimed Winthrop, with well-simulated heartiness. “Won't you both sit down?”
He dropped into the revolving desk chair. Douglas picked out his old seat in the window and turned his back to the light the better to face Winthrop and Brett, who also sat near the desk.
“When will they hold the inquest, Mr. Brett?” questioned Winthrop.
“The coroner, Dr. Penfield, told me to-morrow.”
“Has Hamilton a lawyer to look out for his interests?”
“That's not absolutely necessary at the inquest, Mr. Winthrop. At present, the negro is simply held on suspicion. If the inquest so decides, he will be charged with the murder, and held for the grand jury.”
Douglas had been busy scanning Winthrop's face intently. He noted the heavy lines in the handsome face, and the unnatural brilliancy of his eyes. It was apparent to both men, by Winthrop's thick speech and unsteady hands, which kept fingering the desk ornaments nervously, that he had been drinking heavily.
“Where did you last see Senator Carew?”
“In this room, yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you see him alone, or were others present?”
“He was alone.”
“Did he show you a letter which he was then writing?” inquired Douglas at a venture, and was startled at the effect of his question on Winthrop. The latter whitened perceptibly, and pulled his short black mustache to hide his twitching lips.
“I know nothing about any letter,” he stammered.
Brett did not press the point, but asked instead:
“Where did you spend last night?”
“I dined here with my mother and cousin.”
“And afterward?” put in Douglas.
“I went to the Alibi Club soon after dinner.”
“How late did you stay there?”
“Most of the night,” was the evasive reply.
“Please mention the exact hour you left the club,” persisted Brett.
“I really cannot recollect the exact time. I did not reach this house until after two this morning. We had a pretty gay time at the club, and I was in no condition to remember the hour.” And he smiled deprecatingly.
Again Brett did not press the question. He turned over the pages of his small memorandum book in which he had been making entries.
“Have you any idea where your uncle dined and spent the evening?”
“No,” came the emphatic answer. “He asked me to tell my mother not to expect him at dinner; that was all.”
“Ah, indeed! Have you any idea when Senator Carew left the house?”
“No; I left him here, and went up to my room, where I stayed until dinner was announced.”
“Where is your room?”
“Third floor back.”
“Who has rooms on the next floor?”
“Senator Carew's bedroom, bath, and sitting room are over this part of the house. My cousin, Miss Cynthia Carew, occupies the suite of rooms across the hall from his rooms. My mother and I have the third floor to ourselves.” Winthrop plucked nervously at the desk pad. “Talking is dry work; won't you and Mr. Hunter join me? I'll ring for Joshua.”
“One moment,” Brett's tone was peremptory and, with an unmistakable scowl, Winthrop sank down in his chair and leaned heavily on the desk. “What members of the family were in the house yesterday afternoon?”
Winthrop thought for a moment before replying.
“No one but my uncle and myself,” he said reluctantly. “My mother and Miss Carew went out early to some bridge party, and did not return until just before dinner.”
“I see.”
Brett leaned back in his chair and contemplated Winthrop thoughtfully.
“Mr. Winthrop,” asked Douglas, breaking the short silence, “were you and your uncle always on good terms?”
“Why, yes.”
Winthrop's twitching fingers closed unconsciously on the slender desk file, and as he spoke his shifting eyes dropped from Douglas' clear gaze, and fell on the sharp steel desk ornament in his hand. With a convulsive shudder he dropped it and sprang to his feet.
“What's all this questioning about?” he demanded loudly. “I've had enough of this, you——”
His hands clenched, and the blood flamed his pale face—a gurgle choked his utterance—and before Brett could reach him he fell prone across the desk.

### Chapter VI.
#### A Piece of Oriental Silk.

“I'm glad you could come back, Mr. Hunter,” said Brett, as Joshua opened the library door of the Carew residence and admitted Douglas. “Can you stay here all night?”
“If necessary,” replied Douglas, glancing at him in surprise.
“I think it would be best. Mrs. Winthrop is completely unstrung; her niece, Miss Carew, prostrated from shock; and Mr. Philip Winthrop in bed with a bad attack of delirium tremens. In such a household your presence to-night might be invaluable if anything else were to happen. Not that I am anticipating any further trouble or tragedies.”
“Very well, I will stay,” agreed Douglas.
“'Deed I'se mighty glad ter hyar dat,” volunteered Joshua, who hovered just inside the door on the pretext of arranging some furniture. “But I dunno whar I'll put yo', suh. Miss Eleanor, she's in de gues' chambah, an' Annette's in de room back ob hers, and de nusses fo' Marse Philip has der spar' rooms in der third flo'.”
“Never mind, Joshua, I can camp out in this room. That sofa looks very comfortable,” and Douglas pointed to the large upholstered davenport which faced the empty fireplace.
“Just a moment, Joshua,” exclaimed Brett, as the old butler moved toward the door. “Did you see Senator Carew leave the house yesterday afternoon?”
“No, suh.”
“Did he take luncheon here?”
“No, suh. He cum in 'bout three o'clock; leastways dat was when he rung fo' me, an' I reckon he'd only jes' arrived, 'cause he had his hat an' coat on his arm.”
“What did he want with you?”
“He axed me why Hamilton hadn't called fo' him at de capitol as ordered; an' when I tole him dat Hamilton was a-sittin' in de stable doin' nuffin', he said I was ter go right out an' send him to de library—which I done.”
“Did you see Senator Carew after that?”
“Yessir. After 'bout fifteen minutes Hamilton cum out lookin' mighty black an' mutterin' under his breff. Den Marse James rung fo' me ag'in, an' sent me to tell Marse Philip dat he wanted ter see him to onst.”
“Was there anything unusual in Senator Carew's manner?” inquired Douglas, who had been listening attentively to the old darky's statements.
“He seemed considerable put out, dat was all,” responded Joshua, after due reflection.
“Was Senator Carew irritable and quick-tempered?”
“Mostly he was real easy-going, but sometimes he had flare-ups, an' den it was bes' ter keep outer his way.”
“Did you find Mr. Winthrop?”
“Yessir. I gib him de message, an' he went right down to de lib'ry.”
“Do you know how long Senator Carew and young Winthrop remained in this room?”
“No, suh. I went ter de fron' do', an' while in de hall I heard a regular ruction goin' on inside dis room.”
“Could you hear what was said?” demanded Brett eagerly.
Joshua shook his head.
“I couldn't make out a word, but Marse James' voice was powerful riz an' Marse Philip's, too.”
“Was that the first time that Senator Carew and Mr. Winthrop have quarreled?”
“Deys had words now and den,” muttered Joshua, evasively.
“About what?” broke in Douglas sharply.
“Oh, nuffin' in particular. Marse James uster get mad with Marse Philip 'cause he wore so lazy, an' den he's been a-drinkin' right smart, which Marse James didn't like nuther.”
“Is Mr. Winthrop a heavy drinker?”
“No, suh, but he's been a-drinkin' pretty steady fo' de pas' three months.”
“Have you any idea, Joshua, what caused the quarrel yesterday afternoon?”
“Well, it mighter started over Hamilton. Marse Philip persuaded Marse James to keep him las' fall when he was 'bout to discharge him fo' bein' impertinent.”
“Did Senator Carew give you a letter to mail yesterday afternoon, or a note to deliver for him?” inquired Douglas thoughtfully.
“No, suh, he did not,” Joshua declared with firmness.
“How long have you been with Senator Carew, Joshua?”
“Most thirty years, suh. I worked fust fo' his father, der ole Gineral. Ef yo' doan want me fo' nuffin' mo', gen'men, I reckon I'll go an' close up de house fo' de night.”
“All right, Joshua,”
And the butler beat a hasty retreat.
Douglas took out his cigarette case and handed it to Brett.
“Formed any new theory?” he asked, striking a match and applying it to the cigarette between his lips.
Brett did not answer at once.
“The inquest will make Winthrop and Joshua talk. I am convinced neither of them has told all he knows of this affair,” he said finally.
Douglas nodded in agreement.
“But the inquest will have to be postponed now. Winthrop is in no shape to appear before it.”
“And Miss Carew, who is an equally important witness, is still confined to her bed,” volunteered Brett. “Miss Thornton tells me that she cries whenever the subject of the murder is mentioned, and that she is completely unstrung by the tragedy.”
“By the way, who is this Miss Thornton?” asked Douglas. “And what does she look like?”
“She is a cousin of Mrs. Truxton, of Georgetown”
Douglas whistled in surprise. Brett glanced at him sharply, then continued: “I am told she is Miss Carew's most intimate friend, although about five years older. Miss Thornton must be about twenty-three. She is tall and dark, and has the most magnificent blue eyes I have ever seen in a woman's head.”
Douglas drew in his breath sharply.
“It must be the same girl whom I knew in Paris, but I had no idea then that she was related to old family friends of mine in Georgetown.” He changed the conversation abruptly. “Come, Brett, what theory have you formed?” he asked again, with more emphasis.
“I think both Winthrop and Hamilton have a guilty knowledge of Senator Carew's death, but how deeply Winthrop is implicated we have yet to learn.”
“But the motive?” argued Douglas. “It is highly improbable that Winthrop killed the Senator because he discharged a worthless servant.”
“If we could find that letter, which I am convinced the Senator was writing when Winthrop entered the room yesterday afternoon, we would know the motive fast enough,” retorted Brett.
“Have you searched Carew's belongings?”
“Yes, all of them, and all the furniture in his bedroom, sitting room, and bath, as well as the rooms on this floor; but I couldn't find a trace of it. I have also thoroughly searched his office at the capitol.”
“Did you think to examine the landau? The senator might possibly have tucked it under the carriage seat.”
“I thought of that, and examined the interior of the carriage, but there is no possible place where a letter could be concealed. The carriage has recently been reupholstered in leather and there's no crack or tear where an envelope could slip through.”
“Have you inquired at the different messenger services in town?”
“Yes, but there is no record at any of their offices that Senator Carew sent for a messenger to deliver a note yesterday afternoon or night. I also sent word to the post-office officials asking to have an outlook kept, and a search made for a letter franked by Senator Carew and postmarked yesterday.”
“It's exceedingly doubtful whether you get any results from that quarter, when you don't know when or where such a letter was posted or to what city it was addressed.”
“The frank may help,” Brett glanced at the clock. “Eleven-thirty—I must be going.” He rose. “Did you meet with any success, Mr. Hunter, in the inquiries you said you would make this afternoon?”
“In a way, yes. Winthrop was at the Alibi Club, taking supper with Captain Stanton. But Julian Wallace, who was one of the party, told me that Winthrop left the club about twelve-thirty.”
Brett whistled.
“And he did not reach this house until three hours later! I am afraid friend Winthrop will have much to explain when he recovers his senses.”
“Hold on! The Carew carriage returned here a few minutes before one o'clock—when the senator was found dead inside it. That only left Winthrop less than half an hour to get from the club to Mrs. Owen's residence—a considerable distance—and commit the murder.”
“It's not impossible for a man in a motor,” declared Brett sharply.
“I thought Senator Carew only kept horses,” exclaimed Douglas.
“And so he did; but Winthrop owns a small roadster. I was here at the house when he arrived this morning. The machine has a cover and windshield, so he was fairly well protected from the rain. As I said before, Winthrop will have much to explain. I hope you will have an undisturbed night, Mr. Hunter. I told Joshua and the nurses to call you if anything is needed.”
“Don't worry about me,” laughed Douglas, as the two men stepped into the hall. “I've camped out in much worse places than this room.”
“Well, good night! I'll be here the first thing in the morning,”
And Brett pulled open the door and ran down the steps.
As Douglas replaced the night latch on the front door, Joshua joined him.
“I brunged yo' dis 'comfort',” raising a soft eider-down quilt that he carried tucked on his left arm. “I thought yo' might like it over yo' on der sofa.”
“Thanks very much,” exclaimed Douglas, taking it from him.
Joshua followed him to the library door.
“I ain't goin' ter bed,” he explained. “I couldn't sleep nohow.” The soft, drawling voice held a touch of pathos, “Marse James was mighty kind ter me—and thirty years is a mighty long time ter be 'sociated in de fam'bly. So I jes' reckon I'll sit on der window seat in der hall. Ef yo' want anythin' jest let me know, Marse Hunter.”
“All right, Joshua. I'll leave this door open, so you can call me if I am needed. Good night!”
Douglas placed the door ajar, and walked over to the well-filled bookcases. After some deliberation, he selected a book and sat down in the revolving chair. The book held his attention and he read on and on. As he finished the last chapter and tossed the volume on the table, he glanced at the clock, the dial of which registered two-thirty. The upholstered davenport, which stood with its back resting against the length of the desk table, looked inviting, and Douglas rose, extinguished the light, and walked over and lay down. After placing several sofa cushions under his head he pulled the eider-down quilt over him, as he felt chilly.
The added warmth and the softness of the couch were most grateful to his tired body. He was drowsily conscious of the clock striking; then his last thought was of Eleanor Thornton—beautiful Eleanor Thornton. Strange that they should meet again! Why, he had actually run away from her in Paris! A few minutes more and he was sound asleep.
Joshua groped his way to the button and switched on the light.
Some time later Douglas opened his sleepy eyes, then closed them again drowsily. The room was in total darkness. As he lay listening to the tick-tock of the clock he became conscious that he was not alone in the room. Instantly he was wide awake. He pulled out his match box, only to find it empty. As he lay a moment debating what he should do, a soft, small hand was laid on his forehead. He felt the sudden shock which his presence gave the intruder, for the fingers tightened convulsively on his forehead, then were hastily removed. He threw out his hands to catch the intruder, but they closed on empty space.
Swiftly and noiselessly Douglas rose to his feet and stepped softly around the end of the davenport, hands outstretched, groping for what he could not see. Suddenly, his eyes grown accustomed to the darkness, he made out a shadowy form just ahead of him, and darted forward. His foot caught in the long wire of the desk telephone and, dragging the instrument clattering with him, he fell forward, striking his face and forehead against the edge of the open door.
“Fo' de lub ob Hebben!” gasped Joshua, awakened out of a sound sleep, and scared almost out of his wits. “Marse Hunter! Marse Hunter! Whar yo' at?”
“Here,” answered Douglas. “Turn on the hall light; then come to me.”
Obediently, Joshua groped his way to the button and switched on the light, after which he hastened into the library and did the same there. Douglas, who sat on the floor nursing a bleeding nose, blinked as the strong light met his dazed eyes.
“Did you see any one leave this room, Joshua?” he demanded.
“No, suh.” The butler's eyes were rolling about to an alarming extent, showing the whites against his black face, which had grown gray with fright. “'Twarn't no one ter see—it must ter been a haint.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Douglas heatedly. The telephone bell was keeping up a dull clicking as the sleepy central tried to find out what was wanted, and he leaned over and replaced the receiver on the hook. “No ghost put out your hall light, and no ghost wears clothes. I caught the intruder's gown, and if it hadn't ripped away I'd have caught her.”
As he spoke he opened his right hand and disclosed a torn piece of Oriental silk.

### Chapter VII.
#### Kismet.

“Good morning, Uncle Dana.”
The tall, distinguished looking, gray-haired man standing in front of the mantel wheeled around with a visible start of surprise.
“Good Lord, Eleanor! I didn't hear you enter the room. How silently you move, dear.”
Eleanor's pretty mouth dimpled into a smile as she kissed her uncle warmly.
“I'll send you an ear trumpet,” she declared saucily. “Come and sit by me on this sofa. Did you get my note this morning?”
“How like a woman!” He dropped down on the comfortable rosewood sofa with a sigh of content. “Of course I received it. Why otherwise should I be here?”
“Then you will take the case?” she asked eagerly.
“I am not a criminal lawyer.”
Eleanor's face fell.
“Oh, don't refuse!” she begged earnestly. “Dear Mrs. Winthrop needs some one to watch her interests, and if, later on, occasion requires a criminal lawyer—which pray Heaven may not be—you can then engage one for her. She was so relieved when I suggested sending for you.”
“In what way does Mrs. Winthrop need my services?”
“Why, to take charge of everything,” vaguely. “A man in authority is required here at once.”
“Where is Philip?”
“Philip!” Eleanor's tone spoke her contempt. “He is sick in bed, with a trained nurse in attendance.” Then she added quickly, answering her uncle's unspoken question. “Too much dissipation has again caused his downfall.”
“Um! I don't envy Mrs. Winthrop her precious stepson.”
Colonel Thornton's pleasant face hardened, and Eleanor, seeing her advantage, pressed the point.
“Mrs. Winthrop is almost overwhelmed with anxiety and sorrow, which she has to face alone, practically. Do, Uncle Dana, if it is possible, take some of this dreadful responsibility off her shoulders.”
“I will do what I can,” announced the colonel, after a moment's deliberation.
Eleanor clapped her hands.
“Dear Uncle Dana! I knew you would, when you thought it over. Just a moment. I'll send word to Mrs. Winthrop that you are here; she wants to see you.”
Joshua was in the hall, and to him Eleanor confided her message for Mrs. Winthrop, then returned to the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa by her uncle.
“Did you ever know any one in Georgetown named Douglas Hunter?” she inquired.
“Douglas Hunter—Douglas—— Why, surely, he must be the young son of John Hunter who used to be a neighbor of mine in Georgetown. Cousin Kate Truxton can tell you all about the Hunters. She was an intimate friend of John's wife. The Hunters belong to the FFV. Why do you ask about Douglas?”
“Joshua told me that he spent last night here, and that he is taking a deep interest in the mystery surrounding Senator Carew's tragic death.”
“You must be mistaken,” exclaimed Thornton, glancing at her in surprise. “To the best of my recollection Douglas Hunter entered the consular service very soon after he left college. Then Carew evinced an interest in his career and had him transferred into the Diplomatic Service. He's not a detective, child.”
“Well, he's acting as if he were one—prying around——”
Eleanor checked her hasty speech and rose as the portières parted, and Mrs. Winthrop advanced into the room. She was a well-known figure in Washington society. Although small of stature, her erect carriage and graceful movements made her seem taller than she really was. She was said to have the longest calling list in Washington, and, although an aristocrat to her finger tips, she had friends and acquaintances in every walk in life, for she possessed the true spirit of democracy which springs from a kind heart and does not ape humility. She had been of inestimable assistance to her brother, Senator Carew, during his political career.
As Colonel Thornton bowed low over her small, blue-veined hand, he noticed the heavy lines and dark shadows which fatigue and sorrow had traced under her eyes, and his hand closed over hers in silent sympathy.
“It is good of you to come, colonel,” she began, seating herself in a large armchair next the sofa, “and still kinder to offer to advise me, I feel stunned.” She put her hand to her head with a gesture pathetic in its helplessness, and her sad eyes filled with unbidden tears. Eleanor put out her hand, and it was instantly clasped by the older woman. “Forgive me, colonel.” She blinked the tears away, and by a visible effort regained her lost composure. “My brother was very dear to me, and——”
“I know no man who had more friends,” replied Thornton gravely, as she paused and bit her trembling lips.
“Exactly. Therefore, his violent death seems monstrous!” declared Mrs. Winthrop. “Who would commit such a deed? My brother's greatest fault was his kind heart—he accomplished so much good unobtrusively. Now, colonel, the first thing I wish to consult you about is offering a reward for the discovery of his murderer. Can you arrange it for me?”
“Certainly. I think it a wise suggestion. How much shall it be?”
Thornton drew out his notebook.
“Five thousand dollars.” Then noting Thornton's expression, she asked: “You think it too much?”
“It would perhaps be better to commence with a smaller sum—say one thousand dollars. Then you can increase it, if that amount brings no results.”
“That is a capital plan. Well, James, what is it?” to the footman who had entered a second before and approached her chair.
“Mr. Brett wants to know, ma'am, if you will see him an' Mister Hunter fo' a few minutes. They want to ax yo' a few questions.”
Mrs. Winthrop glanced interrogatively at Thornton.
“What shall I do?”
“Perhaps it would be just as well to see them,” he replied.
“Very well. James, show the gentlemen in here.” As the servant hastened out of the room, she turned to her two guests. “You must be present at this interview, and I depend on you, Colonel Thornton, to check any undue inquisitiveness on the part of the detective.”
“I will, madam.”
Thornton's grim tone conveyed more than the mere words. He ranked as one of the leaders of the District bar, and few opposing lawyers dared take liberties with him when trying a case.
Eleanor made a motion to rise, but Mrs. Winthrop checked her with a low-toned “Wait, dear,” as Brett, followed by Douglas Hunter, strode into the room.
Mrs. Winthrop acknowledged Brett's bow with a courteous inclination of her head, but, as he murmured Douglas' name in introducing him, she rose and shook hands with him.
“I have frequently heard my brother speak of you, Mr. Hunter,” she said, “and have regretted not meeting you before.” As Douglas voiced his thanks, she added, “Eleanor, Mr. Hunter.”
And Douglas gazed deep into the beautiful eyes which had haunted his memory since their last meeting in Paris. For one second his glance held hers, while a soft blush mantled her cheeks; then Colonel Thornton stepped forward and extended his hand.
“No need of an introduction here, Douglas,” he said heartily. “I should have known you anywhere from your likeness to your father, though I haven't seen you since you wore knickerbockers.”
“I haven't forgotten 'Thornton's Nest,' nor you either, colonel,” exclaimed Douglas, clasping his hand warmly. “I about lived on your grounds before I went to boarding school.”
“Pray be seated, gentlemen.” In obedience to Mrs. Winthrop's gesture, Douglas pulled up a chair near hers, while Brett and Colonel Thornton did likewise. “Now, Mr. Brett, what do you wish to ask me?”
“Have you any idea where Senator Carew dined the night of his death?”
“Not the slightest,” was the positive reply.
“Was it your brother's custom not to inform you where he was dining?” asked Brett.
“Stop a moment,” Thornton held up a protesting hand. “Mrs. Winthrop, you cannot be compelled to answer questions put to you by Mr. Brett. He has no legal right to examine you now.”
“I am quite aware of that, Colonel Thornton,” put in Brett composedly. “I am asking these questions that I may gain a little more light on this mystery. I only saw Mrs. Winthrop for a short time yesterday, and, while I do not wish to intrude, I feel that I can accomplish better results by a longer talk. This tragedy must be investigated thoroughly.”
“Very true; but you forget, Mr. Brett, that the inquest is the proper place for bringing out testimony. Mrs. Winthrop will have to appear before it, and, until that is held, she must not be pestered with questions or harrowed by intrusions.”
“I am willing to answer all questions within reason,” said Mrs. Winthrop, before the detective could reply. “If you mean, Mr. Brett, that Senator Carew was secretive about his movements, you are mistaken. On the contrary, he was most open and aboveboard in all his dealings with me. Occasionally, when hurried, he did not tell me his plans for the day, but, as a general thing, I knew all his social engagements.”
“Ah, his social engagements,” echoed Brett. “How about his official engagements, Mrs. Winthrop?”
“With those I had nothing to do. I never meddled in my brother's political or official career. That was out of my province,” was the calm reply.
“Then you think it likely that he dined with some of his official colleagues?”
“I am unable to express an opinion on the subject.”
“You had better ask his private secretary what engagements he made for Monday, and with whom he was last seen,” broke in Thornton.
“Mr. Philip Winthrop is in no condition to answer questions now. He will be examined before the coroner's inquest when able to leave his room.”
“Then I do not see the object of this interview,” objected Thornton. “Young Mr. Winthrop is better able to tell you of Senator Carew's movements that day than Mrs. Winthrop.”
“I cannot wait so long.” Brett shook his head decidedly. “What clews there are will grow cold, and I cannot afford to risk that. I am deeply interested in clearing up this terrible affair.”
“And do you think I am less so?” demanded Mrs. Winthrop indignantly. “On the contrary, Mr. Brett, I will move Heaven and earth to find the perpetrator of that dastardly deed! I have just told Colonel Thornton that I will offer a reward of one thousand dollars for information leading to the criminal's arrest.”
“Ah, then you do not think the negro coachman, Hamilton, guilty?” put in Brett quickly.
“I have not said so.” But Mrs. Winthrop looked disconcerted for a second, then regained her usual serenity. “My idea in offering the reward was to assist your investigation, and Colonel Thornton agreed with me that it was an excellent plan.”
“Mrs. Winthrop”—the detective spoke with greater distinctness—“was Senator Carew on good terms with all the members of his family?”
“He was, sir, with members of this household.” Mrs. Winthrop hesitated briefly, then continued: “I think that I had better tell you that, since his return from Panama a short time ago, my brother received a number of threatening letters.”
“Indeed!” Brett's tone betrayed his satisfaction. “May I see the letters?”
“Unfortunately my brother destroyed the one he showed me.”
“What were its contents?” inquired Brett.
“To the best of my recollection, the message, which was written in an obviously disguised writing, read somewhat like this: 'Your movements are watched. If you act, you die.'”
“Did you see the envelope?” asked Brett, as he jotted down the words in his memorandum book.
“No. At the time my brother showed it to me, he told me that he had received several others; that he had no idea to what they referred; and that he never paid attention to anonymous communications.”
“I see.” Brett thoughtfully replaced his notebook in his pocket. “Can I talk to your niece, Miss Cynthia Carew?”
Mrs. Winthrop shook her head.
“She is still too prostrated to be interviewed.”
“Poor little soul! It was a ghastly experience for her!” ejaculated Colonel Thornton.
“It was, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Winthrop. “She was devoted to her uncle, and he to her. Consequently the shock has driven her half out of her mind.”
“Miss Thornton”—Brett turned and faced Eleanor—“do you know to whom Miss Carew referred when she exclaimed on greeting you yesterday afternoon: 'They quarreled, Eleanor; they quarreled!'”
Mrs. Winthrop caught her breath sharply.
“Why, her words referred to Hamilton, the coachman,” replied Eleanor quietly, and her eyes did not waver before Brett's stern glance.
The detective broke the short silence which followed.
“I won't detain you longer, Mrs. Winthrop. I am exceedingly obliged to you for the information you have furnished. Mr. Hunter, are you coming downtown?”
Douglas nodded an affirmative as he rose. Mrs. Winthrop and Colonel Thornton detained Brett with a question as he was leaving the room. Douglas seized his opportunity and crossed over to Eleanor's side.
“How have you been since I saw you last, Miss Thornton?” he inquired.
“Very well, thanks. And you?” Eleanor inspected him with good-natured raillery: “You look—as serious as ever.”
Douglas reddened.
“It has been my lot in life to have to take things seriously. I'm not such a Puritan as you evidently think me.”
“Come and see me, and perhaps on better acquaintance——” She paused.
“What?”
“You will improve.”
Eleanor's eyes hardened, and she turned abruptly away, without seeing his half-extended hand.
Her charming, roguish smile robbed the words of their sting.
“You think, then, that I am an acquired taste?”
“I have not seen enough of you to know.”
“When may I call on you?”
She parried the question with another.
“Why did you leave Paris without saying good-by to me?”
The simple question sobered Douglas. It brought back an unpleasant recollection, best forgotten. Eleanor's bewitching personality had always exerted an extraordinary influence over him. He found himself watching her every movement, instinct with grace, and eagerly waiting to catch her smile. In Paris he had often cursed himself for a fool, even when attending a reception just to catch a glimpse of her. She was a born coquette, and could no more help enjoying an innocent flirtation than a kitten could help frolicking. It had been her intense femininity that had first attracted him. Frightened at the influence that she had unconsciously exerted over him, he had deliberately avoided her—and fate had thrown them together again. It was kismet! Why not enjoy the goods the gods provided and be thankful?
“'Time and tide wait for no man,'” he quoted. “I had to catch a steamer at a moment's notice, hence the 'P. P. C.' card. Please show your forgiveness, and let me call.”
“And if I don't?”
“Why, I'll come, anyway.”
Eleanor's eyes twinkled.
“Bravo. I like the spirit of young Lochinvar.”
“He came out of the West, whereas I come out of the East.”
“Oh, well, extremes meet.”
“Then don't be surprised if I carry you off.”
The words were spoken in jest, but the look in Douglas' eyes caused Eleanor to blush hotly.
“Marse Brett am a-waitin' fo' yo', suh,” said Joshua, from the doorway, breaking in on the tête-à-tête.
“Oh, ah, yes.” Douglas was suddenly conscious of the absence of the others. “Miss Thornton, I had no idea I was detaining you. Please say good-by to Mrs. Winthrop and your uncle. I never realized in Paris that you belonged to the Thorntons, of Georgetown.”
“You never took the trouble to make inquiries about me?” She surprised a look in Douglas' face—why did he appear as if caught? The expression was fleeting, but Eleanor's eyes hardened. “Good-by.”
She turned abruptly away, without seeing his half-extended hand.
Douglas looked anything but pleasant when he joined Brett, who stood waiting for him in the vestibule. They strolled down Massachusetts Avenue for over a block in absolute silence.
Brett was the first to speak.
“When you were eating breakfast I saw Annette, Miss Thornton's French maid, and questioned her in regard to the dressing gowns worn by the Carew household.”
“What luck did you have?” inquired Douglas, rousing from a deep study.
“She says that Mrs. Winthrop, Miss Carew, and Miss Thornton all wear dressing gowns made of Oriental silk.”
“Upon my word!” ejaculated Douglas, much astonished. “Still, they can't all be of the same pattern.”
“It won't be so easy to identify your midnight caller by means of that silk,” taking out the slip which Douglas had torn from the dressing gown the night before. “Annette says the gowns were given to Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Carew by Miss Thornton, who purchased them, with hers, at a Japanese store in H Street. The French girl isn't above accepting a bribe, so when I suggested her showing me the gowns, she got them and brought them into the library, while Mrs. Winthrop and Miss Thornton were breakfasting in Miss Carew's boudoir.”
“Did you see all three of them?”
“Yes, and they are as alike as two peas in a pod. And, Mr. Hunter”—his voice deepened impressively—“I examined them with the greatest care, and not one kimono was torn—nor had any one of them ever been mended.”

### Chapter VIII.
#### At the State Department.

“This gentleman has called to see you, sir,”
The messenger handed a visiting card to the secretary of state, who laid his pen down on his desk and carefully inspected the card.
“Show Mr. Hunter in,” he directed, then looked across at his stenographer. “You need not wait, Jones.”
As the stenographer gathered up his papers and hastened out of the room, Douglas was ushered in, and after a few words of greeting the secretary motioned him to take the large leather chair placed beside his desk.
“I was sorry not to find you when I called yesterday, Mr. Secretary,” began Douglas.
“I was detained in the West, and did not get here until this morning. What do you wish to see me about, Mr. Hunter?”
“First, to thank you for granting me a leave of absence.”
“That is all right. Senator Carew came here and asked, as a particular favor to him, that you be allowed to return to Washington. By the way, his death was terrible, terrible! His loss will be felt by the whole country.”
“It will, indeed,” agreed Douglas.
“Did you see Senator Carew before his death?”
“No, Mr. Secretary; I only reached Washington on Monday, the night of his murder.”
“It seems an outrage, in these days of our boasted civilization, that a man of such brilliant attainments, a man whose life is of benefit to his country, should be killed wantonly by a worthless, drunken negro!” exclaimed the secretary, with much feeling.
“You believe, then, that Senator Carew was murdered by his servant?”
“I gathered that impression from the newspapers, and they all insist that the negro is guilty. Do you think otherwise?”
“I do.”
“And your reasons?”
“The use of the letter file, an extraordinary weapon for a negro coachman to use.”
“Is that your only reason for believing the negro innocent?” The secretary's piercing eyes studied Douglas' face intently.
“No, sir.”
“Is there anything which strikes you as being of vital importance in the case which has not yet been brought out?”
“Senator Carew was chairman of the foreign relations committee.”
The secretary stared at Douglas for a full minute without speaking.
“I don't quite catch your meaning, Mr. Hunter,” he said finally.
“Let me explain, Mr. Secretary,” began Douglas earnestly. “Some time ago I received a letter from Senator Carew suggesting that I apply for leave of absence.”
“Why?” snapped out the secretary.
“He did not specify directly,” returned Douglas calmly. “He said he wished to consult me about my future. One moment——” as the secretary opened his lips to speak. “At the end of the letter, the senator added that he hoped I was making the most of my opportunities; that it was only the part of wisdom to inform myself of all that was going on in Japan; and that he expected that I would be able to give him some interesting data about the 'Yankees of the East,' as he had always been curious as regards their customs, past history, and future plans.”
The secretary settled back in his chair and fumbled with his watch chain. He was the first to break the silence.
“Did you follow Senator Carew's advice?”
“I did, sir.”
“With what results?”
“Among other things I discovered that there was an unusual activity commencing in the shipyards; that army maneuvers were being conducted unostentatiously; and finally, the day I sailed, I heard a report that three transports were being fitted out at Wakayama, a closed port, and were to sail shortly under sealed orders.”
“Excellent! Have you any idea of the transports' destination?”
“No, sir.”
“Why did you not send me this information before?”
The secretary spoke with unwonted sternness.
“I did cable a cipher despatch to Senator Carew. I thought you had requested him to get certain information, and did not care to have it sent through the department directly.”
“The senator did not take me into his confidence in the matter.”
“That's very strange!” muttered Douglas. “Very strange! Detective Brett, who is investigating the Carew case, declares, from writing found on a blotter, that the senator wrote a letter to some unknown person. On one side of the blotter were clearly traced the words: 'Am writing in case I don't see you before——' and on the other: 'I have discovered——' Brett thinks Senator Carew was interrupted on two occasions while writing the letter, and laid the blotter on the fresh ink to prevent the person who entered from seeing what he had written.”
The secretary followed Douglas' story with the greatest attention.
“A likely hypothesis,” he acknowledged, slowly settling back in his revolving chair, for he had been leaning forward on his desk the better to catch every word spoken by Douglas in his quiet monotone. “To whom do you think that letter was written?”
“To you, undoubtedly, Mr. Secretary. Possibly my information may have given him the clew he needed to verify certain suspicions. You were in the West, he wanted to get the news to you without further delay, and the only thing he could do was to write or wire.”
“Or telephone,” supplemented the secretary; then, as Douglas' face brightened, he added, “Unfortunately for your theory, Senator Carew did none of those things.”
“You mean——?”
“That I have never received a letter, a telegram, or a telephone from him while I was away.”
“He may still have written a message and have been killed before he could get it off to you.”
“Has such a letter been found by Brett?”
“No, sir; nor any trace of it. So far, he has been unable to find out whether such a letter was seen or posted by any member of the senator's household. All he has to go on is the blotter.”
“Why did you not go at once to see Senator Carew when you arrived in Washington?”
“Because my cousin, Captain Taylor, who met me at the Union Station, gave me a note from Senator Carew asking me to call on him at nine o'clock Tuesday morning at his residence.”
“How did the senator know where a note would reach you?”
“He inclosed it in a note to my cousin asking him to see that it was delivered to me at once on my arrival.”
“Has it occurred to you that Senator Carew's missing letter, which Brett is so anxious to find, may have been addressed to you?”
“I never thought of that!” exclaimed Douglas, “I was so thoroughly convinced that he had tried to communicate with you.”
“I would inquire about your mail if I were you, Mr. Hunter.”
“I will do so at once.”
Douglas half rose.
“No, no, sit down.” The secretary waited until Douglas had resumed his seat. “Where are you stopping?”
“At the Albany.”
“You have brought me very serious news, Mr. Hunter. So serious that I must insist on some verification of your statements about Japan before you leave me.”
Douglas took from a cleverly concealed pocket in the lining of his coat a number of sheets of rice paper and handed them to the secretary, who studied the closely written papers long and intently. Suddenly he pulled open a desk drawer and took out his strong box.
“I will keep these papers, Mr. Hunter, for future reference,” he announced, unlocking the box and placing the rice papers in it. Then, with equal care, he replaced the box in the drawer, which he locked securely. “We must go slowly in this matter. A slip on our part, and two great nations may become involved in a needless and bloody war.”
“I realize the gravity of the situation, Mr. Secretary, and have come to you for advice in the matter.”
“Good! I depend on you not to mention our conversation to any one, nor do I think it wise to acquaint Brett at this time with your suspicions in regard to the motive for Senator Carew's murder. With all good intentions Brett might blunder and cause international complications.”
Douglas stroked his clean-shaven chin reflectively for a moment.
“Don't you think, Mr. Secretary, that there is danger of being too secretive, and that the guilty party may slip through our fingers?”
“It is a risk which we will have to take. Frankly, I think you and Brett are equal to the situation.” The secretary glanced at his watch. “Have you any engagement just now, Mr. Hunter?”
“No, sir. My time is at your disposal.”
The secretary reached up and touched the electric buzzer hanging above his desk, and in a few seconds his stenographer appeared from another room.
“Jones, call up Secretary Wyndham and ask if he can see me.” As the clerk disappeared to execute his order, he turned back to Douglas. “There are certain charts of the Pacific that I wish you to see; they have been made recently. Well, Jones?” as the clerk reëntered his office.
“Secretary Wyndham is expecting you, sir.”
“Thanks. Now, Mr. Hunter, get your hat, and we will go to the navy department.”

### Chapter IX.
#### The Theft.

THE secretary of state and Douglas hastened through the wide corridors of the immense State, War, and Navy Building. As they passed an elevator shaft in the navy wing, Douglas caught a fleeting glimpse of Eleanor Thornton in one of the lifts as it shot downward toward the ground floor. On their arrival they were ushered at once into Secretary Wyndham's private office.
“Glad to see you,” exclaimed Wyndham, “your call is most opportune.”
He stopped on seeing Douglas standing behind the secretary of state, and his eyebrows went up questioningly.
“This is Mr. Douglas Hunter, attaché of the American Embassy at Tokyo, Wyndham,” explained the secretary of state.
“How are you, sir.” The secretary of the navy shook hands brusquely. “Will you both be seated?”
“I brought Mr. Hunter with me that he might tell you of certain information which he gathered in Japan about some prospective movements of their navy.”
He glanced significantly at Douglas, who nodded understandingly, and without more words gave a clear, concise statement of naval affairs in Japan, omitting all mention of other matters.
Secretary Wyndham listened to his remarks with the closest attention. When he ceased speaking Wyndham sprang from his chair and, walking over to the adjoining room, spoke to his confidential clerk, then closed the door and returned.
“I have told him to admit no one,” he explained briefly, as he seated himself in his swivel chair.
“May we see the new charts of the Pacific?” inquired the secretary of state.
“Certainly; but first I must tell you of a remarkable occurrence that took place here earlier this morning.” A violent fit of coughing interrupted Wyndham, and it was some minutes before he could speak clearly. “Ah!” he gasped, tilting back in his chair and mopping his flushed face. “A spring cold is almost impossible to cure.”
“Whose engagement?” asked a quiet voice behind the pair.
“I don't think yours will be improved if you continue to sit in a direct draft,” remonstrated the secretary of state, pointing to the open windows.
“I had to have air. By George, man, if you had been through what I have this morning——”
He did not complete his sentence.
“What happened?” asked the secretary of state, with growing interest.
“The plans of the two new dreadnaughts have been stolen.”
“Impossible!” The secretary of state half started from his chair.
“Impossible? Well, I'd have said the same five hours ago,” dryly.
“Were they stolen from this office?” asked Douglas.
“Yes; and not only from this office, but under my very eyes.”
“How?”
“To give you both a clear idea, I must go into details,” Wyndham drew his chair up closer and lowered his voice. “About twelve o'clock my private secretary brought me word that a man wished to see me personally. Of course, I have daily callers, all of whom wish to see me personally, and usually my secretary takes care of them. This particular caller refused to give his name and said he would explain his business to me alone. I thought he was simply a harmless crank, and told my secretary to get rid of him as soon as possible.” Wyndham sighed. “In a few minutes my secretary was back in the office, saying that the stranger had a message for me from Senator Carew.”
“A written message?” asked the secretary of state.
“No, a verbal one. With everyone else in Washington, I have taken great interest in the terrible murder of my old friend. The man's statement aroused my interest, and, having a few minutes of leisure, I told my secretary to show him in.”
“What did he look like?”
“A tall, dark chap. His hair and beard were black, and he had the bluest eyes I've ever seen in human head.”
“Was he well dressed?”
“No; his clothes were shabby, but fairly neat. He looked as if he had spruced up for the occasion. I can't say I was prepossessed in his favor by his appearance.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“No.”
“Do you think he was an American?” put in Douglas.
“It's hard to say. At first I sized him up as being a Spaniard.”
“Didn't you ask his name?” again inquired the secretary of state impatiently.
“I did, and his errand. He ignored my first question, and in answer to the second, said that he had come to examine some records. I informed him that he had come to the wrong office, and that my clerk would direct him to the proper room. He then made the astounding statement that he had an appointment to meet Senator Carew here in this office at twelve o'clock. I was taken completely by surprise by the man's statement and asked: 'What day did you expect to meet Senator Carew here?'
“'This morning, at twelve o'clock,' he answered, and then added, 'He is late.'
“Thinking the man a little daft or drunk, though I could detect no sign of liquor, I said abruptly, 'A likely tale! Senator Carew is dead.'
“'Dead!' he shouted, springing out of his chair.
“'Yes, dead—murdered last Monday night.'
“I hadn't anticipated giving him such a shock, or I would have broken the news more gently. The effect on my visitor was appalling. He collapsed on the floor in a fit. The electric bells in this office are out of order, and, although I shouted for help, no one heard me. I sprang out of my chair, undid the man's necktie and collar, threw the contents of my ice pitcher in his face, and then bolted into the other room to get assistance. Most of the clerks had gone out to their lunch. I called two men who happened to be eating their lunch in an adjoining room, and we hastened back here, only to find my strange visitor gone!”
“Gone!” ejaculated the secretary of state.
“Vanished. The only sign of his presence was the spilled ice water on the floor, and that chair overturned,” pointing to the one Douglas was occupying.
“Did no one see him slip out of the door into the hall?” asked Douglas.
“No. Unfortunately, the messenger, who sits near my door, had gone into the room across the corridor. The man made a quick get-away, and luck broke with him, for no one noticed him leaving the building.”
“How do you know he isn't hiding somewhere?” inquired Douglas.
“If he is, he will be captured, for Chief Connor and a number of secret service men are searching the building.”
“When did you discover the plans of the battleships were missing?”
Wyndham swore softly.
“That's the devilish part of it,” he said bitterly. “As soon as I realized the man had really run away I glanced over my papers. Everything seemed to be all right. I pulled open this drawer,” opening it as he spoke, “and saw these blue prints lying exactly as I had placed them under this folded newspaper. I slammed the drawer shut, thinking my strange visitor was simply a harmless lunatic, who had probably read about Carew's death until he became obsessed with the subject, and dismissed the matter from my mind.”
“Was this drawer locked when your strange visitor was admitted?”
“No.”
“Then any one might have stolen the papers,” exclaimed the secretary of state in surprise.
Wyndham reddened.
“No, they could not. The only time I've been out of this room was when I ran out looking for aid for that miserable scoundrel. That is the only chance there has been to steal the papers.”
“You think, then,” began Douglas, checking his remarks off on his fingers, “first, that the whole thing was a plot; that the man used Senator Carew's name to arouse your interest or curiosity; that he faked a fit, and in your absence removed the plans and substituted false blue prints, taking a chance that you would simply look to see that everything was safe in your drawer and not examine further, and then made his escape.”
“You've hit it exactly,” acknowledged Wyndham. “Those were the conclusions reached by Chief Connor, also.”
“It was no irresponsible person who committed that theft,” declared the secretary of state thoughtfully. “It was a well-laid plan, neatly carried out. How long have the papers been in your possession, Wyndham?”
“They were sent here yesterday for my inspection. There has been a leak here somewhere, damn it!” Wyndham set his bulldog jaw. “I'll trace it to the bottom, and when I find out——”
He clenched his fists menacingly.
“What callers did you see besides the Spaniard?” asked Douglas.
“Let me see—the usual run—several office seekers, a number of naval officers—— Oh, yes, my wife came in with Colonel Thornton and his niece, Miss Eleanor Thornton.”
“Before or after the Spaniard had been here?” questioned Douglas swiftly.
“Shortly afterward. They came in about a quarter of one and did not stay long.”
“After you had discovered the loss of the plans?”
“No, before. I only discovered their loss three-quarters of an hour ago.”
“How long were your wife and her friends in this office?” inquired Douglas persistently.
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Then how does it happen that I saw Miss Eleanor Thornton descending in one of the elevators when the secretary and I were on our way to this office to see you?”
“Oh, Miss Eleanor told me that she was going to the library to look up the records of some of her ancestors, as she wishes to join the Colonial Dames. I think she has been up there ever since. My wife and Colonel Thornton left together without waiting for her.”
“You are absolutely certain, Wyndham, that you haven't been out of this office except on that one occasion?” asked the secretary of state for the second time.
“I will take my Bible oath on it,” exclaimed Wyndham solemnly.
The three men gazed at each other in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. The secretary of state was the first to recover himself.
“Have you had your lunch, Wyndham?” he inquired.
The latter shook his head.
“I've lost my appetite,” he growled.
The secretary of state rose and placed his hand on the broad shoulder of the younger man.
“Don't take it so much to heart, Wyndham,” he said kindly. “We'll get at the bottom of this tangle before long. We'll all stand by and help you, and, remember, Chief Connor is a host in himself.”
“Thanks.” Wyndham straightened his bent shoulders; his face was set and his eyes snapped as the spirit of the born fighter returned. “I'll move Heaven and earth until I catch that Spaniard. Must you both be going?”
“Yes.” The secretary of state answered for Douglas as well as for himself. “We have detained you quite long enough. Let me know immediately of any new developments.”
“I will. Mr. Hunter, it's been a pleasure to meet you, although I am afraid the information you have given me, considered with the loss of the plans of the new battleships, complicates the situation. Good-by; come and see me again.” And the big door swung shut.
Halfway down the corridor the secretary of state paused and regarded Douglas seriously.
“Talk of complicated situations!” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead, then started with sudden resolution. “Come on, Hunter, I'm going over to the White House. A talk with the president may clear my brain. Wyndham may have lost his appetite, but he's given us food for thought.”

### Chapter X.
#### Over the Teacups.

Cynthia turned a flushed and tear-stained face toward Eleanor, as the latter entered the boudoir and approached her couch.
“Is it all over?” she asked, choking back a sob.
“Yes.” Eleanor lifted her black crape veil, and, pulling out the hatpins, removed her hat and handed it to Annette, who had followed her into the room. “Take my coat, too, Annette,” she directed. “Then you need not wait.” As the servant left the room she pulled a low rocking-chair up to the couch on which Cynthia was lying, and placed her hand gently on the weeping girl's shoulder. “Are you feeling better, dear?”
“A little better.” Cynthia wiped her eyes with a dry handkerchief that Annette had placed on her couch some moments before. “Oh, Eleanor, I am so bitterly ashamed of the scene I made downstairs.”
“You need not be.” Eleanor stroked the curly, fair hair back from Cynthia's hot forehead with loving fingers. “It was a very painful scene, and Dr. Wallace's tribute to Senator Carew, while beautiful, was harrowing. I am not surprised you fainted, dear.”
“Aunt Charlotte didn't, and she was so devoted to Uncle James.”
“Mrs. Winthrop had not been through your terrible experiences of Monday night. Consequently, she had the strength to bear to-day's ordeal.”
“Was it very dreadful at the cemetery?”
“No, dear. The services at the grave were very simple, and, as the funeral was private, it attracted no morbid spectators.”
“Did any one accompany you?”
“Just the handful of people who were here for the house services.”
“Where is Aunt Charlotte?”
“She went to her room to lie down.”
Cynthia raised herself on her elbow and glanced searchingly about the pretty sitting-room filled with its bird's-eye-maple furniture. The yellow wall paper, with its wide border of pink roses, the chintz curtains, and hangings to match, cast a soft, yellow glow that was exceedingly becoming, as well as restful to the eye. The afternoon sunshine came through the long French windows which overlooked a broad alley.
“Eleanor, would you mind closing the door of my bedroom,” she asked. “And please first see that—that Blanche isn't sitting there sewing.”
Eleanor glanced curiously at Cynthia as she rose, crossed to the adjoining bedroom, and softly closed the door.
“There is no one in your room,” she reported, on her return to her rocking-chair.
Cynthia settled back among her pillows with an air of satisfaction.
“At last I have you to myself. First the trained nurse, whom I didn't need, and then Aunt Charlotte, have always been hanging around, and I haven't had a chance to ask you any questions.”
“What is it you wish to know?”
“Was there—was there—an autopsy?” Noting Eleanor's expression, she exclaimed hastily: “Now, Eleanor dear, don't say I must not talk of Uncle James' death. The nurse wouldn't answer me when I spoke on the subject; said I must not think of the tragedy; that it was bad for me. Such nonsense! I would have asked Aunt Charlotte, but she's been so queer lately, not in the least like her own dear self.”
“Mrs. Winthrop is living under such great strain these days, Cynthia, it's not surprising. Her brother dead—Philip very ill——”
“They told me he was better,” hastily jerked out Cynthia, with a startled look in her big brown eyes.
“He is, now.” Eleanor hesitated. “The doctor at first thought he might develop brain fever, but I am told all danger of that is past.”
“What is the matter with him?” persisted Cynthia. “I asked the nurse what the trouble was, but she never told me. Was his attack also caused by the shock of Uncle James' death?”
“Yes, from shock,” answered Eleanor, mechanically. “You must not blame your aunt if her manner is distrait. She is a very reserved woman and dreads, above all things, letting herself go and breaking down.”
“Oh, I hope she will keep well! She has been so unhappy. I can't bear to think of her suffering more, but”—she laid her hand pleadingly on Eleanor's arm—“you haven't answered my question about the autopsy.”
“Yes, they held one.”
“And what was discovered?” eagerly.
“That Senator Carew was perfectly well physically, and that his death was caused by a stab from the sharp-pointed letter file.”
Cynthia suddenly covered her eyes with her hand, and lay for some minutes without speaking.
“Is Hamilton still in jail?” she questioned finally.
“Yes, he is being held for the inquest.”
“Inquest?” Cynthia glanced up, startled. “I thought the inquest was over.”
“No, it hasn't been held yet.”
“But Uncle James was buried to-day.”
“The funeral could not be postponed, Cynthia. The doctors who performed the autopsy will testify at the inquest.”
“But I thought it was always necessary to hold the inquest after a violent death.”
“It is usually; but in this case the inquest was postponed because you and Philip, two of the most important witnesses, were too ill to attend it.”
Cynthia closed and unclosed her tapering fingers over her handkerchief spasmodically.
“Are the detectives still hanging around the house?” she inquired.
“Yes.”
“It's shameful!” announced Cynthia, sitting upright. “To allow those men to intrude on our grief and privacy! They have arrested Hamilton for the crime, and should leave us alone.”
“They do not think Hamilton guilty.”
“Whom—whom—do they suspect?” The question seemed forced from her.
“Mr. Brett hasn't confided in me.”
“Mr. Brett?”
“He's the detective in charge of the case.”
“Oh, is he the tall, fine-looking man I saw talking to Joshua in the hall yesterday morning?”
“No, that was probably Douglas Hunter.”
“Douglas Hunter? Not the Douglas Hunter of the diplomatic corps, whom Uncle James was forever talking about?”
“The same. Do you know him?”
“No; he has always been absent from Washington when I've been in the city. What is he doing here now?”
“Trying to help Mr. Brett solve the mystery of Senator Carew's death.”
“Good Heavens! What earthly business is it of his?”
“Don't ask me.” Eleanor's usually tranquil voice was a trifle sharp. “I suppose he is hoping to win the reward offered by Mrs. Winthrop.”
“Reward?”
Cynthia's voice rose, and drowned the sound of a faint knock at the hall door.
“Yes. Your aunt announced that she would give five thousand dollars to any one who could solve the mystery.” Cynthia was listening with absorbed attention to Eleanor, and neither noticed that the hall door was pushed open a few inches, then softly closed. “Uncle Dana told her that that was too much to offer, and she reduced the sum to one thousand dollars, with the proviso that it should be increased if the first offer brought no result.”
Cynthia sighed deeply.
“Why—why did she do it?” she cried passionately. “She must be mad!”
Eleanor glanced at her companion in astonishment.
“Cynthia, you must not excite yourself,” she remonstrated firmly. “Otherwise, I shall leave you.”
Cynthia reached out and clutched her arm.
“Don't go,” she entreated. “I must——” Her words were interrupted by a sharp rap on the hall door. “Come in!”
In response Annette opened the door.
“Pardon, mademoiselle, but it is five o'clock, and I thought you might like your tea.”
“Capital, Annette!” exclaimed Eleanor, as the maid entered carrying a tray. “Wait a moment, and I will get that small table.”
Deftly she removed the books and magazines, and then carried the table over to the couch. Annette put a tray laden with tempting sandwiches, small cakes, the teapot, and its accessories, on the table, then bent over and arranged Cynthia's pillows at her back with practiced hand.
“Mademoiselle is more comfortable, n'est-ce pas?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, indeed, Annette,” Cynthia nodded gratefully at the Frenchwoman.
“Have you everything you wish, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”
“Yes, Annette, thank you. If I want anything more I will ring.”
“Be sure and close the door, Annette,” directed Cynthia, “I am afraid of a draft.”
And she looked around until she saw her order obeyed.
“Have a sandwich?” asked Eleanor, handing the dish and a plate to Cynthia.
“I'd rather eat good sandwiches than solid food,” announced Cynthia, after a pause, helping herself to another portion.
“Solid?” echoed Eleanor. “I call pâté de foie gras and deviled ham pretty solid eating, Cynthia; especially when taken in bulk,” glancing quizzically at the rapidly diminishing pile.
“Don't begrudge me these crumbs.” Cynthia's smile was followed by a sigh. “I've lived on slops for three days. Why are you giving me such weak tea, Eleanor? I loathe it made that way.”
“I am afraid to make it stronger, Cynthia; it will keep you awake.”
“I don't want to sleep; I'd give anything not to sleep!”
“Why, Cynthia?”
“If I could really sleep—drop into oblivion—I would like it, but instead I dream, and, oh, God, I fear my dream!”
Eleanor laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“Lie down,” she commanded, “and compose yourself.”
Cynthia lay back on her pillows, panting a little from her exertion, the color coming and going in her winsome face.
“I would give anything, Eleanor, if I had your tranquil disposition,” she said, more quietly. “I cannot help my temperament. My mother was Scotch to the finger tips, and, I have been told, had the gift of second-sight—although I sometimes doubt if such a thing is a gift.”
“Perhaps I can understand better than you think,” said Eleanor gently. “My mother was Irish, and the Irish, you know, are just as great believers in the supernatural as the Scotch.”
“You always understand,” Cynthia bent forward and kissed her friend warmly. “That's why you are such a comfort. Let me tell you why I am so nervous and unstrung. Since a little child I have been obsessed by one dream. It is always the same, and always precedes disaster.” She sighed drearily. “I had it just before my grandmother's death, then before my uncle, Mr. Winthrop, killed himself—and on Sunday night I had it again.”
“What is your dream?”
“It is this way: I may be sleeping soundly, when suddenly I see a door—a door which stands out vividly in a shadowy space, which might be a room, or hallway. The door is white and the panels are in the shape of a cross—so” illustrating her meaning with her arms. “I hear a cry—the cry of a soul in torment—I rush to the rescue, always to find the door locked, and wake myself beating on the empty air.” She shuddered as she spoke, and drew her kimono closer about her. “I awake cold, and trembling from head to foot.”
“You poor darling.”
Eleanor took the limp form in her arms with a gesture of infinite understanding and compassion.
“I had the dream Sunday night,” sobbed Cynthia. “Then Monday, when I thought we could announce our engagement——”
“Whose engagement?” asked a quiet voice behind the pair.
Startled, Eleanor wheeled around to find Mrs. Winthrop standing behind her, as Cynthia slipped from her arms and buried her head in the friendly cushions, her slender form shaking with convulsive sobs.
The mystery surrounding the death of Senator Carew becomes more intense, and several new clews are discovered in the installment of “The Man Inside” which will appear in the March number, on the news stands February 5th.