by Unknown
“Where is the paper that was taken from Senor Alvarez immediately after he was shot?” Mr. Grimm queried.
“I don’t know,” she replied frankly.
“As I understand it, then, the motive for the shooting was to obtain possession of that paper? For your government?”
“The individual who shot Senor Alvarez did obtain the paper, yes. And now, please, am I to be arrested?”
“And just what was the purpose, may I inquire, of the message you telegraphed with your fan in the ball-room?”
“You read that?” exclaimed Miss Thorne in mock astonishment. “You read that?”
“And the man who read that message? Perhaps he shot the senor?”
“Perhaps,” she taunted.
For a long time Mr. Grimm stood staring at her, staring, staring. She, too, rose, and faced him quietly.
“Am I to be arrested?” she asked again.
“Why do you make me do it?” he demanded.
“That is my affair.”
Mr. Grimm laid a hand upon her arm, a hand that had never known nervousness. A moment longer he stared, and then:
“Madam, you are my prisoner for the attempted murder of Senor Alvarez!”
The rings on the portieres behind him clicked sharply, and the draperies parted. Mr. Grimm stood motionless, with his hand on Miss Thorne’s arm.
“You were inquiring a moment ago for a revolver,” came in a man’s voice. “Here it is!”
Mr. Grimm found himself inspecting the weapon from the barrel end. After a moment his glance shifted to the blazing eyes of the man who held it—a young man, rather slight, with clean-cut, aristocratic features, and of the pronounced Italian type.
[Illustration: He found himself inspecting the weapon from the barrel end.]
“My God!” The words came from Miss Thorne’s lips almost in a scream. “Don’t—!”
“I did make some inquiries about a revolver, yes,” Mr. Grimm interrupted quietly. “Is this the one?”
He raised his hand quite casually, and his fingers closed like steel around the weapon. Behind his back Miss Thorne made some quick emphatic gesture, and the new-comer released the revolver.
“I shall ask you, please, to free Miss Thorne,” he requested courteously. “I shot Senor Alvarez. I, too, am a secret agent of the Italian government, willing and able to defend myself. Miss Thorne has told you the truth; she had nothing whatever to do with it. She took the weapon and escaped because it was mine. Here is the paper that was taken from Senor Alvarez,” and he offered a sealed envelope. “I have read it; it is not what I expected. You may return it to Senor Alvarez with my compliments.”
After a moment Mr. Grimm’s hand fell away from Miss Thorne’s arm, and he regarded the new-comer with an interest in which admiration, even, played a part.
“Your name?” he asked finally.
“Pietro Petrozinni,” was the ready reply. “As I say, I accept all responsibility.”
A few minutes later Mr. Grimm and his prisoner passed out of the legation side by side, and strolled down the street together, in amicable conversation. Half an hour later Senor Alvarez identified Pietro Petrozinni as the man who shot him; and the maid servant expressed a belief that he was the man who slammed the door in her face.
VII
THE SIGNAL
“And the original question remains unanswered,” remarked Mr. Campbell.
“The original question?” repeated Mr. Grimm.
“Where is Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi, the secret envoy?” his chief reminded him.
“I wonder!” mused the young man.
“If the Latin compact is signed in the United States—?”
“The Latin compact will not be signed in the United States,” Mr. Grimm interrupted. And then, after a moment: “Have we received any further reports on Miss Thorne? I mean reports from our foreign agents?”
The chief shook his head.
“Inevitably, by some act or word, she will lead us to the prince,” declared Mr. Grimm, “and the moment he is known to us everything becomes plain sailing. We know she is a secret agent—I expected a denial, but she was quite frank about it. And I had no intention whatever of placing her under arrest. I knew some one was in the adjoining room because of a slight noise in there, and I knew she knew it. She raised her voice a little, obviously for the benefit of whoever was there. From that point everything I said and did was to compel that person, whoever it was, to show himself.”
His chief nodded, understandingly. Mr. Grimm was silent for a little, then went on:
“The last possibility in my mind at that moment,” he confessed, “was that the person in there was the man who shot Senor Alvarez. Frankly I had half an idea that—that it might be the prince in person.” Suddenly his mood changed: “And now our lady of mystery may come and go as she likes because I know, even if a dozen of our men have ransacked Washington in vain for the prince, she will inevitably lead us to him. And that reminds me: I should like to borrow Blair, and Hastings, and Johnson. Please plant them so they may keep constant watch on Miss Thorne. Let them report to you, and, wherever I am, I will reach you over the ‘phone.”
“By the way, what was in that sealed packet that was taken from Senor Alvarez?” Campbell inquired curiously.
“It had something to do with some railroad franchises,” responded Mr. Grimm as he rose. “I sealed it again and returned it to the senor. Evidently it was not what Signor Petrozinni expected to find—in fact, he admitted it wasn’t what he was looking for.”
For a little while the two men gazed thoughtfully, each into the eyes of the other, then Mr. Grimm entered his private office where he sat for an hour with his immaculate boots on his desk, thinking. A world-war—he had been thrust forward by his government to prevent it—subtle blue-gray eyes—his Highness, Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi—a haunting smile and scarlet lips.
At about the moment he rose to go out, Miss Thorne, closely veiled, left the Venezuelan legation and walked rapidly down the street to a corner, where, without a word, she entered a waiting automobile. The wheels spun and the car leaped forward. For a mile or more it wound aimlessly in and out, occasionally bisecting its own path; finally Miss Thorne leaned forward and touched the chauffeur on the arm.
“Now!” she said.
The car straightened out into a street of stately residences and scuttled along until the placid bosom of the Potomac came into view; beside that for a few minutes, then over the bridge to the Virginia side, in the dilapidated little city of Alexandria. The car did not slacken its speed, but wound in and out through dingy streets, past tumble-down negro huts, for half an hour before it came to a standstill in front of an old brick mansion.
“This is number ninety-seven,” the chauffeur announced.
Miss Thorne entered the house with a key and was gone for ten minutes, perhaps. She was readjusting her veil when she came out and stepped into the car silently. Again it moved forward, on to the end of the dingy street, and finally into the open country. Three, four, five miles, perhaps, out the old Baltimore Road, and again the car stopped, this time in front of an ancient colonial farmhouse.
Outwardly the place seemed to be deserted. The blinds, battered and stripped of paint by wind and rain, were all closed, and one corner of the small veranda had crumbled away from age and neglect. A narrow path, strewn with pine needles, led tortuously up to the door. In the rear of the house, rising from an old barn, a thin pole with a cup-like attachment at the apex, thrust its point into the open above the dense, odorous pines. It appeared to be a wireless mast. Miss Thorne passed around the house, and entered the barn.
A man came forward and kissed her—a thin, little man of indeterminate age—drying his hands on a piece of cotton waste. His face was pale with the pallor of one who knows little outdoor life, his eyes deep-set and a-glitter with some feverish inward fire, and the thin lips were pressed together in a sharp line. Behind him was a long bench on which were scattered tools of various so
rts, fantastically shaped chemical apparatus, two or three electric batteries of odd sizes, and ranged along one end of it, in a row, were a score or more metal spheroids, a shade larger than a one-pound shell. From somewhere in the rear came the clatter of a small gasoline engine, and still farther away was an electric dynamo.
“Is the test arranged, Rosa?” the little man queried eagerly in Italian.
“The date is not fixed yet,” she replied in the same language. “It will be, I hope, within the next two weeks. And then—”
“Fame and fortune for both of us,” he interrupted with quick enthusiasm. “Ah, Rosa, I have worked and waited so long for this, and now it will come, and with it the dominion of the world again by our country. How will I know when the date is fixed? It would not be well to write me here.”
My lady of mystery stroked the slender, nervous hand caressingly, and a great affection shone in the blue-gray eyes.
“At eight o’clock on the night of the test,” she explained, still speaking Italian, “a single light will appear at the apex of the capitol dome in Washington. That is the signal agreed upon; it can be seen by all in the city, and is visible here from the window of your bedroom.”
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed. The feverish glitter in his eyes deepened.
“If there is a fog, of course you will not attempt the test,” she went on.
“No, not in a fog,” he put in quickly. “It must be clear.”
“And if it is clear you can see the light in the dome without difficulty.”
“And all your plans are working out well?”
“Yes. And yours?”
“I don’t think there is any question but that both England and the United States will buy. Do you know what it means? Do you know what it means?” He was silent a moment, his hands working nervously. Then, with an effort: “And his Highness?”
“His Highness is safe.” The subtle eyes grew misty, thoughtful for a moment, then cleared again. “He is safe,” she repeated.
“Mexico and Venezuela were—?” he began.
“We don’t know, yet, what they will do. The Venezuelan answer is locked in the safe at the legation; I will know what it is within forty-eight hours.” She was silent a little. “Our difficulty now, our greatest difficulty, is the hostility of the French ambassador to the compact. His government has not yet notified him of the presence of Prince d’Abruzzi; he does not believe in the feasibility of the plan, and we have to—to proceed to extremes to prevent him working against us.”
“But they must see the incalculable advantages to follow upon such a compact, with the vast power that will be given to them over the whole earth by this.” He indicated the long, littered work-table. “They must see it.”
“They will see it, Luigi,” said Miss Thorne gently. “And now, how are you? Are you well? Are you comfortable? It’s such a dreary old place here.”
“I suppose so,” he replied, and he met the solicitous blue-gray eyes for an instant. “Yes, I am quite comfortable,” he added. “I have no time to be otherwise with all the work I must do. It will mean so much!”
They were both silent for a time. Finally Miss Thorne walked over to the long table and curiously lifted one of the spheroids. It was a sinister looking thing, nickeled, glittering. At one end of it was a delicate, vibratory apparatus, not unlike the transmitter of a telephone, and the other end was threaded, as if the spheroid was made as an attachment to some other device.
“With that we control the world!” exclaimed the man triumphantly. “And it’s mine, Rosa, mine!”
“It’s wonderful!” she mused softly. “Wonderful! And now I must go. I may not see you again until after the test, because I shall be watched and followed wherever I go. If I get an opportunity I shall reach you by telephone, but not even that unless it is necessary. There is always danger, always danger!” she repeated thoughtfully. She was thinking of Mr. Grimm.
“I understand,” said the man simply.
“And look out for the signal—the light in the apex of the capitol dome,” she went on. “I understand the night must be perfectly clear; and you understand that the test is to be made promptly at three o’clock by your chronometer?”
“At three o’clock,” he repeated.
For a moment they stood with their arms around each other, then tenderly his visitor kissed him, and went out. He remained looking after her vacantly until the chug-chug of her automobile, as it moved off down the road, was lost in the distance, then turned again to the long work-table.
VIII
MISS THORNE AND NOT MISS THORNE
From a pleasant, wide-open bay-window of her apartments on the second floor, Miss Thorne looked out upon the avenue with inscrutable eyes. Behind the closely drawn shutters of another bay-window, farther down the avenue, on the corner, she knew a man named Hastings was hiding; she knew that for an hour or more he had been watching her as she wrote. In the other direction, in a house near the corner, another man named Blair was similarly ensconced, and he, too, had been watching as she wrote. There should be a third man, Johnson. Miss Thorne curiously studied the face of each passer-by, seeking therein something to remember.
She sat at the little mahogany desk and a note with the ink yet wet upon it lay face up before her. It was addressed to Signor Pietro Petrozinni in the district prison, and read:
“My Dear Friend:
“I have been waiting to write you with the hope that I could report Senor Alvarez out of danger, but his condition, I regret to say, remains unchanged. Shall I send an attorney to you? Would you like a book of any kind? Or some delicacy sent in from a restaurant? Can I be of any service to you in any way? If I can please drop me a line.
“Sincerely,
“Isabel Thorne.”
At last she rose and standing in the window read the note over, folded it, placed it in an envelope and sealed it. A maid came in answer to her ring, and there at the window, under the watchful eyes of Blair and Hastings—and, perhaps, Johnson—she handed the note to the maid with instructions to mail it immediately. Two minutes later she saw the maid go out along the avenue to a post-box on the corner.
Then she drew back into the shadow of the room, slipped on a dark-colored wrap, and, standing away from the window, safe beyond the reach of prying eyes, waited patiently for the postman. He appeared about five o’clock and simultaneously another man turned the corner near the post-box and spoke to him. Then, together, they disappeared from view around the corner.
“So that’s Johnson, is it?” mused Miss Thorne, and she smiled a little. “Mr. Grimm certainly pays me the compliment of having me carefully watched.”
A few minutes later she dropped into the seat at the desk again. The dark wrap had been thrown aside and Hastings and Blair from their hiding-places could see her distinctly. After a while they saw her rise quickly, as an automobile turned into the avenue, and lean toward the window eagerly looking out. The car came to a standstill in front of the legation, and Mr. Cadwallader, an undersecretary of the British embassy, who was alone in the car, raised his cap. She nodded and smiled, then disappeared in the shadows of the room again.
Mr. Cadwallader went to the door, spoke to the servant there, then returned and busied himself about the car. Hastings and Blair watched intently both the door and the window for a long time; finally a closely veiled and muffled figure appeared at the bay-window, and waved a gloved hand at Mr. Cadwallader, who again lifted his cap. A minute later the veiled woman came out of the front door, shook hands with Mr. Cadwallader, and got in the car. He also climbed in, and the car moved slowly away.
Simultaneously the front door of the house on the corner, where Hastings had been hiding, and the front door of the house near the corner, where Blair had been hiding, opened and two heads peered out. As the car approached Hastings’ hiding-place he withdrew into the hallway; but Blair came out and hurried past the legation in the direction of the rapidly disappearing motor. Hastings joined him; they spoke together, then turned
the corner.
It was about ten o’clock that night when Hastings reported to Mr. Campbell at his home.
“We followed the car in a rented automobile from the time it turned the corner, out through Alexandria, and along the old Baltimore Road into the city of Baltimore,” he explained. “It was dark by the time we reached Alexandria, but we stuck to the car ahead, running without lights until we came in sight of Druid Hill Park, and then we had to show lights or be held up. We covered those forty miles going in less than two hours.
“After the car passed Druid Hill it slowed up a little, and ran off the turnpike into North Avenue, then into North Charles Street, and slowly along that as if they were looking for a number. At last it stopped and Miss Thorne got out and entered a house. She was gone for more than half an hour, leaving Mr. Cadwallader with the car. While she was gone I made some inquiries and learned that the house was occupied by a Mr. Thomas Q. Griswold. I don’t know anything else about him; Blair may have learned something.
“Now comes the curious part of it,” and Hastings looked a little sheepish. “When Miss Thorne came out of the house she was not Miss Thorne at all—_she was Senorita Inez Rodriguez_, daughter of the Venezuelan minister. She wore the same clothing Miss Thorne had worn going, but her veil was lifted. Veiled and all muffled up one would have taken oath it was the same woman. She and Cadwallader are back in Washington now, or are coming. That’s all, except Blair is still in Baltimore, awaiting orders. I caught the train from the Charles Street station and came back. Johnson, you know—”
“Yes, I’ve seen Johnson,” interrupted Campbell. “Are you absolutely positive that the woman you saw get into the automobile with Mr. Cadwallader was Miss Thorne?”
“Absolutely,” replied Hastings without hesitation. “I saw her in her own room with her wraps on, then saw her come down and get into the car.”
