I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “My dearest, I’m sorry you did that.” Whitney leaned over and clasped her hand tenderly. “I gave orders that.…”

  “Vincent is not to blame,” broke in Kathleen. “I borrowed the nurse’s newspapers before she left.”

  “There was no sense in your reading all this jargon,” protested Whitney warmly. “And there is no need, Kathleen, of paying attention to one word published here. Your friends believe in you absolutely, as we do.”

  “Thank you, Dad.” Kathleen returned the strong pressure of his hand, and leaning over, kissed Mrs. Whitney. “Bless both your dear loyal hearts.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she dashed them impatiently away. “It was better that I should see the papers,” she continued a moment later, “and know the world’s unbiased opinion.”

  “Unbiased opinion in a newspaper!” Whitney laughed mirthlessly. “That and the millennium will arrive together. Have you everything you want, Kathleen?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Then you need not wait, Vincent. Now, Minna, what did you ask me a few minutes ago?”

  “If you will have some hot coffee. Yes? Then send me your cup,” and Mrs. Whitney, taking it from Kathleen, poured out the coffee and hot milk. As she returned the cup and saucer, she glanced carefully about the room, but Vincent had departed to the kitchen. Satisfied on that point, she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “I hear the servants are planning to leave.”

  “Who cares?” Whitney shrugged his shoulders. “There are better where they came from.”

  “Quite true,” agreed Mrs. Whitney. “Then, will you give me their wages …”

  “Wages?” Whitney flushed with anger. “No, if the dirty dogs wish to leave us in the lurch without notice, they will not get one cent from me.”

  “They won’t leave us,” declared Kathleen. “At least, I am sure that Vincent and Rosa will not go. They have been with us too long.”

  “I only know what Henry told me he heard in the kitchen this morning,” explained Mrs. Whitney.

  “Oh, Henry!” exclaimed Kathleen contemptuously. “I wouldn’t put any faith in what he says; he is forever making trouble in the kitchen. He is …”

  The violent ringing of the telephone bell interrupted her.

  “I have finished my breakfast, I’ll go,” volunteered Mrs. Whitney, and she hastened into the pantry where a branch telephone had been installed for the use of the servants. Before the swing door closed tightly, they heard her say: “Oh, Kiametia …”

  “What is the reason the servants are so anxious to decamp?” asked Whitney, handing Kathleen the dish of fruit, which she declined.

  “You forget this house has become a chamber of horrors.” Kathleen’s voice shook, and she paused to take a hasty swallow of hot coffee. “Possibly the presence of the detectives makes them nervous.”

  “Well, a sudden leave-taking from here will probably center the detectives’ attention upon them more than if they stayed and did their work.”

  “That is highly probable. Tell me, Dad”—Kathleen regarded Whitney intently—“how is it that I am not in jail? Did not the coroner’s jury convict me?”

  “Their verdict read that you were responsible for Spencer’s death, and as such you are under suspicion and will be held for the Grand Jury.”

  “Oh!” Kathleen shuddered slightly.

  “I had no difficulty arranging bail,” continued Whitney. “The officials themselves realize—must realize,” he interjected, with bitter force—“there is little real evidence against you. The coroner’s jury—the d——fools”—the words escaped between his clenched teeth—“to place faith in circumstantial evidence!” Whitney’s clenched fist descended on the table with a force that made the goblets ring. “My dear, why, why did you try to whitewash Julie?”

  “Because I knew she had nothing to do with Sinclair Spencer’s death.”

  “You knew nothing of the sort”—with subdued violence. “You are totally wrong. That Julie ran away is confession of complicity in the crime.”

  “I don’t believe Julie ran away; I do not”—meeting her father’s angry eyes steadily. “I believe she was enticed away. I tell you, Dad, if this mystery is ever to be cleared, you must find.…”

  “Captain Miller,” announced Vincent, drawing back the portieres from the doorway, and Miller, emerging from the hall, advanced into the room.

  Kathleen’s coffee cup descended with a clatter on its saucer as her nerveless fingers released their hold, and placing one hand on the back of her chair to steady herself, she rose slowly to her feet.

  “Senator Foster would like to speak to you a minute, Mr. Whitney,” added Vincent. “He is waiting at the front door, sir.”

  “Certainly.” Whitney shook Miller’s hand cordially. “Excuse me a second, Captain, I’ll be back in a jiffy,” and he followed Vincent from the room.

  Impulsively Miller stepped toward Kathleen, hands extended and eyes alight with passionate tenderness. “My love, my dear, dear love!”

  “Stop!” Kathleen spoke in a dangerously low tone. “I must request you to leave this house at once.”

  “Kathleen!”

  “You understand the English tongue?” Her cold repellent manner caused him to pause in uncertainty. “Or shall I translate my request into German?”

  “I will not put you to that inconvenience,” he retorted hotly; then his manner changed. “Ah, Kathleen, do not let us waste the precious seconds bickering. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  “You ask me that?” Her tone was impossible to translate.

  “Yes.” Miller held her gaze, his handsome eyes speaking a language all their own. “You gave me the right, my darling, to protect you—and I shall protect you.”

  Her strength suddenly deserting her, Kathleen sank down in her chair.

  “You will protect me,” she echoed. “You?”

  Her tone stung him to the quick. “Yes—I,” he said slowly. “Do you not realize the depth of my love? I would willingly sacrifice my career, my life for you—and count it no sacrifice.”

  “Would God I could believe you!” The cry was wrung from her, and she raised her trembling hands to brush away the blinding tears.

  Miller dropped on one knee beside her. “My dearest, my heart’s desire!” he whispered passionately, taking her hands prisoner. At his touch she shrank back, remembrance crowding upon her.

  “Go!” she stammered. “I have kept faith; go, before I say too much.”

  Before Miller could answer he heard his name called, and the sound of rapid footsteps. With a bound he was on his feet, and pausing only long enough to whisper “Courage, Kathleen,” he joined Winslow Whitney in the hall.

  But Kathleen was hardly conscious of his departure. With an exceedingly bitter moan, she dropped her head upon her arms and cried as if her heart would break. Mrs. Whitney, entering from the pantry a second later, paused aghast, then running to Kathleen, soothed her with loving word and hand back to some semblance of composure.

  Miller found Winslow Whitney walking rapidly up and down the hall. He stopped at sight of the latter. “Come in the library,” he said. “I’ve given instructions that we are not to be interrupted,” closing the door and also pulling to the folding doors behind the portieres leading to the dining-room. “Make yourself comfortable, Captain,” producing a box of cigars. “Don’t mind if I walk up and down; I think better when moving about.”

  “Same here,” but Miller selected the most comfortable chair in the room and puffed slowly at his cigar, while never taking his eyes from his host. Neither man spoke for fully five minutes, then Whitney pulled up a chair and sat down near his companion.

  “Have you seen Senator Foster today?” he inquired.

  “Not to talk to; but I caught a glimpse of him coming here as I entered.” Miller knocked the gathering ash from the end of his cigar. “I was with him at the inquest yesterday.”

  “I saw you both there.” Whitney selected a cigar and, lighting it, sat back. “Did Foste
r happen to tell you that Sinclair Spencer had in his will made him executor of his estate?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he came here today to tell me that, and also that Kathleen is mentioned in Spencer’s will as residuary legatee.”

  “What!” Miller’s surprise was shown in his face, which had grown suddenly white.

  “Spencer evidently really cared for Kathleen,” went on Whitney, paying no attention to his ejaculation. “A queer fellow, Spencer; I did not give him credit for possessing sincere feeling, except where he himself was concerned.”

  “Was Spencer wealthy?” The question shot from Miller against his will.

  “Report says so; I never inquired, myself.” Whitney puffed a cloud of smoke, and as it cleared away, turned impulsively to Miller. “I’m damned if I like Foster’s manner to me today!” he burst out.

  “Why, what happened?” Miller bent eagerly forward.

  “I only asked him to postpone probating Spencer’s will,” began Whitney, laying down his cigar.

  Miller’s eyes opened. “Did he agree to it?”

  “No—refused curtly.” Whitney’s eyes flashed. “And the manner of his refusal—rankles,” he confessed.

  “Your request was somewhat singular,” commented Miller slowly.

  “Nothing singular about it,” retorted Whitney. “I was thinking of Kathleen when I made the request. Man, do you not see,” and the haggard lines in his face deepened, “the instant that will is offered for probate its contents become public. And its publication now will but strengthen the suspicion already centered about Kathleen, by supplying a possible motive for Spencer’s murder.”

  “Suspicion cannot injure the innocent,” protested Miller.

  “Oh, can’t it! That’s all you know about it,” growled Whitney, wiping beads of moisture from his forehead. “So much for Foster’s friendship when put to the test. I made it plain to him that my request was prompted by my desire to shield Kathleen from further publicity.”

  “I understand, Mr. Whitney,” said Miller gently.

  “Yes, I believe you do,” went on Whitney feverishly. “That an old friend should be the first to go back on me; there’s the sting. We are a proud family, Miller, united in our affections.” He cleared his throat of a slight huskiness. “I would have given everything I possess to have spared Kathleen that scene at the inquest yesterday; I never for a moment imagined”—He straightened up.—“I am going to move heaven and earth to clear Kathleen from this vile suspicion that she is in some way responsible for Sinclair Spencer’s death.”

  “I’m with you, Mr. Whitney,” Miller’s voice rang out clear and strong, carrying conviction, and a flash of hope lighted Whitney’s brooding eyes. “I love your daughter, sir, and came this morning to ask your consent to our marriage.”

  Whitney looked at him long and intently, and Miller bore the scrutiny without flinching, his direct gaze never shifting, and his strongly molded features set with dogged determination.

  “You make this proposal, and at this time?” asked Whitney at last.

  “Yes.” Miller’s hand tightened its grip on the arm of his chair. “Clouds can be dispelled, sir; and my faith in your daughter will never be shaken.”

  Without a word Whitney extended his hand, and Miller grasped it eagerly. “You have my consent, Captain,” he said, the huskiness of his voice more pronounced. “I cannot, of course, answer for Kathleen; I would not force her acceptance of any man.” He turned to relight his cigar, and Miller’s swift change of expression escaped him. “Tell me, Captain,” continued Whitney, tossing away the match. “What conclusions did you draw at the inquest?”

  “I think the jury acted on inconclusive evidence,” said Miller thoughtfully. “Before rendering any verdict they should have waited to hear Julie’s testimony.”

  “You have hit the nail on the head,” declared Whitney. “I firmly believe, in spite of the other servants’ testimony, that Julie and Sinclair Spencer knew each other well, and his death is the result of a clandestine love affair with her.”

  “Love may have entered into it,” acknowledged Miller. “But I think there is also another motive behind Spencer’s murder, the significance of which we have not fully grasped.”

  “And that is—?”

  Miller did not answer directly. “What motive inspired Spencer to feign drunkenness,” he asked, “and when everyone was asleep, to steal over this house like a thief in the night?”

  Whitney drummed impatiently on the desk. “There is but one apparent answer,” he admitted reluctantly. “You believe that he was interested in my inventions?”

  “I do; his actions certainly point to that conclusion.”

  Whitney shook his head. “His behavior that night would have been just the same if planning a clandestine meeting with Julie.”

  “But, my dear sir, he could have met Julie elsewhere with far less danger of discovery. Besides,” Miller hesitated, “let us give the devil his due. Spencer was evidently very much attached to Kathleen. With her image before him, I do not believe he spared a thought for the French maid.”

  Whitney looked his disbelief. “In this instance, I cannot speak well of the dead,” he said slowly. “I know too much of Spencer’s past. He was not above courting the maid and the mistress at the same time.”

  “Well, at least Spencer was no fool; if he did court Julie, it was not done in this house.” Miller tossed his cigar stub into the ash receiver. “It might be that he used the maid to assist him in securing information about your inventions.”

  “You may be right.” Whitney started from his chair. “And Julie, perhaps believing in his protestations of affection at first, awoke to his duplicity, and took the occasion of his spying to kill him.”

  “Yes, that’s about my idea.”

  “But—but—” Whitney turned bewildered eyes on his companion. “What prompted Spencer to desire to steal my inventions?”

  “That we have still to learn. That he did try, I am as convinced as if I had seen him.” Miller picked up another cigar. “And, Mr. Whitney, permit me to call attention to one very essential fact.…”

  “Go on,” urged Whitney.

  “That what Spencer failed to accomplish, others may.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It is very far from nonsense.” Miller’s earnestness impressed Whitney. “I do not for one moment believe that Spencer was working alone.”

  “You hint at conspiracy?” Whitney frowned perplexedly.

  “Call it that if you wish; only, sir, take every precaution to safeguard your inventions from prying eyes.”

  “I have, already.”

  “How, for instance?”

  “With double locks, iron shutters, and electric wires, my workshop is hermetically sealed.”

  “Until a clever thief gains entrance.” Miller laughed faintly. “The science of house-breaking keeps step with modern inventions to protect property. What one man can conceive another man can fathom.”

  “You may be right.” Whitney took a short turn about the room, then stopped in front of his companion. “What precautions would you suggest?”

  Miller did not answer immediately. “It is very likely that another attempt will be made to secure the drawings and specifications of your inventions, if not your models,” he said finally. “And if on guard, you may not only catch the thief but Spencer’s murderer.”

  “A good idea,” acknowledged Whitney. “But how would you suggest going about to catch the thief?”

  “By laying a plot for him; forget to lock your studio door occasionally, lay prepared paper inconspicuously about, and powder your tables and floor with fine dust. The thief will leave an indelible trail behind him.”

  “And walk off with all necessary data,” answered Whitney skeptically. “As clever a thief as you paint will never leave that room, once he is inside it, without full knowledge of my inventions.”

  “The thief will not have an opportunity of stealing what he came for, becau
se the specifications and drawings of your inventions will not be there.”

  “Eh!” Whitney’s cigar fell unheeded to the floor. “Where will they be?”

  “In my possession.”

  Too astounded to speak, Whitney stared at his companion. It was over a minute before he recovered himself.

  “Do you think I will trust you with the drawings and models of my latest inventions?” he asked.

  “You did not withhold your consent when, a short time ago, I asked for Kathleen’s hand in marriage,” said Miller slowly. “Do you hold your inventions dearer than your daughter’s future happiness, which you are willing to intrust to my care?”

  Never taking his eyes from his companion’s face Whitney stepped back. The seconds lengthened into minutes before he spoke. “Come upstairs,” he said and, turning, made for the closed door.

  Chapter XIX.

  The Yellow Streak

  Leaving the War Department; Detective Mitchell debated for a second whether to walk around the back of the White House grounds to the Municipal Building, or to go to Pennsylvania Avenue and take an east bound electric car. But there was no sign of let-up in the pelting rain, and pulling his coat collar up about his ears, he hastened toward the avenue, and at sight of an approaching car broke into a run. The usually empty sidewalks were filled with hurrying government employees, anxious to get their luncheon and return in the prescribed half-hour to the State, War, and Navy Departments, and the detective had some difficulty in dodging the pedestrians.

  Seeing an opening among the lowered umbrellas, he stepped off the curb and dashed for the street car. He was almost by its side when the hoarse sound of a motor siren smote his ear, and glancing sideways, he saw a touring car bearing down upon him at full speed. In trying to spring backward his foot slipped on the wet asphalt and he sprawled forward on his knees. The automobile was almost upon him when strong hands jerked him safely to one side. Scrambling to his feet, Mitchell turned to look at the man whose strength and quickness had saved him from a nasty accident.