I Spy

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

  “I am glad you did, mother; you must not have this responsibility on your shoulders, in addition to your anxiety for Dad. I have a little money in the bank, and will turn it over to you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, dear,” stooping and kissing her. “My heart is wrung for you, Kathleen. It is shameful what you have had to go through!” and her eyes flashed with indignation.

  “Hush!” placing her hand over Mrs. Whitney’s mouth. “My affairs sink into insignificance alongside of Dad’s illness.”

  “You are such a blessing, Kathleen,” squeezing her hand fondly.

  “Then let us forget there is such a thing as money difficulties, and turn to.…”

  “Me!” exclaimed a voice by the door, and Miss Kiametia Grey advanced further into the room. “I rapped several times but you did not hear.…”

  “Do come and sit with us,” suggested Kathleen.

  “I will, if you will turn on the light; I can’t bear to talk in the dark. There, that’s better,” as Kathleen switched on the reading lamp by her bed. “Before anything further is said,” began the spinster, reddening, “I must confess that I overheard Kathleen mention money difficulties—I didn’t mean to hear it”—hastily—“but I just want to say that I’ll be your banker until Winslow gets better.”

  “You dear!” Kathleen sat up and kissed her warmly and Mrs. Whitney, quite overcome, embraced her with tears in her eyes.

  “What’s a friend for if she can’t be of use!” Miss Kiametia’s manner was always most brusque when seeking to cover emotion. “Land sakes! I forgot to tell you that Randall Foster wishes to see you both.”

  “Now!” Kathleen looked down at her negligee attire. “Can’t he wait until tomorrow? Dr. McLane said I could get up then.”

  “He is very anxious to interview you this evening, Kathleen. Put on this pretty dressing-gown,” and Miss Kiametia picked it up from the couch. “You help her into it, Minna, while I go and get Randall,” and not waiting for a reply she whisked out of the room, returning a few minutes later with Senator Foster.

  “I am here under the doctor’s order,” explained Kathleen, taking his proffered hand, after he had greeted Mrs. Whitney. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” muttered Foster, recovering with an effort from the shock her appearance occasioned him. She looked wretchedly ill, and the hand he held for a second in his was hot with fever. “I can stay but a minute, Miss Kathleen. Do you think that tomorrow you can sign some papers in reference to Sinclair Spencer’s will?”

  “Why should I sign any such papers?” in quick surprise. “What have I to do with his will?”

  “Hasn’t your mother told you?” Mrs. Whitney shook her head, and answered for Kathleen.

  “Winslow said not to mention the matter to Kathleen yesterday, and today his illness put everything out of my mind,” she explained.

  Kathleen looked from one to the other. “What have I to do with his will?” she repeated.

  “Sinclair Spencer made you residuary legatee.”

  “What!” Kathleen sat up, for the moment bereft of further speech. “I shan’t take any legacy left me by him,” she announced, passionately. “Mother, you hear me, I won’t”

  “Yes, yes, dear,” soothingly, and Senator Foster broke in hastily:

  “We understand how you must feel.”

  “Feel!” echoed Kathleen. “Did you for one moment suppose I would accept a penny from Sinclair Spencer or his estate?” and the scorn in her eyes hurt Foster as she looked at him.

  “The law requires certain formalities,” he said hurriedly. “As executor, I shall have to talk over his will with you, but later will do.”

  “Both now and later, I flatly refuse to consider any such bequest he may have made me,” went on Kathleen, unheeding his words as her excitement increased, and Miss Kiametia hastened to avert the threatened scene.

  “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Randall?” she asked.

  “In Baltimore.” Foster flashed her a grateful glance. “I hope you made use of my car yesterday, Mrs. Whitney; I told Henry to take it out until yours was repaired.”

  “You were very kind; Winslow went out in it.” Mrs. Whitney’s glance strayed to the door; she was anxious to return to her husband’s bedside.

  “And with your permission, Randall, I’m going to use your car now to take me home,” chipped in Miss Kiametia.

  “Oh, Kiametia, you must not go,” protested Mrs. Whitney. “You are such a comfort—such a help.…”

  “Don’t go,” added Kathleen. “Your presence makes my enforced idleness here easier to bear.”

  “Thank you, my dears.” The spinster looked immensely pleased. “Of course I’ll stay, if you really feel you want me.”

  “I am the only one bereft,” said Foster wistfully. “I cannot call upon you tonight, Kiametia.”

  “Of course you can,” exclaimed Mrs. Whitney, smiling faintly. “We are not so selfish as to keep Kiametia to ourselves all the time. If you will excuse me, I must go back to Winslow.”

  “Certainly.” Foster rose and opened the door for her. “I must not stop longer. Good night, Miss Kathleen, I hope that you will feel better in the morning.”

  “Thanks; please come here just a moment,” and reluctantly Foster approached the bed. He did not wish to resume discussion about Spencer’s will. “Tell me,” Kathleen lowered her voice, “when will the Grand Jury meet?”

  “Not for ten days or more.”

  “That is all, thanks,” and Foster moved away. At the door he signaled to Miss Kiametia to step into the hall with him, and after a quick glance at Kathleen’s averted face, the spinster followed him, softly closing the door behind her.

  As the click of the latch reached her, Kathleen, seeing that she was alone, leaned over and put out the light. The darkness was pleasant to her, and she buried her hot hands under her pillows, the better to feel the cool linen. Soothed by its contact she struggled to reduce her chaotic thoughts to order. Sinclair Spencer had left her money—Sinclair Spencer had left her money—the sentence beat in her brain tirelessly. The idea was as repugnant to her as his personality had been. In life he had plagued her, and in death he had involved her in conspiracy and subjected her to cruel suspicion.

  Her father’s illness has aroused her from the torpor following Charles Miller’s departure the night before. She writhed even at the recollection of her scene with him. Again and again she had been on the point of sending for the police and denouncing him, but remembrance of the forty-eight hours of grace which she had granted him stayed her impulse.

  He had killed every spark of affection, she assured herself repeatedly; and then turned and tossed upon her pillows as vivid recollection painted each happy hour with him that winter.

  A moan broke from her, and at the sound a stealthy figure advancing from the sitting-room adjoining, stopped dead. Hearing no further sound, the intruder moved cautiously forward and bent over Kathleen.

  “Mademoiselle!”

  Kathleen’s eyes flew open. “Julie! You have come back!”

  “Hush, mademoiselle! Not so loud,” and Julie, dropping on her knees by the bed, laid a warning finger on Kathleen’s lips. Reaching out her hands, the latter clasped the Frenchwoman in a warm embrance, which was as warmly returned.

  “You have come back,” she repeated in a whisper. “Julie, you met with no harm?”

  “No, mademoiselle.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “No matter now, mademoiselle. I spent last night with Vincent’s sister, Marie Tregot. He smuggled me into the house a little while ago. He told me of all that you have been through. Oh, that I had stayed; but I acted for the best, mademoiselle.”

  “I am sure of that, Julie”—touched by the feeling in the maid’s voice.

  “I was misled”—bitterly—“and by one I thought to be trusted—Captain Miller.”

  “Julie! He did not offer.…”

  “No, no, mademoiselle”—Kathleen’s taut musc
les relaxed and she sank weakly back in bed. “But I have reason to believe that Captain Miller is not what he seems. Listen, mademoiselle: I was in M. Foster’s touring car—no matter how I came there now—last night. Henry was driving it. He knew not that I was in the tonneau. When he stopped the car and got out I watched him enter a residence in Nineteenth Street. I dared not stay longer in the car, and hid in the vestibule of the house adjoining the one he had entered. They are what you call semi-detached, and concealed I was very close at hand. I had been there but a short time when a man ran up the steps of the next house and I recognized Captain Miller. He entered and I waited long, oh, so long, when out came Henry and Captain Miller …”

  “Well?” prompted Kathleen, as Julie came to a breathless pause.

  “The Captain entered the car with Henry and drove off. After their departure I rang the bell of the house where I was hiding and asked the butler who were their next-door neighbors. He said Baron Frederic von Fincke.”

  “Oh, more evidence against him!” Kathleen drew in her breath sharply.

  “Mademoiselle?” But Kathleen did not explain her remark, and Julie continued hurriedly; “I at first thought to return here at once, but remembered Marie Tregot. She gave me house room, and I arranged with Vincent last night to admit me after dark today.”

  “But why not come openly, Julie? No one will harm you.”

  “Henry is a spy—a traitor—it did not suit my plans to have him know my whereabouts.”

  “But Julie.…”

  “Mademoiselle, have patience—bear with me but a little longer—” The excited Frenchwoman rose and going to both doors locked them. She returned and switched on the reading lamp. “Quelle horreur! Mademoiselle, what have these beasts done to you?” she exclaimed, aghast, inspecting Kathleen in consternation. “They shall pay for every sign of suffering in your face.”

  “Do not let us discuss me,” Kathleen sighed wearily. “Will you tell the police of your suspicions concerning Henry?”

  “No, mademoiselle.” Julie’s expression changed. “I like not the police just now. I have a plan of my own.” She checked herself abruptly. “Have you seen the Star?”

  “No, Julie.”

  “See, it says here”—pointing to a paragraph in a folded sheet torn from a newspaper which she drew from under her apron—“Fire at Roebling’s Plant of Incendiary Origin.’ Tell me, mademoiselle, what is Roebling’s?”

  “A factory near Trenton, New Jersey, which I believe”—Kathleen spoke somewhat uncertainly—“manufactures insulated as well as barbed wire.”

  “Ah, that is used in trench fighting!” The Frenchwoman took from the bodice of her black gown a crumpled telegram singed at the edges. “Henry received this but an hour ago. I watched, oh, so carefully. I saw him turn pale, and such was his haste to leave the house that he did not wait to see that the paper burned when he threw it in the grate. Can you translate it for me, mademoiselle?”

  Smoothing out the telegram, Kathleen, with the maid intently peering over her shoulder, read the words it contained besides the address, in puzzled silence:

  Trenton, hurry.

  Hartzmann.

  Chapter XXIII.

  In Full Cry

  Senator Foster, buttoning his overcoat against the March wind, left Calumet Place and sought his yellow touring car standing at the curb of an intersecting street near by. He had dispensed with the services of his chauffeur for that night. Seating himself behind the steering wheel, he started the machine down Fourteenth Street, so deep in thought that he barely missed running over two belated pedestrians scurrying to the sidewalk, and entirely missed the signals of a street-crossing policeman, who contented himself with a string of curses as he recognized the yellow car and bullied the next automobile chauffeur as a slight vent to his feelings.

  As Foster sped by the War, State, and Navy Building he noted the lights burning in widely separated office rooms and smiled grimly to himself. Parking the car near the Whitney residence, he made his way to the front door. Miss Kiametia Grey answered his impatient ring at the bell.

  “A nice hour for you to keep your appointment, and for me to see attractive men,” she grumbled, leading the way to the library. “Fortunately, I have a reputation for eccentricity—it saves me a great deal of annoyance, and covers—er—indiscretions.”

  “You—the most discreet of women,” protested Foster, seating himself on the sofa by her. “And I have come tonight to confide in you.…”

  “Have you?” dryly. “I doubt it; but go ahead”—generous encouragement in her tone.

  “How is Whitney?”

  “Pulse stronger, but still unconscious. Minna, poor child, insists that he knows her, and will not permit herself to believe in what I fear is the inevitable.”

  “Perhaps it is better so,” compassionately. “What should we do without hope in this world? I should not be surprised if Kathleen’s condition is graver than her father’s.” Meeting her surprised look, he tapped his forehead significantly. “Brain fever.”

  “She is acting queerly,” admitted the spinster. “Tonight she locked herself in her room, won’t see even the nurse, and refuses food.”

  “I fear the breaking point is near,” conceded Foster. “I did not like Dr. McLane’s manner when we met him on leaving Kathleen; he also is worried.”

  He paused and asked abruptly, “Has Kathleen seen Charles Miller?”

  “Not today.”

  “When was he last here?”

  “Let me see,” calculating on her fingers. “He came with you on Wednesday when I was here—today is Saturday.”

  “Did Kathleen see him on Wednesday?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Has he been here since?”

  “I can’t say; possibly the servants can tell you.”

  “Will you find out from them before I go?” Miss Kiametia nodded affirmatively, and he asked; “Has Kathleen spoken to you of seeing him since Spencer’s death?”

  “No.”

  “Has she ever confided to you whether she cares for him or not?”

  “Not in words,” dryly. “But my woman’s intuition tells me …”

  “Yes?” as she paused.

  “That Kathleen worships the ground he walks on.”

  “Too bad.” Foster sat back, looking troubled. “Too, too bad.”

  “What’s this? A deathbed repentance? You introduced Miller in Washington,” and the spinster’s sharp eyes bored into him.

  Foster moved uncomfortably. “I am sincerely sorry,” he mumbled. “I have been grossly deceived.”

  “Humph!” Miss Kiametia moved closer to his side. “Go on—confession is good for the soul.”

  “I can’t tell you just now,” was the disappointing rejoinder. “Who found Whitney in his studio this morning?”

  “I did; and a nice shock I had,” with a shudder. “The antics in this house are deranging my nervous system. I can’t even sleep.”

  “How did you happen to be around at that hour?”

  “Rosa had a bad attack of indigestion after serving dinner, and I promised to look in and see how she was during the night. Just as I came out of her room I thought I heard groans and rushed upstairs; found the studio door open, and by aid of my electric torch, found Winslow lying on the floor.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the room?”

  “No, I only had the light from the torch to guide me, and that is a very big room, with models and furniture standing around in odd spots.”

  “Why didn’t you turn on the electric lights?” impatiently.

  “Couldn’t find the switch. I did press a button, the only one I could locate in my haste, and it brought Henry, who switched on the lights for me.”

  “And afterward did you find any trace of papers’ having been stolen? Drawers opened, or anything?”

  “I never looked to see.” Foster sat back in bitter disappointment. “All I thought about was breaking the news of Winslow’s condition to Minna and Kath
leen, and getting a doctor. Henry attended to that; and I went downstairs, awoke Minna,” she hesitated perceptibly, “Kathleen I found sitting in her bedroom—dressed.”

  “What!” Foster shot her a swift glance. “Asleep?”

  “No. Just sitting there, apparently too dazed to realize my presence, let alone what I told her. Finally she grasped the news of her father’s illness, and her grief was bitter.”

  “Poor girl!”

  Miss Kiametia fingered her gown nervously. “You were in Baltimore when the newspapers published Spencer’s will, and this afternoon Dr. McLane interrupted us,” she began. “Is it really true that Sinclair Spencer left Kathleen a small fortune?”

  “Yes. On investigation, I find he held valuable stock, as well as improved real estate of known value.”

  “Sinclair Spencer was a bad egg,” said Miss Kiametia slowly. “It would have been like him to boast of his wealth to Kathleen, and by its power seek to influence her to accept him.”

  “A man will do anything to win the woman he loves,” said Foster, with a sidelong look of affection utterly lost on the spinster, who sat deep in thought.

  “A large legacy,” she commented aloud. “It establishes a motive which I thought lacking before.”

  “Kiametia!” Foster shook her elbow roughly. “What are you hinting at?”

  “Hush!” The spinster pointed to the portieres in the doorway leading to the drawing-room. “Who is lurking there?”

  She spoke in a subdued whisper which reached Foster’s ears alone, but as he rose, startled, the portieres parted and Detective Mitchell walked over to them.

  “Have you seen Captain Charles Miller?” he asked eagerly, omitting other greeting.

  “No,” they replied in concert.

  “Strange! I saw him enter the front door half an hour ago, using a latchkey.”

  “Charles Miller with a latchkey of this house!” gasped Miss Kiametia.

  “Yes,” declared Mitchell, “and I have searched the house and cannot find him.”

  “Perhaps he came to see Kathleen,” suggested Foster.