I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  The sound of her name caused Kathleen to raise her head with a start. Henry, the chauffeur, was standing just inside the hall door.

  “Beg pardon, Miss Kathleen,” he said. “Mrs. Whitney wished me to tell you that Miss Grey will spend the night here and has retired to her bedroom. And I was to ask you if you had any orders for the motor tomorrow.”

  “No, none, thanks. As you go downstairs, tell Vincent that I wish to see him.”

  “Vincent has gone, Miss Kathleen.” Meeting her quick glance, he added, “It is his evening out.”

  “Oh! Please ask Rosa to stop in my room before she goes to bed.”

  “Very good, Miss Kathleen.” As he turned to leave, the loud buzz of the front doorbell sounded. Not waiting to hear the directions Kathleen called after him, Henry darted into the hall.

  Picking up Miss Kiametia’s gold purse and the hypodermic needle, Kathleen replaced them on the table, but halfway to the hall door she hesitated. Should she not take them to Miss Kiametia? Suppose Henry, for instance, should take it into his head to examine them? At the thought Kathleen’s face hardened, and she returned to pick up Miss Kiametia’s property. Henry’s voice from the doorway arrested her.

  “Captain Miller,” he announced, and retired.

  Kathleen stood as if carved from stone, every vestige of color stricken from her. If her life had depended upon it, she could not have turned around.

  “Have you no word for me?” asked the familiar voice, and Miller stepped in front of her, his wistful eyes pleading for him. But Kathleen was mute. Slowly, unwillingly his eyes dropped before her level gaze and rested finally on the gold baubles in her hand. “Why do you not wear my ring, Kathleen?”

  The question stung her out of the bewildered trance into which his unexpected appearance had thrown her.

  “The ring was returned to you for good and sufficient reasons,” she said icily. “That you choose to ignore these reasons does not affect the issue. Will you leave this house, or shall I ring for the servant?”

  “Kathleen, are you mad?” He whitened to the lips. “Think what you are to me, dearly beloved; your words cut me like a knife.”

  “Your similes are unfortunate,” she stammered, with dry lips. “I do not use knives. I leave that for others, the coroner’s jury to the contrary.”

  “Do you think the coroner’s jury influenced my judgment, sweetheart? Shame—I have more faith than you. I know that you are innocent of Spencer’s death.”

  “You have every reason to know that I am innocent.” Kathleen was thoroughly roused. “It is not a question of faith on your part,” significantly. “I see no use in these discussions. It is better that we do not meet. Again I ask you to go—forever.”

  Without replying he turned and paced the room rapidly, hands in pocket, head bent forward. Kathleen watched him with burning eyes and aching heart. To outward seeming he had the attributes which make for success. What mad blood-lust had made him throw the world away?

  “Suppose I accede to your unreasonable request, Kathleen,” he said, stopping before her. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Yes,” huskily.

  “Then get from your father the specifications and drawings of his latest invention for me.”

  As if she had not heard aright, Kathleen stared at him.

  “Wh-what is it you ask?” she stammered.

  “The plans of your father’s latest invention,” patiently. “I do not mean the camera.”

  “Either you or I are mad,” she looked at him dazedly. “Do you realize that my father would not give me those plans—that I should have to steal them.”

  “Expediency knows no law,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes. “Call it borrowing.” Kathleen shrank back appalled.

  “Good God! That you should be so base!” she cried. “For more than forty-eight hours I have closed my eyes to reason; deluded myself that you acted from temporary mental aberration—that Sinclair Spencer’s death was unpremeditated. My impulse was to help—to save. Ah, you wooed me well this winter.” Her voice broke and she drew a long quivering breath. “It is a pitiful thing to kill a woman’s love. Some day, perhaps, I shall be grateful to you. Go!”

  He flinched at the scorn in her voice, but stood his ground doggedly. “Not until I get the drawings and specifications of the invention,” he answered.

  The slamming of the front door caused Kathleen to look in that direction, and Henry’s entrance the next instant stayed the words on her parted lips.

  “A special delivery for you, Miss Kathleen,” he said, “from the State Department.”

  Kathleen took the proffered envelope mechanically.

  “Wait, Henry,” steadying her voice. “When Captain Miller calls again, he is not to be admitted, under any pretense.”

  “Very good, Miss Kathleen,” and concealing his curiosity, the chauffeur moved swiftly away.

  There was a pause which Miller broke. “Read your letter,” he said composedly. “I can wait.”

  Kathleen was on the point of collapse; desperately she clung to her remnant of composure. Hardly conscious of her action, she tore open the outer envelope, and read the brief statement that the letter inclosed had been sent to her, care of the Department of State. With some stirring of curiosity not unmixed with dread, she examined the contents of the second envelope. It read:

  “United Service Club,

  “London, England.

  “MY DEAR MISS WHITNEY:

  “I send the inclosed, forwarded to me by Major Seymour, who was until recently a prisoner in Germany. My nephew, John Hargraves, was killed in action.

  “Very truly yours,

  “Percival Hargraves.”

  John dead! Her loyal friend dead—and killed in action! Through a blur of tears Kathleen read the stained scrap of paper inclosed in the Englishman’s note:

  “DEAR KATHLEEN:

  “I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he—warn Uncle—Kathleen … Kathleen.…”

  Shaken with grief Kathleen raised her head and looked at her companion sitting immovable in his chair. If he felt any interest in the letter and her emotion, he did not evince it. Three years before, he, she, and John Hargraves had been friends in Germany. John, the soul of honor, loyal and unselfish in his friendship, had laid down his young life for his country. His last dying word had been of her—to warn her.… Kathleen stood erect, wrath drying the tears which affection had brought. John had seen Karl in London in war times; there was but one answer to the puzzle.

  “Captain Karl von Mueller,” she said cuttingly, “to use the name by which I knew you abroad, do you wish my father’s invention for Germany?”

  “I do.” Rising quietly, he faced her, stern and unyielding. “Why dissemble any longer? Your father promised to sell it to us; then went back on his given word. In handing me the invention you will but redeem his pledge.”

  “You have a strange conception of honor.” Her eyes were blazing with fury. “Your statement about my father is open to doubt. Captain von Mueller, I give you forty-eight hours to leave this country before I denounce you as a German spy.”

  “Really?” His slow smile of unbelief caused her to writhe inwardly. “Do you think the unsupported statement of a woman suspected of murder will find credence?” Kathleen clenched John Hargraves’ letter until her knuckles shone white under the taut skin. “Secondly,” he continued in the same quiet tone, “you speak tonight only of this winter. Have you forgotten our relationship in Germany?”

  “That is hardly the term for it,” she said proudly. “I met you at the house of a German schoolmate …”

  “And our friendship rapidly ripened into love,” he said softly, never removing his gaze from her bloodless face. “Our walks in the meadows about Berlin, our elopement …”

  “But not our marriage,” she burst in. “John Hargraves can testify that I left you.”

  “John Hargraves is dead.”

  “True,” she could hardly articulate. “But
we were not married.”

  “Quite so; that is my point—I did not marry you.”

  Kathleen swayed upon her feet and threw out her hand blindly for support. “You cur! you despicable cur!” she gasped. “Don’t touch me.” But though she shrank from him, his strong hand steadied her toward the hall door.

  “Washington society is surfeited with scandal,” he said. “When more composed think of your father’s latest invention.”

  If she heard him she gave no sign. Mental torture had exhausted her emotion. She never raised her head as he guided her to the staircase; her eyes stared only at his open right hand.

  The house was dark except for the hall light burning dimly, when Winslow Whitney inserted his latchkey and entered the front door. Removing hat and overcoat, he made his way noiselessly to his studio in the attic. With cautious movement he fingered the locks on his door. Would Miller’s plan for catching Spencer’s murderer work out? According to their arrangement he had left the door insecurely fastened.

  Just as he was about to creep into the room, he heard distinctly in the stillness a whispered word in a voice his keen ear instantly recognized. All idea of caution forgotten, he threw open the door and switched on the electric light. To outward appearances the room was empty.

  Darting over to where he kept his secret papers, he lifted a powerful Mazda lamp, the better to scan the prepared paper left where an incautious thief would be obliged to rest his hand with some degree of force. Under the powerful light the finger prints stood out distinct and clear. But with eyes starting from his head, Whitney paused to snatch up a magnifying glass, and by its aid examined the finger prints minutely.

  “It’s—his—finger print—but the voice, my God! the voice.… Kathleen, Kathleen!” A gurgle choked his utterance, and the magnifying glass clattered beside him as he fell inertly on the floor.

  Chapter XXII.

  “Trenton Hurry”

  Charles Miller, completing a hurried toilet, paused at the sound of a sharp rap on his bedroom door.

  “Come in,” he called. “Ah, Henry, good morning,” as the chauffeur stepped briskly over the threshold. The latter’s white face and agitated manner indicated that he was the bearer of portentous news. Miller made a hasty step in his direction.

  “Kathleen—is she ill?” he asked.

  The chauffeur looked to see that the bedroom door was securely fastened before he answered.

  “It isn’t Miss Kathleen,” he answered cautiously. “Mr. Whitney has had a stroke.”

  “What?” Miller recoiled. “When?”

  “Some time last night.”

  “Will he recover?”

  “Dr. McLane says that he cannot tell yet, Herr Captain. He was alive but still unconscious when I left the house to come here.”

  “What”—Miller looked anxiously at the chauffeur—“what brought on the stroke? Mr. Whitney appeared to be in robust health when I saw him last.”

  “The Doctor seemed to think it was caused by sudden shock, Herr Captain.” Henry stepped closer. “Miss Kiametia Grey found Mr. Whitney in his studio lying on the floor unconscious.”

  “Miss Grey found him!” Miller’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  “Yes, Herr Captain; at four o’clock in the morning,” with significant emphasis, and the two men looked at each other.

  “And what was Miss Grey doing in the attic at that hour of the morning?”

  “She said she had gone upstairs to see Rosa, the cook, who was suffering from a bilious attack early in the evening.”

  “But,” perplexedly, “if I remember correctly, Rosa testified at the inquest that the servants’ bedrooms are not in the attic but on the floor beneath.”

  “They are, Herr Captain. On answering the bell from Mr. Whitney’s studio I found Miss Grey there trying to revive him.”

  “You answered the bell at four in the morning?” in surprise. “I understood you did not sleep at the Whitneys’.”

  “Nor do I, Herr Captain; but last night I took Vincent’s place and occupied his bedroom. When I reached the studio, I at first thought Mr. Whitney dead,” continued the chauffeur, after a slight pause, “and rushed to summon a physician. On his arrival I assisted him to carry Mr. Whitney to his bedroom.”

  “Did you see Miss Kathleen?”

  “Not after giving her the special delivery letter”—Henry’s sidelong glance escaped Miller’s attention—“when you were with her in the drawing-room; but I did hear her talking to Mrs. Whitney and the nurse in her father’s bedroom just before I left the house to come here.”

  “Keep me informed of what transpires at the Whitneys’,” directed Miller, picking up his coat.

  “Very well, Herr Captain. Permit me to help you.” The chauffeur stepped closer to his side and while assisting him, whispered: “Did you get the invention?”

  Miller thrust his right arm into the coat sleeve with slow precision, and his left arm into its sleeve with equal care before answering.

  “Yes.”

  “God be praised!” Henry stepped back, his eyes snapping with delight. “Ah, we will win it yet, that Cross!” he exulted; then cautiously took from an inside pocket a folded sheet of letter paper and with care removed from between the pages a piece of paper. “When Miss Grey was occupied in her effort to revive Mr. Whitney I looked quickly about the studio,” he explained. “This paper caught my eye—and I bring it to you, Herr Captain.”

  “Thanks,” laconically, laying the paper down on the desk. “One moment before you go,” and from a well-filled wallet he extracted a treasury bill whose denomination caused Henry’s eyes to beam with pleasure.

  “At service, Herr Captain,” he said, saluting. “I will return and report later.”

  “Very well, Henry,” and the chauffeur bowed himself out, but on the other side of the door he hesitated, fingering Miller’s tip with satisfaction.

  “He is liberal, that von Mueller,” he muttered. “But it is just as well not to tell him that there were two sheets of finger prints,” and he went whistling down the corridor.

  Tiptoeing to his door, Miller listened for a second, then, convinced that the chauffeur had moved away, he turned the key in the lock. Going to his desk, he picked up the sheet of finger prints and studied them long and attentively; then glanced down at his right hand. Horror lurked in the depths of his frank eyes.

  “The mark of Cain,” he stammered, and opening the silver frame containing Kathleen Whitney’s photograph, he deftly slipped the paper between the two pieces of cardboard.

  * * * * *

  It was getting toward dusk when Mrs. Whitney stole softly into Kathleen’s bedroom and stood looking down at her as she lay, eyes closed, white face pillowed on one shapely arm, her breath hardly stirring the laces on her gown. Convinced that she was asleep, she moved cautiously away, hoping not to disturb her, but at that moment Kathleen opened her eyes and raised herself on her elbow.

  “Don’t go, dear,” she begged. “How is Dad?”

  “Just about the same.” Mrs. Whitney carried a chair to the bedside. “It is too bad to have roused you.”

  “I wasn’t asleep—only thinking”—drearily—“I am glad you came in. Does Dr. McLane hold out any hope?”

  “Yes,” and Mrs. Whitney’s care-worn face brightened. “Is it not good news?”

  “The very best,” Kathleen smiled through her tears. “You must be worn out,” and she stroked the hand on the bed with loving fingers. “You should take some rest.”

  “I am not tired,” protested Mrs. Whitney. “The nurse has just come in from her afternoon constitutional, and I felt that I could leave Winslow for a little time. Tell me, dear,” sinking her voice. “Can you let me have a hundred dollars?”

  “I would gladly, mother, but I don’t believe I have half that amount left. You are welcome to that, though; my purse is in my desk.”

  “Thank you, dear, I’ll get it later,” but the troubled shadow did not lift from Mrs. Whitney’s pretty face. “Bot
h Vincent and Henry have asked me for their wages; I have given Henry part …”

  “Give him the whole, only get rid of him,” burst out Kathleen. “I cannot bear the man.”

  “Why, Kathleen! Has he been disrespectful?”

  “N-no, only—I don’t trust him.”

  “Please, dear, don’t excite yourself.” Mrs. Whitney noticed with alarm the hectic flush that dyed Kathleen’s white cheeks. “I will fill his place. Come to think of it, I did not like his manner this morning when he asked for his wages, and he went out without leave …”

  “He selected a curious time to make his request, with Dad so ill.”

  “Well, you see, my dear,” coloring faintly. “I gathered your father has not paid him recently.”

  “Don’t believe that story until you have asked Dad.” Kathleen choked back a sob, remembering that her father, her dear father, might never answer another question, no matter how trivial. “Don’t look so worried, mother; Dad will get better shortly.”

  “I pray so.” Mrs. Whitney’s eyelashes were wet with tears. “Kathleen, did your father ever speak to you of a note for twenty thousand dollars?”

  “No, never.”

  “It comes due next week.” Mrs. Whitney looked hopelessly about the room.

  “Surely the bank will hold over the matter until Dad is in a condition to attend to his affairs?”

  “I sent word to that effect when answering the note teller’s letter.”

  “Who is the holder of the note?”

  “Sinclair Spencer.” With ashy face Kathleen dropped back on her pillow as if shot. Failing to observe her expression in the semi-dark room, Mrs. Whitney continued wearily: “In your father’s mail today I found a notice from his bank stating that he had overdrawn his account heavily. It just happens that my housekeeping allowance is almost exhausted, or I would never have mentioned the matter to you, Kathleen.”