I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “No,” curtly.

  “I thought not, sir. They never part with their photographs in there, sir. But there’s an extra one in Mr. Whitney’s library, sir, which I could … could.…” he stopped abruptly as he met Miller’s gaze.

  After a pause Miller slipped his hand into his pocket and on pulling it out disclosed a gold coin lying in his bare palm. “I see you are amenable to reason, Henry,” he said serenely, and the chauffeur stammered his thanks.

  Chapter VII.

  Phantom Wires

  Sinclair Spencer walked up and down the Whitney drawing-room examining the costly bric-a-brac, totally blind to the merits of each piece and in several instances replacing them with entire disregard as to whether they rested on the edge, or on firm foundation. His occupation was interrupted by the return of Vincent, the butler.

  “Miss Kathleen is not at home, sir,” he announced.

  “Quite certain, Vincent?” holding out a treasury bill with a persuasive gesture.

  “Quite, sir.” Vincent looked offended, but slipped the large tip in his pocket with inward satisfaction. He saw Spencer’s crestfallen appearance and thawed. “Julie, the maid, says Miss Kathleen hasn’t returned from the Red Cross meeting, sir, but that she’s liable to come in ‘most any time.”

  “Well, perhaps—is Mr. Whitney at home?”

  “Yes, sir; but I dassent interrupt him, sir. He’s working in his studio.”

  “Then I’ll wait here for a time, at least. Don’t wait, Vincent”

  “Very good, sir.” But Vincent paused irresolutely. His conscience was reproaching him. Miss Kathleen’s orders had been very explicit; if Mr. Spencer called to see her father, well and good; if he came to see her, he was not to be admitted.

  For six weeks the seesaw had kept up, and Vincent had grown weary of answering the door for Spencer. He had been an almost daily caller, occasionally admitted when Winslow Whitney was downstairs, and always a visitor on Mrs. Winslow’s weekly day at home. But these latter visits had profited him nothing. Kathleen never gave him an opportunity to see her alone, and it was the same at dinners and dances to which they were both invited. Spencer had come there that morning fully determined to see Kathleen and, as he expressed it to himself, “have an understanding with her.” Having for once gotten by Vincent’s relaxed guard, wild horses would not have dragged him away.

  Vincent’s harassed expression altered to one of relief as he heard the front doorbell sound, but his feelings underwent a change when he saw Kathleen standing in the vestibule instead of Mrs. Whitney, who had announced that she would return early as she was walking and not using the limousine.

  “Any mail for me in the noon delivery?” asked Kathleen, and her smile faded at the butler’s negative reply. Why did her letters to England remain unanswered? John Hargraves was the promptest of correspondents, and the question she had asked him required an answer. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she was about to enter the elevator totally oblivious to Vincent’s agitated manner. As she placed her hand on the elevator door, Sinclair Spencer walked into the hall.

  “How are you?” he said, his off-hand salutation concealing much tribulation of spirit. Vincent caught one glimpse of Kathleen’s face and discreetly vanished.

  “Do you wish to see my father, Mr. Spencer?” asked Kathleen, utterly ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “No. I came expressly to see you,” and his air of dogged determination was not to be mistaken. Kathleen came to a sudden decision.

  “Suppose we go into the drawing-room,” she suggested. “I can spare you a few minutes.” But once in the room she did not sit down. “Why do you wish to see me, Mr. Spencer?”

  “To ask you to marry me.” Sinclair’s usually florid face was white, and his customary self-assurance had departed.

  “I thank you for the compliment,” with icy politeness, “but I must decline your proposal.”

  “You—you refuse?” Spencer spoke as in a dream.

  “Yes. Surely, Mr. Spencer, you cannot have expected any other answer—cannot have deluded yourself into thinking that I could possibly accept you? I have tried in every means within my power to discourage your attentions.”

  “But why?” Spencer’s air castles were tumbling about his ears, but he stuck to his guns. His affection for Kathleen, fanned by her indifference, had become all-absorbing. Courted and flattered by mothers with marriageable daughters, he had come to believe that he had but to speak to win Kathleen.

  “Why discuss the matter further?” asked Kathleen. She heartily wished the scene over; it had not been of her seeking. To wantonly hurt another’s feelings was alien to her nature, and that Spencer was suffering his demeanor betrayed.

  “I must.” Spencer came a step nearer. “Tell me why you refuse me.”

  “Your habits …”

  “I haven’t touched a drop of wine since that dinner at Chevy Chase,” triumphantly. “And if you don’t approve, I’ll not take another drink as long as I live.”

  “I certainly think it would be better for you to stick to that resolution.” Kathleen moved toward the hall door. “I really do not see any object in prolonging this discussion.”

  “But I do,” following her. “I have perhaps startled you by my abrupt manner. I do love you, Kathleen”—his voice shook—“love you better than anybody. I know that I can make you care for me. I have money …”

  “That makes no difference.”

  “With you, perhaps not,” but Spencer looked dubious. “I swear never to touch wine again. I will gratify your every wish”—Kathleen shook her head, and he added heatedly, “What is there about me you don’t like?”

  “I—I cannot tell—” Kathleen edged toward the door. “It’s a case of ‘Dr. Fell.’”

  “Fell?” Spencer turned red, his self-esteem pricked at last. “Is that another name for Captain Miller?” with insolent significance.

  Kathleen stepped back as if struck. “I think it time to end this conversation,” she said, but her remark received no attention.

  “I see it all now,” muttered Spencer. “Captain Miller has won your affection.”

  “He has not.” The contradiction slipped from Kathleen with more vehemence than she intended. Spencer brightened. In endeavoring to convince herself, she had thoroughly convinced him.

  “You are not engaged to him?” he asked eagerly.

  “Certainly not.” Kathleen crimsoned with indignation. How dared Sinclair Spencer catechise her! “I must insist that you leave. And, Mr. Spencer, please remember, I desire that you never again allude to your proposal of marriage.”

  “But I shall,” doggedly.

  “Then our acquaintance will cease.” Her manner even more than her words roused Spencer to sudden wrath.

  “No, it won’t,” he retorted. “And I will make you—understand—make you reconsider your refusal to marry me. Good morning,” and without a backward look he departed.

  Kathleen drew a long breath of relief as the front door closed behind him. “Thank God, he’s gone,” she said aloud, unconscious that her words were overheard. “He is insufferable. I cannot understand why father ever encouraged him to come to the house.”

  Rapid walking soon brought Spencer to the corner of Seventeenth and H Streets, and hailing a taxicab he gave the chauffeur an address on Nineteenth Street. Fifteen minutes later he was ushered into the presence of Baron Frederic von Fincke.

  “And how is the excellent Mr. Spencer this morning?” asked von Fincke genially, offering his guest a chair.

  Spencer, however, remained standing and disregarded the question as well as the chair.

  “Who is this fellow, Charles Miller?” he asked in his turn.

  Von Fincke laughed softly. “Consult your ‘Who’s Who,’ my dear friend; do not come to me, an outsider.”

  “You know why I come to you,” with pointed accentuation. “I am determined to find out Miller’s antecedents, and I am convinced you can tell me if you will.”

  Von F
incke shook his head. “You overrate my powers,” he insisted suavely. “I have met Captain Miller as one meets any visitor to this cosmopolitan city. My acquaintance extends no further than our meeting at Miss Grey’s dinner at the Chevy Chase Club six weeks ago.”

  Spencer paused in indecision; for the moment, the foreigner’s candid manner disarmed his doubts. “Quite sure you can’t find out about Miller?” he persisted.

  “I can but question my few friends in Washington; their information of Captain Miller may be of the vaguest. Why do you not apply to Senator Randall Foster? He and the Captain are what you call—inseparable.”

  “So they are, but I’m not going to Foster for anything.”

  “No?”

  “No!” The repetition was almost a roar. Spencer’s temper, always uncertain, had been severely tried that morning, and was rapidly giving way under the strain of bitter disappointment. “I ran up against Foster in those Senate lobby charges, and of all the cantankerous—” He paused expressively, then added, “I used to have a high regard for his sagacity and business judgment until he lost his head over that Grey woman. Because she don’t choose to be decently civil, he’s turned surly. You wait! I’ll bring them to time, and Kathleen Whitney also.”

  “Ah!”

  “You may ‘Ah!’ all you wish, but I am going to marry that girl, in spite of her refusal.”

  “And how is that to be accomplished if you have not the young lady’s consent?”

  Spencer thrust his hands deep into his pockets and faced von Fincke resolutely. “She idolizes her father; his word is law to her.”

  “And you have his consent to the match?”

  “Not yet, but I mean to get it; if necessary, by moral suasion.”

  “Gently, my dear Spencer, gently.” Von Fincke held up a warning hand. “Whitney must not be annoyed.”

  “Indeed?” Spencer eyed his companion suspiciously. “And why not?”

  “His invention.…”

  Spencer’s laugh was not pleasant. “How do you know it isn’t completed and patent applied for?”

  “Is that so?” Von Fincke walked over to his desk and seated himself. “Suppose we sit and talk.…”

  “No,” defiantly. “The time for talking has gone by. You know, I’ll bet my last cent that Whitney has patents pending in the United States Patent Office for his invention. All this waiting for him to finish his work is poppy-cock. Why are you protecting Whitney, unless he’s your tool?”

  “I won’t.” Spencer strode to the door. “I’ve done with your dirty work.…”

  “Tut! tut!” Von Fincke, who had been leaning back in his revolving chair, straightened up. “Your language, my dear friend, can be improved …”

  “And so can my knowledge,” significantly. “I’m going to investigate Whitney’s affairs and his house before I’m much older. Don’t bother to ring for a servant,” he added, seeing his host’s hand hovering over the electric desk bell, and not waiting for an answer, bolted from the room.

  Von Fincke’s hand descended on the electric bell button with imperative force, and rising he hastened into the hall. He paused at sight of his breathless valet ushering Spencer down the staircase. Not until he was thoroughly convinced that Spencer had left the house did he turn back from the head of the stairs.

  “He grows troublesome, that Spencer,” he mused as he made his way to his own suite of rooms.

  An hour later Captain Charles Miller turned in at the main entrance of his hotel and went directly to his room on the eighth floor. Humming softly to himself he hung up his overcoat and hat in the closet, and removing his coat placed that also on a hanger. Back once more in his bedroom, he carefully arranged the heavy draperies over his window so that his movements were completely screened, and taking a black silk muffler fastened it securely over the knob of the hall door. The window and door of his private bathroom were likewise draped. Finally satisfied that he was secure from observation and all sound deadened, Miller took from his overcoat pocket four porcelain castors, and dropping on his knees by the side of his brass bed, he deftly inserted them in place of the bed’s regular steel castors.

  Pausing long enough to clear the toilet articles from his bureau, he lifted from a box-shaped leather bag marked “Underwood” a Massie Rosonophone and deftly installed it on the bureau top. Taking a slight copper wire he attached it to one of the posts of the bed and connected it with the apparatus, making sure that the wire was suspended clear of the ground and surrounding objects. With another suspended wire he grounded the apparatus on the radiator.

  At last convinced that all was adjusted properly, Miller moved over to his desk and gazed intently at a large photograph of Kathleen Whitney. It was an occupation of which he never tired. The faint buzz of the alarm bell sent him back to the wireless apparatus, and slipping on his headpiece telephone he picked up his pencil. Listening intently to the dots and dashes, Miller took down the message passing through space.

  As he jotted down the last letter and the wireless apparatus ceased to receive, Miller regarded the written coded message before him on his writing pad with deep satisfaction. He was at last in tune with the transmitting station. The code only remained to be solved.

  Chapter VIII.

  Kaiser Blumen

  Miss Kiametia Grey was having her last Tuesday at home before Holy Week, and the drawing-room of her apartment was hardly large enough to hold all her callers comfortably. She was assisted in receiving by several of her friends, and Kathleen Whitney presided over the tea-table.

  Kathleen, chatting gayly with first one visitor and then another, was unaware that with the passing of time her eyes strayed more and more frequently to the hall doorway, nor was she conscious that they gained an added brightness on perceiving Captain Charles Miller enter the room.

  Owing to the departure of other guests Miss Kiametia contented herself with shaking Miller’s hand warmly. “Come and talk to me later,” she called, and turned her attention to those waiting to say good-bye. But she was not so absorbed as not to note Miller’s progress down the room. From the corner of her eye she saw him stop and speak to Kathleen, accept a cup of tea, and walk over and seat himself on the sofa by Mrs. Whitney. That Mrs. Whitney was pleased by the attention was plain to be seen.

  “Hum!” chuckled the astute spinster to herself. “‘Always kiss the blossom when making love to the bud’—Captain Miller is nobody’s fool.”

  “Stop looking at Miller,” admonished Senator Foster, standing by her elbow. “Pay attention to me.”

  “I will, if you will inform me who Miller is,” she retorted.

  Foster looked at her oddly. “The Pied Piper, judging from the way you women run after him,” he grumbled. “Can’t a good-looking man come to Washington without being swamped with invitations?”

  “Sour grapes!” Miss Kiametia’s kind smile took the sting from her words, and Foster, whose looks were his sensitive point, laughed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “He brought me letters from the president of a big munitions factory in Pennsylvania,” he answered readily. “I gather—mind you I know nothing positively and must not be quoted.…”

  “Quite so. Well, I’m no parrot.” The spinster nodded her head vigorously. “You’re safe; go on.”

  Again Foster hesitated. He knew Miss Kiametia dearly loved a morsel of gossip, but he also knew that she could be trusted not to divulge matters of real importance. He, as well as the other members of the set in which the Whitneys and Miss Grey belonged, had observed Captain Miller’s attention to Kathleen, had noted the gradual thawing of her stiff manner to him as the weeks went on, and he believed that Miss Kiametia’s questions were prompted by the affection she bore Kathleen. He also was aware that the spinster cordially detested Sinclair Spencer and was secretly elated at Kathleen’s indifference to the lawyer’s attentions.

  “I imagine Miller is here in the interests of the Allies,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know that he has entered into ne
gotiations for the purchase of war munitions, and that he is hoping to put through a deal for certain cavalry horses. I am so positive that he is what he represents himself to be that I have given him letters to influential men in my State.”

  “That possibly explains his many abrupt absences from the city,” commented Miss Kiametia sagely. “He has the habit of backing out of dinner engagements at the eleventh hour. But tell me, do you know nothing about the man’s family—his character?”

  “Not a word. His letter of introduction was good, his business references excellent, and so”—the Senator’s gesture was expressive. “I had no idea he would prove such a Beau Brummel when I introduced him to my Washington friends.” Foster turned and looked across the room at Miller. “I should judge that he has seen service, his carriage is military.”

  “He appears to be an American, but he has certain mannerisms”—Miss Kiametia paused and, not completing her sentence, turned her attention to other guests. After their departure she beckoned Foster to join her by the door.

  “Captain Miller piques my curiosity,” she whispered. “You say you know nothing about his family—I am going to find out about his character now”

  “How?” Foster looked mystified. “Where are you going?” as she moved forward. “Remember, what I told you was confidential.”

  “Trust me,” and with a most undignified wink, Miss Kiametia sailed down upon Mrs. Whitney and Captain Miller. “You can’t escape me,” she said to the latter, as he rose on her approach. “You must come and be victimized.”

  In what way?”

  “By my latest fad—palmistry. Come, Minna, well go into the library,” and laying a determined hand on Miller’s arm she led the way into the cozy room, followed by Mrs. Whitney and the highly amused Senator. Miss Kiametia was a good organizer, and she marshalled her three guests into seats by the library table, placing Miller between herself and Mrs. Whitney.