“Do take Mr. Spencer upstairs, Winslow,” suggested Mrs. Whitney, as the chauffeur opened the door to admit more guests. “I have a meeting of my club tonight, Mr. Spencer, and therefore …”
“Certainly, certainly; please don’t let my presence put you out,” with a courteous bow. “Come on, Whitney, let’s go up to your studio,” and he followed his host into the elevator.
Whitney stopped the car at the first bedroom floor. “We will be far more comfortable in my wife’s boudoir than in my studio,” he said. “Go ahead, Spencer, first door to your right. I’ll stop in my bedroom and get some cigars.”
Glancing curiously about the large attractive hall, Spencer entered the daintily furnished boudoir, and was examining the many water colors and photographs which hung on the walls, when Whitney came in carrying a cigar box and a tray containing Scotch and vichy.
“That’s some of Kathleen’s work,” he explained, observing that the lawyer had picked up a miniature of Mrs. Whitney. “She is clever with her brush.”
“Very clever,” agreed Spencer enthusiastically. “There is no one, Whitney, whom I admire as I do your daughter,” drawing a lounging chair near the table on which his host put the tray. “Why does Kathleen avoid me?”
“Does she?”
“She does,” with bitter emphasis. “And it cuts—deep.”
“You are supersensitive,” protested Whitney politely. “I do not for a moment believe Kathleen would intentionally hurt your feelings.”
Spencer did not answer at once, and chafing inwardly at being kept from his work in the studio, Whitney glared first at his guest and then at the clock, but the hint was lost.
Suddenly Spencer’s right fist came down on the table with a resounding whack. “Kathleen turned me down this morning.” Whitney’s eyes were riveted on his guest but he said nothing, and Spencer continued earnestly. “I want you to use your influence.…”
“No.” The monosyllable was spoken quietly, but the gleam in Whitney’s eyes was a silent warning. “We will leave my daughter’s name out of the discussion. Was there anything else you wished to see me about? If not.…” and he half rose.
Instead of answering Spencer lolled back in his chair and, taking his time, lighted a cigar.
“Your note for twenty thousand dollars is due in ten days,” he announced. “Are you prepared to take it up?”
There was a protracted pause before Whitney spoke. “Are you willing to let me curtail your note with a payment of five thousand dollars?” he asked.
“No.”
Whitney’s hand closed spasmodically over the bottle of whiskey, and he was livid with anger as he glared at the younger man. Spencer’s good looks were marred by signs of recent dissipation, and the coarse lines about his thin lips destroyed the air of refinement given him by his well-cut clothes. Whitney cast a despairing look about the room, at the pretty knick-knacks, pictures, and handsome furniture—all indicated a cultivated woman’s taste. How his wife loved her belongings!
With the curtailing of his income through the shrinking and non-payment of dividends, he had drawn upon his principal and—keeping up appearances was an expensive game. Every piece of property that he owned was heavily mortgaged, and every bit of collateral was already deposited to cover notes at his bank. Slowly Whitney’s fingers loosened their grip upon the bottle of whiskey.
“Well,” and his voice cut the stillness like a whiplash. “What is your pound of flesh?”
Spencer knocked the ash from the end of his cigar into the tray with care that none should fall upon the polished mahogany table top.
“Kathleen might reconsider—eh?” suggestively. “And—eh—there is your invention—your latest invention.”
It was approaching midnight when Whitney stepped alone into the hall. The hum of voices rose from the room below; evidently Vincent had neglected to close the drawing-room doors, or else the Sisters in Unity needed air. Listening intently, he judged from the direction of the voices that the women had not gone into the dining-room.
Whitney walked toward the elevator, paused, then continued down the hall and without rapping entered Kathleen’s sitting-room. But he stopped on the threshold on beholding Kathleen sitting before her desk with her head resting upon its flat top, sound asleep. By her side lay paint box and brushes and a half-completed miniature of Captain Miller. Without disturbing her, Whitney crept softly from the room.
Chapter X.
Sisters in Unity
It was a very much flurried Vincent who admitted Senator Randall Foster, and helped him off with his overcoat.
“They’re still argufying,” he said, indicating the closed drawing-room doors with a jerk of his thumb. “I’ll get word to Mrs. Whitney, sir, that you have come.”
“No, no, don’t interrupt the meeting,” hastily interposed the Senator. “I may be a few minutes early. Can I see Mr. Whitney?”
“Yes, sir, certainly, sir. Come this way,” and Vincent moved toward the elevator shaft. “I don’t believe Mr. Whitney has gone to his studio, yet, sir; he never takes anyone there, and I haven’t seen Mr. Spencer leave.”
“Mr. Spencer?” Foster drew back. “Is he with Mr. Whitney?”
“Yes, sir, so Henry told me.”
“After all, I don’t believe I’ll disturb Mr. Whitney, Vincent. Is there some place I can wait downstairs?”
“Yes, sir, the reception room.” The butler led the way to it “I’m afraid, sir, you’ll find it very uncomfortable in here, sir,” looking at the racks of coats and cloaks, “but”—brightening—“here’s a copy of the evening paper; Mr. Whitney must have left it; and this chair, sir—”
“Yes, yes, Vincent, thank you, I’ll be all right.” Foster took possession of the solitary uncovered chair. “This is an excellent opportunity of reading over my speech. Be sure and let me know, Vincent, the instant I am wanted in the drawing-room.”
“Surely, sir. I’ll tell Mrs. Whitney that you are here, sir,” and Vincent retired.
Inside the closed drawing-room and library the atmosphere was surcharged with electricity. Miss Kiametia Grey, who had locked horns with her opponents on numerous subjects, sat back, flushed and victorious; she was beginning to feel the fatigue incident to having borne the brunt of the discussion, and was secretly longing to have the meeting adjourn to the dining-room where she suspected Mrs. Whitney had provided a bountiful supper. She felt the need of refreshments, if only a Roman punch.
Mrs. Whitney was also feeling the strain. She had designated a sister official to occupy the chair when the nominating speeches were in order, and was awaiting the announcement of the result of the ballot with inward trepidation. Her composed manner and smiling face won Miss Kiametia’s admiration; she was herself of too excitable a temperament to keep her equanimity unimpaired, and she watched Mrs. Whitney’s calm demeanor and unruffled poise, conscious of her own disheveled appearance. She missed Kathleen; the latter’s presence had become an almost virtual necessity to the spinster. Despite the disparity in ages, their tastes were similar, and both had a keen sense of humor. It had added zest to the spinster’s enjoyment of the season’s gayeties to have Kathleen with her, and she had watched the girl’s gradual absorption in Captain Miller with lynx eyes. The obliteration of Sinclair Spencer as a possible suitor had filled her with delight. But she had seen Spencer in the house that very night. What did that mean? What was he there for? Surely, Kathleen had not.…
A stir in the back of the room recalled Miss Kiametia’s wandering thoughts, and she leaned eagerly forward to hear the report of the chairman of the tellers. Mrs. Whitney was elected and Miss Kiametia had also carried the day. Round after round of hearty applause greeted the announcement, and as it died out the two successful candidates for first and second place in the organization stepped to the platform. But after expressing her thanks, Miss Kiametia again resumed her seat among the members, while Mrs. Whitney took up the duties of presiding officer.
As the regular business of the mee
ting drew to a close one of the members rose, and on being recognized announced that she had a resolution to offer, and read in a high singsong voice:
“Be it resolved that this organization of Sisters in Unity indorse the peace movement, and that it use its wide influence to check the tendency toward militarism which injudicious and misguided Americans hope to foist upon the American public.”
Applause greeted the speaker, and a gray-haired woman across the room demanded recognition from the chair.
“I would like to say a few words in favor of that resolution,” she began, finally catching Mrs. Whitney’s attention. “Our wars with England, our mother country, were but as the wrangle of relatives. The leaders in the warring nations in Europe today are all related. Let us keep clear of all international entanglements. Let us have peace. Through peace this country has achieved greatness. Peace and prosperity go hand in hand. Peace uplifts; war retards. Militarism is a throw-back to feudal days. On its lighter side, militarism is an appeal for gold lace and brass buttons. A man puts on our uniform because it is a thing of show, in other words, conspicuous …”
“Madam chairman!” Her face flaming, an irate woman arose. “No, I don’t care whether I’m in order or not; I will be heard—Mrs. Lutz is quite right, the United States uniform is conspicuous, and has been conspicuous on many a bloody battlefield since 1776. The uniform is honored alike in court and camp in every nation of the world.”
As she sat down pandemonium reigned. Instantly Miss Kiametia was on her feet, and her strident call, “Madam chairman, madam chairman,” rose repeatedly above the hubbub. Mrs. Whitney pounded for order and gave the spinster the floor.
“I rise to a question of information,” explained Miss Kiametia, in tones which echoed through the rooms. “Is this an indignation meeting or an assemblage of Sisters in Unity?” she demanded, and sat down. In the comparative quiet that ensued, the peace resolution was seconded and passed by a small majority.
Mrs. Whitney stepped to the edge of the platform. “Senator Randall Foster has very kindly consented to address us tonight,” she said. “So distinguished a lawmaker needs no introduction to this organization. Mr. Senator,” as Foster entered through the door held open for him by Vincent, “we invite you to the platform.”
Bowing his thanks, Foster joined Mrs. Whitney and immediately began one of those adroit, well-worded addresses which had made him a marked man in the Senate. “I come to you a special pleader,” he continued, with growing earnestness, “to spread the gospel of peace. It is your privilege to weld public opinion, and opinion can be as a yoke upon a man’s neck. In this free America opinion governs. Jingoes would try to plunge us into war. When a boy is given an airgun, his first impulse is to go out and shoot it off. Arm the men of this country and their impulse will be the same. A small standing army does not tend to militarism; its size does not lend itself to the issuing of imperative mandates; and mandates, ladies, lead to war.
“It is especially a woman’s duty to demand peace. In war, upon the woman falls the suffering and the sacrifice. The lover, the brother, the father, the son may find honorable death upon the field, but at home the woman pays. God pity the woman left desolate and alone, her loved ones sacrificed on the altar of militarism!
“And mothers? What of your children and the fate of yet unborn generations? Are they brought into the world to be tools of militarism? Lift up your voice for peace; carry the message, ‘Peace on earth’ to the very portals of Congress. Make any and every sacrifice, but guard your man child.”
As Foster stopped speaking enthusiastic applause broke out, and a rising vote of thanks was given him. As the gratified Senator stepped down from the platform he found himself by Miss Kiametia’s side.
“I did it to please you, Kiametia,” he whispered, holding her hand tightly. “Have I earned one kind word?”
Miss Kiametia favored him with a quick expressive look and a faint blush.
“You are a staunch friend,” she said warmly, and Foster brightened. “Only—only why did you lay such stress on the ‘man child’? Nearly all are spinsters in this peace organization.”
Chapter XI.
A Man in a Hurry
Heavy clouds hung low and not a star was visible. The darkness was intensified by the gleam of distant city lights, for in that section of Washington lying to the southwest of Pennsylvania Avenue a defective fuse had caused the dimming of every electric light in the vicinity. Far up on one of the roofs a man, crouching behind the meager shelter offered by a chimney, blessed the chance which fortune provided.
Crawling on hands and knees, he cautiously made his way to the edges of the roof, on which he had dropped from the higher building next door, and looked down. His eyes straining in the darkness, every sense alert to danger, he scanned intently each window ledge and cornice. No hope there. Not even a lead pipe or telephone wires afforded a hold for desperate, gripping fingers. Unlike the building adjoining on the south, the new house had no party wall, and a gulf too wide to jump separated it from its northern neighbor. The sheer drop to the garden beneath was suicidal.
The man lay for a few seconds striving to collect himself. He could not return the way he had come. He would be caught like a rat in the trap with the arrival of dawn, if not before. Perhaps his pursuers were on his trail already. The thought spurred his numbed body to action, and lifting his head he glanced along the flat roof. Toward the center of it rose a box-like structure with apparently an arched skylight above it. A little distance away from the structure, he distinguished the outlines of what appeared to be a scuttle. Warily he approached it, and using every precaution to make the least possible sound, he attempted to raise the scuttle. A long sigh of relief escaped him as he succeeded. The scuttle was not locked.
He paused long enough to glance keenly about him. There was no sign of another human being, but a sound smote his ear. Someone was moving on the pebbled roof of the building he had just left. Without an instant’s delay he groped about until his feet touched the rung of a ladder, and drawing to the scuttle behind him, he made his way down the ladder.
On reaching the bottom he paused in indecision. He could make out nothing in the inky blackness, and with every sense alive to danger, he waited. But apparently his entrance had disturbed no one, and taking heart of grace, he pulled out a tiny flashlight and pressed the button.
The light revealed a large attic partly filled with trunks and worn furniture. A large wine closet, the bottles shining as the light fell on them through the slat partition, occupied one part of the attic, while a wall partition, with closed door, ran across the entire western side. To his right, the man made out the head of a narrow staircase. He was making his way to the staircase when his acute hearing caught the sound of a softly closing door on the floor below and approaching footsteps.
Casting a hunted look about him, he spied a closed closet door. He doused his light while making his way to the closet, and jerked open the door, at the same time throwing out his right hand, the better to judge the depth of the dark closet. His groping fingers closed on cold steel. His heart lost a throb, then raced madly on, as he clung weakly to the metal. An elevator shaft, and he had mistaken it for prison bars!
For a second his chilled body was shaken with hysterical desire for laughter; then his strong will conquered. He had not forgotten the advancing footsteps. A desperate situation required desperate chances. Stepping back he closed the outer door of the elevator shaft and pressed the button for the elevator. Which would reach him first—the person creeping upstairs or the automatic electric elevator?
Chapter XII.
A Sinister Discovery
Mrs. Whitney sat up in bed and contemplated her husband reproachfully as he entered her room.
“Have you been working all night?” she inquired.
Whitney nodded absently as he stooped to kiss her. “Now, don’t worry, dear; work will not injure me. I’ve just had a cold shower and feel ten per cent better, and all ready for my break
fast. You are the one who looks tired; that’s a very becoming cap you are wearing, but you need more color here,” pinching her cheek. “I don’t like to see you so pale. Were the Sisters in Unity as strenuous as ever?”
“Just about—but, Oh, Winslow, I was elected.…”
“That was a foregone conclusion, you modest child.” Again Whitney kissed her. “Congratulations, my darling, though why you should want it.…”
Mrs. Whitney laughed good-naturedly. “I’m too happy today to argue the question,” she broke in.
“Kiametia Grey frightened us all last night by fainting …”
“Fainting! Kiametia? I thought she was as tough as a horse?”
“So she is usually, but she has been doing too much socially, and late hours do not agree with a woman of her years.”
“She isn’t so old,” protested Whitney.
“She is older than I, and I’m not so young,” Mrs. Whitney, whose years sat lightly upon her, jerked a dainty dressing-gown about her shoulders. “Kiametia did faint and when she came to, declared it was the overheated atmosphere of the rooms and the continuous talking which had upset her.”
“Well, you must admit, Minna, the Sisters are famous for noisy discussions. Kiametia is generally able to hold up her end of an argument. I am sorry she had to give in to superior numbers,” Whitney laughed. “You’ll never convince me that she fainted.”
“She did, too; and felt so badly that I persuaded her not to go home, but to spend the remainder of the night in our blue bedroom.”
“Good heavens!” Whitney gazed blankly at his wife. “Did she—did …”
“No, she did not stay there,” pausing dramatically. “She found Sinclair Spencer sound asleep in the bed.” She waited expectantly for her husband’s comment, but getting no reply, she burst out, “What was he doing there—how came he to be there?”
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