Chapter 14 of The Wife of the Secretary of State The Honourable Cecil Lindhurst signed his name at the end of the page and breathed the sigh of satisfaction. The Metropolitan Club was comparatively empty, save for a few faithful landmarks who could always be relied upon to be present at that time in the afternoon, and he glanced carelessly around, returning a casual nod or two, before picking up the many closely written sheets and reading over them carefully. My dear Bobby, do you remember Egypt in our tour of duty there?  I've not thought of it all for years until quite lately, but it is uppermost in my mind just now, so I naturally feel inclined to write to you. After all barring a few mishaps it was a jolly enough old time to look back upon. Do you remember the frantic excitement which prevailed when the jewels were lost in our suspicions that they had been sold? Well, Bobby, the Cadiz Opals are here in Washington. I myself have seen them. What is more, they are the property of the wife of the Secretary of State, the First Minister of the Cabinet. Don't ask me how she got them. I don't know, but I do know that she wears them regally and they suit her much better than they did that corpulent old heathen who sported them the first time I saw them. No, I am not mistaken. They are the real thing. The question is, how came they here? Naturally one cannot express surprise that the jewels one's hostess elects to wear, but Bobby, how did it all happen? Mrs. Redman is a stunning looking woman, very much to the manor born. I dined there last night and she wore the Opals again. I hope I did not stare unduly, but I felt as though my eyes would bulge out of my head. The Cadiz Opals think of it, and she wore them as calmly as though they were a string of glass beads. Do you remember that unfinished sketch and watercolors of a girl's head coming out of the clouds that we found among poor Bernie Hurtford's things in Berlin, and which I kept because I liked it? It was called Star of the World, I believe. Somehow I always think of that when I see Mrs. Redman.  With them? Well, you can imagine the combination. The diplomatic kettle is boiling hard and I sometimes fear it may splash over and burn somebody's fingers. The Ruschuk affair, of course, is at the bottom of the trouble. Dupre is here, garrulous and inquisitive as of old, and Russia has sent Waldmeer on special duty. Further comment on that score is unnecessary. Our chief has assigned to me the very unwelcome task of following up the Ruschuk matter and getting all possible information concerning it to be embodied in a report to the Home Office. You know him and his methods, I do not like them and may ask to be recalled. I have had word from the Paris Secret Service that that old fox, Colonel Syngin, has been traced to America and have pulled the wires on this side to track him to his covert. You know I never saw him, but once, and yet I think I would recognize him anywhere. Well, not long ago, as I was going out to dinner one night, I thought I saw him. I gave chase, of course, but lost him in an alley, got bogged in some deserted garden and was unpardonably late for dinner in consequence. Sometimes I feel half inclined to drop the whole thing, but then I think of Bertie, poor old chap, with that nasty hole in his temple, the first Hertford to besmirch the name, and of Evelyn. One does not like to see youth hope and happiness snatched from one's twin sister at a single fell swoop, and when I think of Evee's eyes and lips, when she first heard the truth about the man she loved. Why, then, I am determined Colonel Syngin and his daughter shall reap what they have sown, if it takes every pound I have in the world to bring it about. Except for diplomacy, my chosen career, I should be enjoying myself immensely. I think I like America and Americans on the whole. They wear well.  Chuck Berlin and the Stolid Foylines, and try the states with their goddesses of liberty. You will find the change inspiring. Come over, old man, and after a while we will get a leave and steal away to the rocky mountains and the prairies of the far west after big gain. I like this country and want to explore it further. Come and help me. Lindhurst. P.S. I am sending you under separate cover the sketch of Star of the World. Please try and find out if it is a fancy head, and, if not, the name of the model. Bobby, I am haunted by those obels. L. Lindhurst addressed an envelope to Lord Robert Trusillian, Embassy of Great Britain, Berlin, and stamped it with great care. Then he strolled to the window and was enthusiastically greeted by Molesia de Pre, who occupied a chair commanding an unobstructed view of the street. The Metropolitan Club stands on a corner of an important thoroughfare, and is admirably situated for the edification of window gazers. Sit down, said the little Frenchman cordially. Sit down, I can make room. It is really entertaining, is it not? What, inquired Lindhurst idly. To see the women run for the streetcars return the other with a chuckle. How droll they look to be sure, and how vexed they are, when just as they think they have arrived they discover they have not. Lindhurst laughed, but declined the chair. They hear the car approaching around the corner, resumed Molesia de Pre, with evident enjoyment of his theme. Then they clutch their skirts tight in the back with one hand and scuttle. It is to them the last car in the world, and they strive nobly if vainly for it. When it passes them they look up and down the street with a vacant smile as though to say, I wonder if anyone saw me. Now, my dear Madame, he continued, apostrophizing a stout female, strenuously endeavouring to reach the corner in time. Believe me, it is useless as well as most ungrateful. Women and cows should never run. Ah, I would, I were an artist. The Englishman laughed again as the stout lady looked furtively about with the vapid smile described by his companion, while the car sped on without her. Do you really mean to say, Dupré? He inquired curiously that you sit for hours in that window just for this. Why not return the little attaché dryly? It is amusing, n'est-ce pas? It is also harmless, which many amusements are not. Then why not indulge oneself? Also I have made a discovery.  It is not so with little girls, a point for a student of femininity to elucidate. Miss Barlow makes her debut this afternoon. Do you attend? No? Perhaps you are wise. She is a plain little girl with a poor complexion, and there is usually more apollinaris than champagne in the punch they serve. But Monsieur Dupré found himself declining to space, for l'interst had caught a glimpse of a brown velvet gown and a coil of red-gold hair in the drugstore opposite, and lost no time in following it. We are going to do something very hazardous as soon as Mrs. Redman can decide on the proper quantity of ores in her sachet. Announced Miss Bird as he greeted them with genuine surprise and counterfeit surprise. Perhaps if you are very good we will take you with us. I am a stranger in a strange land. He returned solemnly. I do not wish to do anything very desperate at the outset of my career. Mrs. Redman turned from the counter and took up her moth. I think you will be entirely safe, Mr. Linterst. She remarked cordially. Miss Bird is going to take me to a haunted house quite near. The ghost is very genuine, of course, and very terrible. I shall be glad of your protection. It is the octagon house, explained Isabelle, as they turned into 18th Street. Perhaps you have already been there. But Linterst replied absently as he looked about him with some curiosity. Is this the place? He inquired with very evident surprise as they paused before the old house. Surely he checked himself abruptly and followed his guide up the Whitestone steps. Was your blood curdle in your veins? demanded the girl as she opened the door and entered the circular hall. See, it is not even locked. No one would ever take refuge in the octagon house at night. Is it quite empty? inquired Linterst after a moment's silence. Is it used for no purpose, whatever? You cannot see that it is a deserted house, replied Isabelle quickly. I believe there is a janitor or caretaker, but one never meets him. What do you think of it, Estelle? Mrs. Redmond glanced about. It is charming, she exclaimed, looking at the curved stairway with the broad window on the landing and the quaint old stoves on each side of the hall. Tell us its history, Isabelle. And Isabelle told them, leading the way from room to room until she came to the dining room, which bore traces of recent occupancy. Four cigar ashes lay on the single-deal table and a scrap of paper covered with figures had fallen to the floor. See, she said, pointing to the table, how incongruous it looks. The caretaker lives on the top floor. I suppose he uses this room sometimes. There are secret doors every here and there. I used to know how to open some of them. She pressed a panel in the wall beside her and a door slowly swung open, leading into a small triangular space with a large window looking out on 18th Street. There is also a door going into the hall. She continued, opening it as she spoke and leading the way out. Very few people know of these passages. See, here is another. It is possible to go from the hall to the attic and no one would be any the wiser. Lindhurst had lingered in the space of the dining room. He was gazing as though fascinated at the frame of the window, where the wood was splintered until it was rough and uneven, and had a rusty nail in the floor. At last he carefully untangled several long strands of hair from the former. They were red-gold in color and glittered in the rays of the setting sun. Stooping hastily he removed something from the nail. It was a strip of pale blue gauze. The honorable Cecil folded it carefully and put it in his card case. Then he joined the ladies on the landing where they stood looking through the broad window into the weedy old garden with its neglected brick wall and muddy walks. Every of the garden, Isabelle was saying, is an alley, which runs through from F Street to New York Avenue, supplemented Mrs. Richmond. Why Estelle? How do you know so much about it? One would think you had been here before. I have never been in the house, Isabelle, but I know the neighborhood. As to the alley, it is a natural supposition that leads from one street to another. Is it not, Mr. Lindhurst? Quite correct in this case, Mrs. Redmond, he returned, watching Isabelle closely. I know, for I had occasion to go down it one stormy night not too long ago, and about half way through the wall is broken, leaving quite a gap in the garden. One might easily crawl through if one did not mind the mud on the other side. Mrs. Redmond moves suddenly. Come, she said quickly, we are wasting time. It is getting late, and I really must look in on the barlows this afternoon. Take us upstairs, Isabelle, and let us see all we can. And Isabelle led the way. Her head held very erect and a scarlet spot glowing on each cheek. Up on the top floor the caretaker sat stupidly on the side of the couch and rubbed his eyes drowsily. Colonel Singin had become a very busy man of late. He must perform the duties of watchmen at the State Department and maintain his establishment in Jackson City, as well as do certain necessary drafting work, and he found this multiplicity of duties irksome. The sound of voices below did not surprise them, as the old house was frequently visited before nightfall, and he knew he was secure from interruption in his remote room. He heard the visitor's pause in the upper hall and a man's voice comment on the ingenious plan of the interior. You must see the basement, Mr. Lindhurst, said a woman's voice, I think, but what she thought did not interest Colonel Singin. He sat stolidly upon his cot and put his hand to his head, as though endeavoring to recall something. Lindhurst. The name seemed suggestive. Suddenly an ashen pallor overspread his face, and his weak lips trembled uncontrollably. The fear of the hunted shone in his eyes, and his fingers twitched nervously. Colonel Singin had remembered. Voices and footsteps retreated and finally became inaudible, although he listened for them with strained attention. It seemed to him hours that he sat motionless upon the unsteady cot, although it was in reality, but a few moments before he rose and stole noiselessly into the hall. Zimpuls was for instant flight, and he wished to assure himself that the coast was clear. So he crept quietly to the banisters and looked over them, looked down the winding stairway, passed the window on the landing into the hall below. He also looked directly into Mrs. Redmond's blue eyes as she stood waiting for her companions and admiring the symmetrical curves of the stairway as it wound its way to the third floor. Beads of cold perspiration appeared on Colonel Singin's forehead, running in chilly little rivers down his neck as he clutched the banisters and stared as though fascinated into the eyes raised to his, in which the first candid surprise was gradually replaced by a shadow of puzzled uncertainty, fast changing into incredulous horror. Summoning all his resolution to his assistance, the old man detached himself from the banisters and stumbled to his room. God in heaven, he exclaimed, as he again sank down on his couch. This country is no place for me. Isabelle and her companion, returning from exploring the basement, found Mrs. Redmond on the outside steps, white-lipped in pallid. What is it, said the girl quickly? What is it, Estelle? I think," replied Mrs. Redmond with a strange little laugh. I think, Isabelle, I have seen the ghost. CHAPTER XV I have seen the ghost! Mrs. Redmond repeated, as she stood alone in her room an hour or so later. The woman whose book of life contains no turned down page is doubtless to be congratulated. Her record is wonderfully smooth and legible, without a crumpled leaf or a defacing blot, and she is entitled to look upon it with complacency or display it to the world at large. She may even submit it to the eyes of her dear five hundred friends and be quite safe in so doing, for they will not read it, it will not interest them. If, however, this record were less fair and legible, with pages creased or blotted, and here and there some gone entirely, these same dear friends would, in all probability, scan it eagerly, condemning what they could not understand, and supplying the necessary pages with avidity. Therefore it behooves one to be careful of one's manuscript. It is, on the whole, wiser to be immaculate than interesting. Estelle Redmond wanted to be alone. Her temples throbbed painfully, and she was conscious of a tightening of the muscles of her throat and a desire to lie face downward among the pillows on her couch and stay there indefinitely. Through the half-open door she could see her maid moving about, arranging the accessories of her toilet, and she knew that in a few minutes she must dress for dinner. Josephine entered quietly and laid the delicate gown upon the bed, touching it softly, with a true French woman's appreciation of its texture. In ten minutes, said Mrs. Redmond, and the maid withdrew. Twenty minutes passed, and when she again ventured to open the door, her mistress still stood beside the window, gazing fixedly out into the night. Madame perhaps likes to watch the snow, remarked Josephine suggestively, and Mrs. Redmond acquiesced, although for the first time aware of the great white flakes falling silently. Josephine, she said after a long pause, while the maid brushed out her dark hair and skillfully arranged it, it's Christmas Eve, isn't it? Yes, Madame, replied the girl, wonderingly, I sent your packages as you directed, and James will take the flowers to the hospitals himself early in the morning. Christmas Eve, she repeated absently, it seems so strange. Josephine deftly inserted a hairpin and looked critically at the result. Madame is a little pale, she observed thoughtfully, just a touch of rouge perhaps, a mere soup sawn? Mrs. Redmond anxiously studied her reflection in the mirror and willingly submitted to the suggested soup sawn. I must look well tonight, she said quickly. Very well, Josephine! Are you sure my hair is just right? It seems to me too high from my forehead. Oh, Madame, it is perfect! Do not destroy my work, I entreat you! cried Josephine in heart-rending accents, and Mrs. Redmond may know further suggestions, but joined her husband in response to his message that the carriage had been waiting for some time. The secretary tucked the fur robe carefully about his wife, and attention he never delegated to the footman. To the British Embassy, he said, as he leaned back in his corner thoughtfully. The day had wrought renewed anxieties, and the prospect of the evening was distasteful to him. Mrs. Redmond, however, sat erect, her hands clenched under her cloak, and her breath coming and going quickly between her parted lips. They sat thus, each too preoccupied to notice the unusual silence of the other, until the footman threw open the carriage door, and they became aware that they were under the port-cocher of the British Assembly, with the lion and the unicorn struggling valiantly for the crown above them. Once inside the big red brick house, one realized that the yuletide was indeed at hand, for holly and mistletoe predominated in the decorations, and the pungent odor of evergreens replaced the customary perfume of roses most acceptably. Really, remarked the Honorable Cecil Lindhurst, as he greeted Miss Bird preparatory to taking her into dinner. I had no idea when I saw you a few hours ago that I was to have this pleasure. It's awfully jolly in Lady Desmond to send us in together, but perhaps you don't agree with me. And Miss Bird replied that it was very jolly indeed. You know a small dance follows. He continued as they entered the dining-room. How many will you give me? Remember, it is Christmas, and be generous. I don't feel like dancing to-night. Returned the girl. I'm tired, I think, but I will sit out the first and fifth with you, if that will do as well. We are leaving early, because Aunt Mary wants to go to the first service tomorrow. Lindhurst turned and looked at her curiously. Her manner was without its usual vivacity, and her voice spiritless. Was your Christmas doll stuffed with sawdust? He inquired, smiling. Or has the season began to pawl upon you already? No, she replied with a little laugh. It's not that. I believe it's the shadow of the octagon house. If I were superstitious, I would think the ghost haunted me or had cast a spell over me. I wish we had never gone there. How did it affect you? Well, he responded, to be truthful, I think it made me very hungry. Isabelle shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and, turning pointedly to her other neighbor, began to exchange the customary polite inanities with him while Lindhurst reflectively absorbed his soup in silence.  Everyone should have some small talk, she complained later when discussing the subject with her husband, and the British Ambassador remarked that he believed the Department of State was getting a bit involved, and naturally the head thereof was preoccupied. Madame, said Monsieur Dupré to Mrs. Redmond later that evening, this is our dance. Pardon me, interrupted Count Vladimir quickly, you are mistaken, Dupré, Mrs. Redmond promised me this dance, is it not so, Madame? He spoke confidently, and Mrs. Redmond acquiesced with a brief word of apology to the little Frenchman, who bowed profoundly and twisted his mustache savagely as he withdrew. Poor Dupré, said Count Vladimir with a short laugh, it is unkind to rob him this way, but the music is divine and the floor excellent. We will not dance, said Mrs. Redmond quietly, I wish to talk to you. I am flattered, Madame. They found a sofa in a small inner drying-room, and he carefully arranged a cushion at her back. I wish you did not hate me so cordially, he said, with a ring of evidence and serity in his tone.  The light in Count Vladimir's eyes would have surprised his diplomatic associates had they been present, but Mrs. Redmond looked beyond him through the holly-decked room with no apparent realization of his proximity. Suddenly she began to speak, her voice expressionless and mechanical. I went this afternoon to the octagon house, she said slowly, with Miss Bird and Mr. Lindhurst. Yes, he responded interrogatively. Count Vladimir's eyes were entirely normal now, and his voice calmly interested. I saw him, she continued with an obvious effort, a moment's silence followed as he caressed his mustache without replying. You told me he was dead, she resumed slowly, and I believed you, in spite of everything, I believed you. I also, Madame, believed it when I told you, I thought my authority good, I assure you, she made an impatient motion with her hand as though to wave aside any protestations. He is, of course, in your pay, she said quietly, you make a strong combination, Count. He bent forward a little that he might better see her face. I am sorry you saw him, he said earnestly, it was not my intention to distress you in this way, he did not know you were in America and I should never have enlightened him, I regret it extremely. You were always solicitous for my welfare, she remarked dryly, I am indebted to you for many acts of thoughtfulness, Count Vladimir. Listen, he interrupted authoritatively, I can force him to leave the country and when I am through with him he shall go, meanwhile he will not annoy you upon one condition. The lace upon her corsage moved quickly and she clasped her hands with a sudden involuntary motion. A short time, he said quietly, a few weeks perhaps and it will all be over, I shall have returned to Russia and he shall go also, I swear it, what are a few weeks now compared to the years which are to come? The long years, she returned with a quiet shiver. He watched her keenly, his eyes narrowing strangely. You agree, he said abruptly. On Christmas Eve, said Mrs. Redmond, as though continuing a train of thought, he went away and left me alone in Paris without friends or money, you know. Yes, I know. I had a struggle, but I lived honestly. After a while I met my husband, we came here and I began a new life. I was happy until I saw you, and now on Christmas Eve, he too appears in Washington. Tell me, said Count Vladimir, as she paused uncertainly, what you would do to render your future absolutely secure and happy. Through the open door the voice of the British ambassador could be heard in eloquent narration of his prowess on the hunting field, mingled with staccato notes of feminine admiration as his companion endeavored to appear politely interested. Count Vladimir repeated his question, compelling Mrs. Redmond to raise her eyes to his by the intensity of his will. There is nothing I would not do, she said unwillingly. Nothing. The smoldering fire generally kept so well hidden, shown in the Russian's eyes for the second time that night. Then you agree, he said again, his voice modulated to careful indifference. I agree, she replied firmly, God forgive me, I agree. Not later than Thursday, he said slowly, you remember, I explained the reason once before, I shall expect you. On Thursday then? On Thursday, she repeated decidedly. The British ambassador had finished his description of the hunt and passed through bound for the card-room, stopping to exchange a word with Mrs. Redmond and rout.  And the ambassador laughed and passed on. My dance, Mrs. Redmond, said Lindhurst, who had followed in the wake of his chief. There is no end of holly and mistletoe in the ballroom, and everybody looks quite festive except Miss Bird, who says she is still under the shadow of the octagon house and can't be persuaded to waltz. I hope our expedition did not affect you the same way. Our revoir, madame," remarked Count Vladimir, stooping to pick up her handkerchief, and many thanks. Mrs. Redmond rose and moved towards the door with a subdued rustle of silken skirts and the dissemination of an odor of violets. By the way count, she said, pausing suddenly, I will send you that translation you mentioned the other day, it is quite ready, I meant to have it sent before this. Madame," he replied, bowing, you are more than kind, I shall value it as your work. Josephine's soup-son of rouge was quite unnecessary as Mrs. Redmond turned away and entered the ballroom, where she chanced to encounter the secretary thankfully depositing a stout dowager in a convenient corner. She willingly assented to his whispered request for an early departure and heard the carriage door slam with a sigh of evident relief. You are tired, dear," he remarked, fondly putting his arm about her, much to the detriment of the lace and chiffon of her gown. She acquiesced quietly and the drive home was accomplished in silence. Contrary to her usual custom, Mrs. Redmond did not go to the library with her husband while he smoked the cigar without which he never felt the day properly concluded and listened to her narration of its events and plans for the morrow. Instead, she went at once to her room and hastily getting into a dressing-gown dismissed her sleepy maid with a kind good night and a courteous word of acknowledgment of her services. Mrs. Redmond was uniformly considerate of her servants and correspondingly popular with them. Josephine gone, she opened a drawer in her jewel case and took there from a small leather box, shabby and worn, with the unmistakable air of having passed through various vicissitudes and suffered much in transit. An odd assortment of treasures was revealed when the cover was lifted. Newspaper clippings, bits of broken jewelry, one or two letters, yellow and faded with time, and an old-fashioned daguerreotype in its velvet case. Mrs. Redmond pressed the spring of the latter. It contained the pictures of a man and a woman set about with brilliance. The woman was young and remarkably lovely. The blue eyes which looked out of the faded case were strangely like the eyes which gazed down at them and softened as they looked until a mist hid the picture from view. This mist was replaced by an angry sparkle as Mrs. Redmond looked from the woman to the man. Young, well groomed and handsome, with blue eyes also, and an engaging appearance of frankness, he seemed a fitting companion to the girl framed beside him. Yet upon closer scrutiny the chin showed weakness, the thin lips both cruelty and cunning, and one felt rather sorry for her after all. The ghost, said Mrs. Redmond aloud, the ghost who is responsible for much. She closed the box, walked over to the window, and, lifting the heavy curtain, looked out into the street, her forehead pressed against the glass. On Thursday, she said mechanically, on Thursday. The snow had ceased to fall and the city spread away into space, draped in a white mantle whose beautifying touch purified the most unsavory regions, and lent an added charm to the dignified buildings of the government and handsome dwellings of the wealthy. An occasional carriage passed. Now and then a party of holly-ladened merry-makers returned from a late expedition to the market, and not far away the boy-choir of St. John's, returning from the midnight service, chanted the tidings of great joy brought by the star in the east to the wise men of old. The secretary quickly dispatched his cigar and followed his wife upstairs. He joined her at the window, and, putting his arm about her waist, listened to the sweet young voices grow gradually fainter until they died away in the distance. Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men! He repeated softly as he drew the curtain. CHAPTER XVI. Peace on earth! Goodwill towards men! It is the old message of the Christmas Tide repeated annually for many centuries, yet always welcomed and rejoiced in. Peace on earth! God's earth today not man's, and therefore peaceful indeed. The very atmosphere is different from yesterday, and unlike what may be expected tomorrow, one should drink deeply thereof, for it is soon adulterated. Goodwill towards men. For this one day goodwill towards men. Three hundred and sixty-four days for envy, hatred, and malice. Just one day for charity. Therefore make the most of it. Forgive, and if possible, forget. Goodwill towards men. Colonel St. John went to the window of his Jackson City residence, breathed on the frosty pane, rubbed it clear with his coat sleeve, and looked out. The Potomac was frozen almost solid, and the long bridge, outlined in snow and fringed with icicles, glittered in the sunshine while above the snow-drape roofs and steeples, the Washington Monument merged its stately shaft into the horizon. Colonel St. John had an eye for the beautiful and admired the picture even while he cursed his ill luck, for destiny obliged him to walk across that glistening bridge, and it was very slippery. The slothfulness of Jackson City by daylight bears but little resemblance to its activity by night, and but few pedestrians were abroad to wish Colonel St. John a merry Christmas as he closed and locked his front door, turned up the collar of his coat, and sallied forth. One small voice did indeed venture to salute him with the Christmas gift of the south, and he flung a silver dollar at the little darkie, who sprang gleefully to pick it up, astonished at the munificence of the gift. Colonel St. John felt warmer and more cheerful as he parted with the coin. He almost believed himself a well-disposed charitable fellow, after all, but a victim of circumstances. It was nearly noon when he ascended the steps of the Octagon House and pushed open the front door with a furtive look up and down the street as though fearing someone would question his right of entrance. The cheerless exterior of the old red brick structure presented a marked contrast to the neighboring residences with wreaths of holly in their windows and the indefinable air of festivity inseparable from the season. The Octagon House was not decked with holly nor were any evidences of goodwill apparent to the casual observer. Peaceful indeed it might be considered, if by peace is understood, the pall of silence which envelops long unused rooms where the fall of a footstep reverberates with hollow distinctness and the sound of a voice awakens, unexpected and unwelcome echoes, which die away reluctantly, as though unwilling to become even an integral portion of the oppressively obtrusive space. Colonel St. John shivered as he mounted the winding staircase and hastened towards the room at the top of the house where he had placed a cot and a few articles of furniture, among them an oil stove whose warmth he felt would be most acceptable. He had an engagement that morning which admitted of no postponement, also a bit of unfinished work which must be completed where he felt secure from interruption, so he lighted his stove and drawing the small table close to it bent anxiously over the sheet of tracing paper with its unfinished outlines and marginal notes which awaited his attention. He worked carefully for some minutes, then dropped his pen and pushed back his chair impatiently. The oil stove smoked and filled the atmosphere with its pungent and unpleasant odor, but Colonel St. John sat absorbed in thought unconscious of his surroundings and oblivious of the fleeting moments. After a while he drew from his pocket a shabby leather case and studied its contents with interest. It contained two likenesses, one a woman in the full glory of her young beauty, the other a laughing baby. Colonel St. John glanced casually at the woman but scrutinized the baby closely. The wife of the Secretary of State, he ejaculated aloud, his wife. Laying the open case upon the table at his side, he resumed his pen while his lips parted in a slow, sinister smile and his close-set eyes narrowed until they seemed like mere slits. Meanwhile downstairs the front door swung slowly open. It was not essential to be provided with a key in order to enter the octagon house. Indeed, its lock had long ago refused to work and no one had considered it necessary to repair it. The visitor advanced to the rear of the hall with a manner of one familiar with his surroundings, and passing through a door at the left began his ascent to the top by means of a back stairway so constructed as to be entirely separate and apart from the rest of the house. He moved quietly, picking his way with care and occasionally pausing to brush a bit of dust or cobweb from his coat, for the spiders had long been busy on the old back stairs. And again the front door opened and shut, its creaking hinges complaining fretfully of overwork. Out in the garden the snow lay smooth and spotless, covering even the broken wall with its kindly mantle of purity. Had anyone glanced from the large window on the landing they might have seen a woman force her way through the gap and over the unsteady pile of bricks at its base. She moved quickly, holding her long dark cloak closely about her and advancing with the steady determination which permits not even a glance to the right or the left, lest progress may thereby be retarded. The rusty latch of the back door yielded reluctantly to her touch as she slipped quietly inside and looked about. She was quite alone. The spiders on the back stairs told no tales of the disturber of their peace who had so recently passed that way, and the stairs themselves looked dark and uninviting so she hesitated a moment, then went into the front hall stopping now and then to listen and drawing her cloak closer as though to keep the penetrating chill of the place from reaching her heart. At the foot of the stairs she paused, her hand on the rail. Was that a noise? Only a mouse in the wall she murmured as she began the ascent. Colonel St. John, bending over the little table, was conscious of a draft. A blast of cold air struck the back of his neck unpleasantly, and with a muttered maldiction on the untrustworthy latch of the door he rose to investigate. A woman stood on the threshold, tall and slender, with both hands raised to untie the dark veil which obscured her face. The hand shook slightly, and the knot proved obstinate, but at last the veil was removed and she looked full at the old man who stared incredulously in return, his jaw dropping and his lips twitching uncontrollably. Estelle, he ejaculated at last. Estelle? Yes, she replied slowly. Estelle, you are alone? He whispered apprehensively, after several ineffectual efforts to speak. Quite alone, she returned coldly, I am in your power, not you in mine. Colonel St. John's countenance resumed its normal expression, and he placed a chair for his guest with a suggestion of the courtly manner for which he had once been famous. He recognized me yesterday, he remarked easily, with the casual manner of one desirous of making conversation. She nodded absently. It was most kind in you to look me up so soon, he continued cordially. I confess I did not expect it. She opened her bag and produced a blank check, which she folded unconsciously into little squares. How much will you take to leave the country? she inquired curtly. Colonel St. John adjusted the wick of his oil-stove carefully and eyed the bit of pink paper with genuine admiration. The world has gone well with you, my dear, he remarked thoughtfully. I rejoice in your good fortune. Perhaps some reflected glory may fall on me, though as yet I have not profited. A board in the hall without creek suddenly and hoe crossed quickly to the door and opened it. The passage was quite empty and Colonel St. John shrugged his shoulders skeptically as he returned to his visitor. I am expecting Vladimir, he remarked casually. I thought he might perhaps have arrived. Estelle Redmond had risen, and as the old man advanced lifted her eyes to his eyes no longer blue and cold with a spark of anger in them, but purple and softened by a mist of tears. Father, she whispered involuntarily. Father, his brow contracted suddenly, and he sank into the chair beside the table, while she bent over him, her hand upon his shoulder, and a loose tendril of her hair brushing his wrinkled cheek.  I have been so happy, she continued, after waiting a moment for a reply. I'm married, had you heard? I never met an honorable man before, I don't think I even knew the word, until my husband introduced me to it. I never realized the way good men looked at things, things we did, you know, and I would rather die than have him hear about them. Somewhere outside, a sleigh passed, the sound of its jingling bells, forcing itself obtrusively into the quiet room. As she again paused for a reply, she noticed the open case upon the table, with its rubbed and faded cover, and the two faces, the woman and the baby. Estelle carefully brushed a speck of dust from the face of the woman.  Colonel St. John raised his head and looked beyond his daughter. A quiet movement of the doorknob had arrested his attention, and his eyes focused anxiously upon it. Very slowly the door opened. A little way only, but far enough for the old man to see distinctly, the finger placed on the lips of the listening face, a finger imperatively commanding silence, even as the eyes which met his managed to convey a threat. Colonel St. John made an effort to speak, and shook off the little hand which lay on his as though fearing it might convey some subtle and undue influence. You'll go away, said the soft voice, close to his ear. Every month I'll send you money, and you can live somewhere quietly and honestly. My life's happiness is at stake, you understand, don't you?" Yes, he understood. Colonel St. John was not lacking in intelligence and fully appreciated the situation. It seemed to him to contain a surprising number of possibilities, and he could not help wishing he had been allowed to deal with it alone and unobserved. As it was, however, the door moved ever so little, and he felt it was incumbent upon him to speak. Was it quite prudent in you to come here this morning? He inquired with the impersonal manner of a wholly disinterested observer, and his daughter straightened herself abruptly with a disappointed sigh. I might have known, she said bitterly. I might have known. The folded check fell upon the floor, and he stopped furtively to pick it up. It's not signed. He whispered eagerly, coming closer. Estelle, you've forgotten to sign it. My, my dear, the door was wide open now, but the whole attention of the old man was concentrated upon the bit of creased pink paper. Here's a pen, he continued, turning to the table.   He smoothed out the check carefully, and dipped the pen in the ink. Now, he exclaimed persuasively, now, my dear child, but the hand which closed upon the pen was larger than Colonel St. John expected, and he turned swiftly, his assured manner giving way to a deprecating smile as Count Vladimir tore the check in bits and contemptuously tossed aside the fragments. So, said that gentleman, is the greed for money so great you choose to ignore the fact I could both see and hear? A family matter count, the Colonel stammered, uneasily. A little gift for my daughter, nothing more. Mrs. Redmond had crossed the room and stood leaning her forehead against the dusty pane of a closed window, whose broken shutter admitted little rays of light, which seemed mere suggestions of the cheerful world without in its holiday array. The Russian watched her a moment in silence, then followed her quietly. Had you not better go home, he suggested gently. Believe me, it was a mistake to come here. You should have trusted me. I did not intend he should annoy you. Accept. Well, she said as he paused and certainly. Accept. Accept is a last resort, he returned slowly.  She did not reply in the old man behind them, bent sharply forward, almost losing his balance and his anxiety to hear their whispered words. It is not easy to outwit me, continued Count Vladimir after a moment's silence, nor is it safe to defy me. I set a price upon your happiness, and it remains with you to pay. Is it worth the price? Mrs. Redmond slowly turned and faced the two men. The shadows beneath her eyes showed dark and distinct, in marked contrast to the paler of her cheeks which seemed to have suddenly lost their rounded contour and become chalk-like and hollow, ignoring the Russian. At her side she addressed Colonel St. John, who involuntarily bent his gaze upon the floor and shuffled his feet uneasily, after the manner of one who would feign escape in ordeal. I came here this morning, she said, intending to bribe you to leave the country, but when I saw you I remembered you were my father, and after all the tie of blood is strong. I appealed to you for my mother's sake, for I always cherished the thought you must once have loved her. I see however I was wrong. Oh! she continued, her voice breaking uncontrollably.  Is it necessary? Hush! interrupted Count Vladimir imperatively. He stepped softly into the hall, and listened intently. Returning after a moment's breathless silence, he carefully closed the door and attempted to turn the key. It won't lock, said the old man tremulously. It won't lock. Be silent, commanded Count Vladimir, in a sharp whisper. The sound of footsteps was distinctly audible upon the bare boards of the floor below, wandering footsteps apparently, with no special destination in view, for they ceased entirely now and then, as though undecided whether to retreat or advance, they finally could be heard, descending the stairs with many pauses and an evident inclination to return to the upper regions. Count Vladimir nodded towards a partly open door at his left. Does that room communicate with the hall? he inquired abruptly. Colonel St. John shook his head. It's only outlet is through here, he replied. The footsteps ceased for a moment, then recommenced, this time again in the ascendant. Quick! said the Russian touching Mrs. Redman on the shoulder and pointing to the inner room. As she hesitated a moment, looking distrustfully at the faces of the two men, he leaned forward and whispered a single word. Mrs. Redman lingered no longer. With an apprehensive glance towards the hall, she hastened into the bare little inner room and heard the click of the latch as the door closed after her. With a quick revulsion of feeling, she put out her hand to again open the door, but discovered only the blank surface presented by the inside of an ordinary closet door. There was no knob and the latch was on the other side. Colonel St. John smiled as he heard the snap of the latch. In obedience to a gesture of his companion, however, he made no remark but turned a strained attention to the footsteps which drew nearer past the door, paused on the upper landing, repast and again descended the stairs, briskly now as one having a definite purpose and view. As the sound became gradually fainter, Count Vladimir cautiously reconnoitered. Returning after an absence of some minutes, he beckoned the old man to follow him and together they descended the stairs until they reached the large window on the first landing. Look, he said, indicating the garden below, and Colonel St. John looked. He saw an expanse of snow, white and unbroken, save where someone had recently passed from the gap in the wall to the old back door. He saw also a man walking towards the wall, moving slowly with bent head as though deep in thought. Lindhurst said the Russian briefly. The old man made an inarticulate sound somewhere between a gasp and a snarl and shrank back against the baluster. Do you realize what he is doing? Colonel St. John shook his head, speech having for the time deserted him. He is following your daughter's footprints in the snow. He will take the woman, muttered Colonel St. John, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. They always make complications.  America's getting hot, eh, Colonel? He remarked quietly. It behooves you to finish my work and vanish. Well, he resumed after waiting in vain for a reply. There is not much more to do. The crisis, Colonel, is approaching. Do you go on duty as Watchman today? Good. The Secretary has, in his possession, the synopsis of the President's policy. I desire the paper in my possession within the next few days. It is in his private desk and no doubt locked, but those are simple obstacles to an expert like yourself. Suppose, said the old man slowly, suppose count I cannot find it, what then? Why dwell on unpleasant subjects, Colonel? The details would be painful. One more thing, he continued, and Colonel St. John gazed fixedly at the double row of large and small footprints in the snow with the manner of one who expects to take his heels at any moment. As Count Vladimir paused impressively, however he turned his head and with an obvious effort recalled his wandering attention. Yes, he said anxiously, the Russian came closer and laid his hand on the old man's shoulder, his fingers fastening with a grip as of steel. You are not to annoy tear, he said. I will not have it. No extorting money, no blackmail. Count Vladimir perhaps prefers to keep such privileges for himself. Return the other with a sneer, the fingers on his shoulder tightened until he winced involuntarily. Sometimes, said Count Vladimir, through his teeth, I wonder I can saw in my hands with a tool like you. The usual dull apathy of Colonel St. John's eyes was replaced by a gleam of hatred, but he made no reply, and his companion, curtly continued, You will do my work, and when I am through with you, leave the country. You will not attempt to see her again, or to communicate with her. It is wise to accede to my terms, Colonel. Lindhurst and the police are ever ready, and I should have no scruples on your behalf. You shall not annoy her. Do you understand?" Colonel St. John shook himself free of the restraining hand. If I am not to see her again, he said sullenly, who is to let her out of that room? Estelle Redman, alone in the little room, heard the two men go downstairs and fully realized her position. Sinking upon the floor, she rested her head upon the dusty window ledge and tried to think. Was it all coming to an end? Was this to be the outcome of the marriage, which had opened to her a new life, made beautiful by the sheltering care of a great and unselfish love? Must her past life be laid bare before her husband's eyes? Must he know of a child who had had no childhood? Of a girl taught to value the beauty with which she was endowed because of the power that accompanied it? A girl without a girlhood? A girl familiar with the seamy side of life? Must he know of her father's vocation? Of hasty flights from city to city when the police became troublesome? Was it necessary he should hear the story of Berlin? Of Bertie Hurtford with his ingenuous boyish face and frank confidence in mankind in general? Bertie Hurtford, who lost his all over the green bias-card tables in her father's salon and who, under the influence of the moon and her own blue eyes, confided the state's secret of his mission to Berlin, which she in turn retailed to her father, who sold it to the Russian government for much gold? Estelle St. John at eighteen had not understood why she was delegated to extract this information and had exalted in her ability to obtain it. Estelle Redman at twenty-eight understood fully and felt to the utmost the unavailing bitterness of regret. The tragic death of Hurtford, with the note addressed to herself, had been a terrible awakening. She had carried it to her father with blanched cheeks and tear-dimmed, wondering eyes. What did it mean? And Colonel St. John had laughed and shrugged his shoulders. My dear, he had said indifferently, all young men are fools. Your eyes, and complexion, and above all your ingenuous manner, constitute my best stock in trade.  The headlines in the papers, the slow awakening to the meaning of her life, the arrival of Lindhurst in Berlin, with his declared intention of investigation and punishment, and their own hasty departure at night for Paris. She remembered her life in Paris, deserted by her father, almost penniless and quite desperate, the two years of painful effort to live by honest labor, and then the chance meeting with her husband, and his generous answer to her reluctant offer to tell him her history. If it hurts you to tell me, sweetheart, don't do it. Forget everything. Nothing matters but dishonor. And you could not look at me with those true blue eyes, if all was not well. Let us be happy in each other. Nothing matters but dishonor. The words rang in her ears. Must she lose everything rather than make one bold stroke for happiness? Does she cause misery to him, as well as herself, from weakness at a crucial moment? The latch of the door moved, and she sprang quickly to her feet. It is safe for you to go, madam, said Count Vladimir, standing aside that she might pass out. Your father will not cause you further trouble. It will not be necessary for you to consider him at all. Thank you, she said quietly. You are very good, Count. He stooped to recover her veil, which had fallen to the floor, and held the hand extended to receive it somewhat longer than necessary. It is your happiness I have at heart, he whispered softly, your happiness and mine still.  Mrs. Redmond slowly withdrew her hand. I was not afraid, she said with a sudden lowering of her black lashes, because I knew you would not forget me. She moved towards the door, but paused on the threshold and looked back. This house is strangely lonely, she remarked with a shiver. Will you not see me safely to the street, Count Vladimir? CHAPTER XVII. Have you noticed, inquired Mrs. Coulson genially, addressing her household assembled at the evening repast, the day after Christmas? How changed Mr. Lee is? Scarcely a word to say for himself and out till all hours of the night, or morning rather. No wonder he looks thin and worn. I think you'll find that current jelly good, Miss Jackson. I put it up myself. You know I prefer mint sauce with roast lamb, Mrs. Coulson. Returned Miss Jackson, mildly reproachful, repudiating the jelly. As to Mr. Lee, well, since you mention it, I will admit that he is changed and not for the better. Late hours, suggested an old gentleman with a fierce gray mustache. Late hours and hard work perhaps, burning the candle at both ends like all young fellows. Young men will be young men, general, returned the White House baby with a wan smile. Would you kindly pass the chili sauce? Thank you so much. He used to be so merry, continued Mrs. Coulson, shaking her head regretfully. Always a cheerful word or a joke, even for the servants. And I have often heard him whistling and singing in his room while he was dressing. And now— And now, said the White House baby acidly, when he comes home he walks to and fro over my head until I get so nervous I can't sleep. I really think, Mrs. Coulson, you might speak to him about it. I must have my rest, you know. It's love, said the old gentleman gallantly filling Miss Jackson's glass. That is what's the matter with him. A pair of bright eyes, ladies, plays the devil with a man young or old. Oh, general, exclaimed the ladies in coquettish chorus. Mr. Marks also, remarked Miss Jackson thoughtfully, is not the man he once was. No, agreed Mrs. Coulson regretfully. That is true, Miss Jackson. He keeps very late hours, too. And he used to be so, well, so circumspect, you know. The old gentleman burst into a shout of rough laughter. My dear madame, he said, you have employed the right word. Whatever that young man may do, I'll wager he does it in a circumspect manner. Oh, general, again chorus the ladies in faint expostulation. Do you see Mrs. Coulson's new white silk waist? Whispered the White House baby to Miss Jackson under the cover of a sudden buzz of conversation. That is the second this winter, and it is trimmed with Persian bands. Did you ever hear of such extravagance? I'll wager her shoes, don't keep out the wet. Returned Miss Jackson in the same tone, adding aloud, we were just admiring your bodice, Mrs. Coulson, how very becoming it is. And meanwhile, up in his room, David Lee sat before his writing desk and gazed at a miscellaneous collection of what appeared to be odds and ends destined for the scrap basket. The fact that dinner was in progress below disturbed his serenity not at all, for he had no intention of presenting himself at a festive board. There were times when the society of his fellow boarders did not appeal to his sense of duty. Upon the floor beside him was a copy of the evening paper open at the society column. It had laid there for the past hour, and the page was creased and wrinkled as if crushed by an impatient hand. Now and then he lifted an article from the little heap before him and held it judicially as though weighing its value. I will keep one thing, he said aloud, one, which shall it be? He carefully put aside several little scented notes, a handkerchief with its dainty embroidered monogram, two or three faded flowers, and a long white glove. It was not a very large collection, but a choice seemed difficult. He smoothed out the handkerchief with a lingering touch, then folded it carefully, placed it in the drawer of the desk, and took up the glove. There is something wonderfully human about an empty glove which has shaped itself to a hand. It retains the personality of its owner in a manner possible to few inanimate objects. It also seems to appeal mutely for the absent and to continually beckon wandering memory back into the sunshine or shadow of the past. David Lee held the white glove until his fingers instinctively closed over it as though the soft suede covered a still softer hand of flesh and blood. I will keep this, he said, browsing himself abruptly and gathering together the notes and bits of brown flowers. There were very few to be sure, but they made quite a little pile as he laid them away in a drawer of the desk.   Go to work, there's plenty to do. Brace up now and write your note. Take your medicine like a little man. The result of this exhortation was the following epistle written with great care upon his best stationery after many sheets had been begun and flung impatiently aside. My dear Miss Bird, I have just been reading the Star and hasten to offer my hearty congratulations and very best wishes. What a lucky man Mr. Rivers is, to be sure. I wonder how many fellows in Washington are envying him tonight. Shall I see you at Mrs. Redmond's dinner on Tuesday? I want to present my congratulations in person and, incidentally, to return the handkerchief you lost at the Stones' Cotillion and which I was fortunate enough to find. Wishing you every possible happiness, believe me, sincerely yours, David Graham Lee. David looked at his signature with some admiration as he laid aside the blotter. It was only on state occasions that he wrote it out in full and brought the end of the last letter around beneath the whole name in an imposing flourish. He addressed an envelope and stamped it with the careful attention to detail which had marked the transcribing of the note, scrupulously wiping his pen and returning it to its appointed place. Here endeth the first lesson. He remarked as he took up his overcoat and opened the door. There he goes, remarked Miss Jackson as the front door slammed. Doesn't he even tell you when he dines out, Mrs. Coulson? Mrs. Coulson smiled a patient and a long-suffering smile. My dear Miss Jackson, she returned with the air of a martyr. I'm accustomed to being slighted and neglected. What does a little more or less matter? But a certain amount of courtesy is due every lady from a man, remarked the White House baby, with the manner of including even an inferior in her large-mindedness on such subjects. My dear Mrs. Rowan, replied Mrs. Coulson, delicately crooking her little finger as she helped herself to potatoes. I have long been a stranger to the prerogatives of a lady, and yet I remember the time when I scarcely knew how to sew on a button or time I own shoe. David, meanwhile, unconscious of his deterioration, posted his letter and walked on, ignoring the fact that he had not dined and had lunged very lightly. When a man is oblivious to the claims of the central portion of his anatomy, it is a tolerably sure sign he has received a hard hit from some source, and is as yet stunned from the blow. And in fact, when David, in looking over the evening paper, had glanced casually at the social news and read the bald fact that Senator Byrd announced the engagement of his daughter Isabel to the Honorable Charles Rivers, member of Congress from Virginia, he felt very much as he had once done as a boy when the ball he expected to catch hit him on the nose. He had quite lately begun to analyze his sentiments towards that young lady, and had come to a very definite conclusion regarding her. There had been unexpected meetings with strictly informal chats, jolly little suppers at Senator Byrd's after the theater, an occasional walk and talk in the winter's twilight, and also there was something else. A rainy Sunday afternoon, when there were no other collars, a chance word, a quick flush overspreading a flower-like face, a sudden lowering of dark lashes, then the inevitable interruption, and he had taken his leave with throbbing pulses and buoyant step, for he thought she understood. And now the paragraph in the evening star. He repeated it to himself word for word as he turned into Pennsylvania Avenue, with its glare of light and noise of passing cars, whose wheels took up and repeated the refrain. The engagement of his daughter Isabel, his daughter Isabel, his daughter. Our first castles in the air are very lofty and imposing structures. They spring up suddenly, complete and beautiful, with no faulty architecture nor blemishes in material to mar the pleasure of their contemplation. They also seem easy of access and entirely possible of achievement. As a rule, they fade slowly, being in time replaced by smaller yet more substantial edifices. They disappear quietly, growing daily less distinct, even as the towering roofs and steeples of a large city are finally merged into the horizon when viewed from an outgoing steamer. And this effacement is so gradual, we scarcely realize they have vanished forever. Sometimes, however, these castles are incontinently demolished, while yet newly built and fondly cherished. They fall about our heads with a crashing of walls and rattling of stones, deafening and benumbing in effect. And they leave no foundations on which they may be reconstructed. Generally, when this happens, we are at first stunned and inclined to believe ourselves crushed and hopelessly crippled by the fall. After a while, however, we push aside the debris and look about. We find, to our surprise, that the sun still shines and the earth revolves as usual. And then, all at once, we realize we must be up and doing again, for we must work if we would live, and there are still things in life to interest us after all. David, as he walked briskly down the street, was conscious of a decided sensation of resentment and a desire to be alone. He felt at odds with the world generally, and a fleeting glimpse of Mr. Rivers rolling rapidly along in a handsome, snug and comfortable was scarcely soothing under the circumstances. He had intended dropping in at one of the theaters and afterwards joining a party of young men at the Alibi Club, but he decided to go instead to the department and work off some arrears of correspondence. It is odd how paramount duty can become when one is disinclined for pleasure. Working overtime, inquired the watchman with a nod of recognition as David paused to get the key of his office. You'll have to walk up. He continued garelessly, selecting the key from the rack beside him. The elevators don't run at night. The great building, which, during the day, was a veritable hive of industry, teeming with humanity and humming with many voices, mingled with the ceaseless click of the typewriter, was quiet and deserted enough at night. The long corridors, dimly illuminated by an occasional electric light at regular intervals, looked ghostly and unreal as they stretched away into space, and his footsteps upon the marble floor reverberated with a hollow metallic ring he had not noticed during the day. David unlocked the door of the secretary's office and passed through it into the little room adjoining where his own desk was situated. The pile of unanswered letters he had left a few hours previously confronted him as he turned on the electric light. He looked them over reflectively and, seizing a pad and pencil, scrawled answers to three or four and pushed them aside to be copied in the morning. Then he paused deliberately and glanced into the next room with its deserted desk and vacant chairs. The personality of the secretary clung to this room, even during his absence. The neat rows of papers waiting decision, carefully placed in their proper order of importance, seemed to lie in more decorous piles than most correspondence, as though in deference to the hand which laid them there, and the swivel chair with its covering of brown leather had a quiet dignity of its own, acquired perhaps from daily contact with its occupant. David stood on the threshold and looked at the bookcase with its simply bound volumes of laws and regulations, at the map of the world on the wall beside it with the different countries defined by irregular lines of various colors, and at the desk in the center with its vacant chair and closed drawers. He had drawn a bunch of keys from his pocket and fingered them doubtfully, absently selecting one and holding it uncertainly in his hand. He stood thus for some minutes, then moved impatiently. Why not now as well as any time, he said aloud, and extinguishing his light passed into the secretary's private office and shut the door. Outside the door the clock ticked steadily, its black hands traveling slowly around its white face and its pendulum moving monotonously back and forth with the dignified and precise regularity becoming a timepiece in the Department of State. And after the larger hand had several times performed its circuit, the door opened and the private secretary stepped out. He walked down the corridor with lagging step and drooping figure, as though exhausted mentally and physically, and in his hand he carried a long sealed envelope. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of The Wife of the Secretary of State This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wife of the Secretary of State by Ella Middleton-Tibaut. Chapter 18 A noticeable langer pervaded the Department of State. Visitors were few and unimportant. Clerks yawned and leisurely dispatched the routine work. Messengers nodded in their chairs with even more than their usual abandon. And indeed, over the entire south wing of the Great Stone Building, hovered a mantle of inertia. The secretary was at cabinet meeting. A telephone message had come from the White House that he wished to speak with his private secretary, and the chief clerk had replied that Mr. Lee had not reached the department. The winter sun shone brightly into the secretary's office and into the little room adjoining, with the swivel chair pushed back as though hastily vacated, and a pencil lying upon the blotter as if idle for a moment to be sure, but ready to be up and doing at any instant. Again the telephone rang, and again the chief clerk repeated his statement that Mr. Lee had not yet arrived. So the morning dragged slowly on until the return of the secretary created some little diversion, for the messengers rose as he passed and in so doing almost awoke. Mr. Redmond was accompanied by Senator Byrd and Mr. Rivers. They went at once to his private office, and almost immediately the imperative sound of a bell disturbed the serenity of the surrounding atmosphere. Go at once, said the secretary to the messenger who responded, to Mr. Lee's rooms, say that I wish to see him on important business. If he is indisposed, I will not detain him long, but the matter is urgent. Make haste. The man withdrew, and Mr. Redmond turned to his companions. He stood before his desk. The upper right-hand drawer was open, and its contents spread upon the blotter. It is gone, he said blankly. Gone! The little key in the open drawer twinkled and glittered in the sunlight as brightly as it had glistened once before when the drawer was shut and locked. Ask me, it said. Ask me. But nobody noticed it at all, and after a while even the sun went under a cloud and forgot all about it. I put it in here, said Mr. Redmond slowly, with my own hands. You saw me, bird. Senator Bird nodded. I don't think I entirely understand, remarked Mr. Rivers, who had met the other two at the entrance to the elevator. What is lost? The president, said the secretary quietly, gave me a synopsis of his policy in regard to the roost-shoot trouble just before he went south. I did not agree with him and delayed action until he returned. Meanwhile, I temporized, hoping the lost papers might be found. I brought the paper the president gave me over here. He resumed after a moment's silence and talked the matter over with Senator Bird. No one else knew of the existence of such a document, and I wished to keep it secret. Today I again discussed the question with the president, and he agreed reluctantly to modify his policy in some essential features. He wishes the paper returned to him for revision. It is not here. Mr. Rivers and Senator Bird exchanged a quick glance, and the latter approached the secretary and laid his hand on his shoulder, remarking quietly that doubtless it was only mislaid and would in time appear. Mr. Redmond turned suddenly and faced his companions. He was evidently deeply excited and breathed heavily as he shook off the consoling hand impatiently. My God, man! he said almost angrily. Don't you understand that there is a spy in the department? Mr. Rivers thrust his hands in his pockets and walked to the window looking out over the Potomac with thoughtful eyes and lips puckered slightly as though about to whistle. The member of Congress was thinking. Senator Bird absently collected the scattered papers and replaced them in the drawer. His face was very grave, and he glanced from time to time at the little inner room with apparent anxiety. Mr. Rivers, turning slightly, followed the direction of his glance and walked it once to the door. Who occupies this room? he inquired suddenly. My private secretary, Mr. Lee, replied Mr. Redmond mechanically. Again, the senator and member of Congress exchanged a glance as the secretary sank into his chair and unconsciously tapped the arm with his fingers. Bird, he said thoughtfully, I wonder. He checked himself abruptly and touched his bell. I wish to see Harris, he said when it was answered, and the man replied that Harris had been sent for Mr. Lee and had not yet returned. I have every confidence in Mr. Lee, said the secretary, addressing Mr. Rivers almost belligerently. Every confidence. Yes, replied the member of Congress smoothly, of course. He returned to the window and resumed his contemplation of the landscape while his companions watched the door with no effort to conceal their impatience. And the silence remained unbroken, safe for the voices and footsteps of visitors passing through the corridor without. Upon the wall hung the likeness of a former secretary, now no longer burdened by affairs of state. He looked serenely down upon his successor and almost seemed to shrug his shoulders disdainfully, as though repudiating any connection with departmental responsibilities. There was a slight stir in the corridor, and Harris returned, breathless from rapid walking. Well, said the secretary sharply, well. Mr. Lee was not at home, sir, replied the man. Not at home? No, sir, he went out at dinnertime last night and did not return. They do not know where he is. Harris waited uncertainly, had in hand. Is there anything more, sir? He inquired deferentially. Nothing more, Harris, you can go. The secretary's face had grown old and gray, and the hand which turned the shining key in the desk drawer shook slightly. I locked the stable door you see, he said grimly, as the other men approached him, after the horses stolen. Mr. Rivers looked significantly at the little inner room with its unmistakable traces of recent occupancy. The inference, he said, is obvious. I have every confidence in Mr. Lee, said the secretary, turning involuntarily to Senator Byrd, but the senator shook his head gravely. I am afraid, he said slowly, that your confidence is misplaced. Mr. Lee knew of the existence of that paper. He also knew where it was. When we discussed the matter, he was in that little room. You remember he came through the door and reminded you of its being diplomatic day, don't you? Yes, said Mr. Redmond unwillingly. Yes, I remember. In short, remarked Mr. Rivers briskly, the paper is gone and Lee is missing. It only goes to prove the theory I have had all along. You are wrong, replied Mr. Redmond emphatically. Wrong. No, man. What is it, Harris? I do not wish to be disturbed. I am sorry, sir, he replied, but the private secretary of the president is waiting and says his business is important. Very well, I will see him. Senator Byrd and Mr. Rivers started to retire, but the secretary detained them with an imperative motion of his hand. Well, Mr. Lane, he said, turning with his customary quiet self-possession to greet the young man who now entered. What can I do for you? The president wishes his synopsis on the roost shook matter, Mr. Secretary, replied Mr. Lane, declining the proffered chair. He intends to take the subject up at once. Mr. Redmond touched his bell. My coat and hat, Harris, he said quietly, I will return with you to the White House, Mr. Lane. I wish to see the president. Senator Byrd accepted a cigar, tendered him by the member of Congress as the door closed on the secretary and the smaller, more erect figure of the younger man. It is a bad business, he remarked as he struck a match. Yes, replied his companion indifferently, it looks as though there might be the devil to pay before we get through with it. I wonder, said the senator, pausing at the door of the little room, I wonder where he is. And I, returned the member of Congress, wonder who bought him. The swivel chair looked as if it knew all about it, but wouldn't tell for the world, and the pencil lay upon the blotter innocent enough to all appearance. Yet the lead was worn blunt and had a weary air, as though it could a tail impart if it chose to do so. The senator looked at his watch. Past lunchtime, he exclaimed, and I promised to be at home today. Come with me, Rivers, and help me make my peace with Isabelle. But the member of Congress had another engagement, so the two men separated, while the son again looked in on the empty office, where the picture of the bygone and forgotten secretary gazed loftily at the brown leather chair of his successor from his vantage ground of safety within the guilt frame. It almost seemed as though his lips moved and he whispered, I had my troubles too, but they are not now important, even as I, myself, am no longer of any consequence. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, be they papers or flesh and blood, they crumble equally well. In the War Department, at the other end of the Long Corridor, Christine Gray adjusted her veil and asked for half a day's leave of absence. She ran down the large stone steps at the front of the building, rather hurriedly, for she had a luncheon engagement and was already a little late.  At the door of the Lose Cam, she paused, and after hesitating a minute or two, ran lightly up the stairs. A round table laid for two was waiting by the window, and a man rose with an exclamation of pleasure and advanced to meet her. You said to a clock, she remarked as she seated herself and removed her gloves, but I fear I am a little late. I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Rivers. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 of The Wife of the Secretary of State This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, not volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Wife of the Secretary of State by Ella Middleton-Tibaut. Chapter 19 Mr. Rivers was just now a very busy man. He was not only representative from the 14th District of Virginia, he was also Miss Isabelle Bird's fiancée, and the combination of two such functions was quite enough to occupy the days of the average man very comfortably. In addition, however, Mr. Rivers had various little matters of a private character which must receive his personal attention, and which he was very conscientious about not neglecting. Therefore, he was obliged to arrange his engagements carefully in order that they might not conflict and dovetail them into one another with neatness and dispatch. It was customary for him to drop in at a florist's en route to the capital each morning to procure flowers for his betrothed. He liked to select them himself, and therefore did not adopt the simpler plan of leaving a standing order. Isabelle provided with roses or orchids, and a fresh white carnation selected for his own buttonhole. It was not unusual for Mr. Rivers to leave a second order and to write a few words on the card which accompanied it in his neat ornamental backhand. Sometimes it was a quotation, at others an original sentiment quite worthy the distinction of being quoted in its turn had the world but known of its existence. As he sat at the little round table in a loose cam, handsome, well-groomed and debonair, wearing to perfection that air of deferential attention so gratifying to the genus feminineum, the member from Virginia was very pleasant to look upon. It was small wonder, therefore, that the girl opposite paid more attention to her companion than her lunch, and breathed a little sigh of regret when the waiter brought coffee with its accompanying air of finality. And now, he remarked genially, I still have a spare hour or so, what shall we do with it? Christine stirred her coffee reflectively. She had a question to ask, which she had her to for resolutely kept in the background lest its answer should cast a shadow upon her holiday. She looked thoughtfully into the depths of her cup before speaking, while he noted the length of the dark curled lashes fringing her white eyelids and the little frown which wrinkled her smooth brow. Resting his arms on the table, he leaned forward slightly. What is it? he said gently. What troubles you? I'm not troubled, she returned. I'm only curious. Well? Christine was laying the tablecloth in little folds and devoting her whole attention to the operation. I read in the paper last night, she continued slowly, that your engagement was announced to Miss Baird, and I wondered if it could be true. It was delightful to hear the frank, hearty laugh with which the honourable Charles Rivers greeted this remark, thus repudiating the allegation quite as convincingly as a flat denial, with perhaps a slighter sense of perjury. How perfectly absurd, he said. Two little spirits leaped into the girl's brown eyes and lighted flaming torches there. Then it isn't true, she questioned persistently. Again the member from Virginia laughed cheerfully. My dear child, he said indulgently, you don't understand newspapers. If I'd been married as many times as I've been reported engaged, I'd be a Mormon indeed. The papers must have something to write about, and we public men are the victims. I only asked, she said a little breathlessly, because I was interested. You know I'm engaged myself. Mr. Rivers knew this fact very well. He had learned it in the early stages of their acquaintance, and, indeed, had pulled a few underground wires at the ward department, which had finally landed a certain young second lieutenant, safely in Alaska, where he would be unable to resist any poaching upon his preserves. He felt, however, that it was time to change the subject, and therefore looked at his watch. Come! he remarked cheerfully. Time is passing. What shall we do? Well! returned Christine meditatively, putting on her gloves. I'd like awfully to go through the Octagon House. You don't mind, do you? He did not mind at all. On the contrary, the Octagon House appeared to him as a very satisfactory place in which to linger for a while longer with his present companion. Its location, with the probable accompanying freedom from interruption, appealed more strongly to his sense of the fitness of things than a walk through the more exclusive residence section or crowded shopping district. So they went out into the winter sunshine, the girl chatting brightly, and the man responding to her mood in a matter subtly flattering by his evident pleasure in her society and genuine interest in her most casual remarks. Let's go around back of the State Department, she suggested, and they walked slowly about the half-circle south of the Great White Building, passing beneath the window from which Mr. Rivers had gazed a few hours previous, while gravely discussing affairs of the nation. He looked up at it curiously, and Christine followed his glance with interest.  They are paid, you know, remarked the member of the Finance Committee suggestively. There isn't enough money in the Treasury, she retorted quickly, to pay a human being for degenerating into a machine, and I've noticed that it always happens to those who stay there long enough. I said you wouldn't like it, you know, remarked Mr. Rivers as she paused abruptly.  All the same, she added with a quick display of dimples. I'm awfully grateful to you for putting me there. The member of Congress laughed as he ran lightly up the steps of the Octagon House, and pushed open the door. Come in, he said gaily. I want to do the honors. It's cold, said Christine, awfully cold. I don't think I want to see the house after all. She followed her companion nevertheless, as he passed from room to room, and at the foot of the stairs stopped suddenly. Look, she exclaimed, isn't this funny? Mr. Rivers paused in the midst of his remarks upon the symmetry of the stairway, and turned towards his companion. Christine held in her hand two bits of paper tied together by a twisted cord of red, white and blue thread. One piece was blank, on the other a few words were distinctly legible. The policy of this government in regard to the roostchuk, she read aloud, as Mr. Rivers held out his hand for the paper. The member of Congress scrutinized each word carefully, and finally turned the paper around, and examined a minute hieroglyphic in the corner. What letters are these? he inquired quickly, taking the paper nearer the light. Christine followed curiously. She saw no reason that a scrap of State Department stationery should arouse an excitement tending to relegate her small self to the background, and therefore a game took possession of her discovery with an injured air. Well, she said indifferently, the writing is very scratchy, but the letters are plain enough, D L. I wonder, she continued reflectively, where I can have seen that long word, roostchuk, it looks awfully familiar. The member of Congress held out his hand for the paper, which he folded carefully and put in his card case. Let us go upstairs, he said quietly. I have a fancy to explore the old house thoroughly. The octagon house was empty indeed today, for Colonel St. John was on duty at the department as watchman, and therefore unable to render any assistance as janitor or guide, and apparently no other visitors wished to go sightseeing that afternoon. Mr. Rivers was very thorough in his explorations. He went through the dusty old rooms slowly, opening closet doors and tapping the walls inquiringly, almost as though expecting a response. On the landing of the third floor, he paused before a door upon which was fastened a neat white card bearing the inscription, janitor's room, not on exhibition. A second card bore the brief but definite statement. Out! Mr. Rivers perused the bits of pasteboard with interest, and even went so far as to unobtrusively turn the handle of the door, which very properly resisted such unwarranted intrusion. The janitor had that morning provided his apartment with a new log, which proved itself satisfactory on trial. The member of Congress stroked his moustache reflectively. I think, he remarked, after a long silence, I will go up into the attic. Will you come? Christine shook her head and seated herself on an unsteady old chair outside the janitor's door. I'm tired, she replied quietly, and I don't think I like this house after all. I'll wait here if you really want to go. I won't be long, he returned, his hand on the door leading into the attic, and with a nod and smile he disappeared. Christine shivered as she leaned against the wall beside her. The exhilaration of the early afternoon had passed, leaving in its stead an odd sensation of oppression. She felt aggrieved that dusty attic should offer attractions superior to those she had been led to believe she possessed in no limited degree, and much regretted the suggestion of a visit to the old house, whose sense of emptiness had impressed her most unpleasantly. On the whole, the afternoons since lunch had been disappointing. The short winter's day was waning, and the hall beside her had become dusky and forbidding. She suddenly remembered strange stories she had heard of the Octagon house after nightfall, and glanced apprehensively about. What could keep Mr. Rivers in the attic? Her head ached, and she felt languid and miserable. Quite unconscious that she was merely feeling the effects of a natural reaction from the afternoon's pleasure, Christine pressed her forehead against the cold wall beside her and sighed impatiently. In a moment she had sprung terrified to her feet, for from the blank wall at her side came an echoing sigh, distinct and unmistakable, hopeless in its import, and giving the impression of bodily as well as mental suffering. As Christine stood petrified upon the landing, she was conscious of a low muttering, slowly dying away, only to commence again with increased vigor, and again the sigh, melancholy, appealing, unendurable. With a shriek of terror the girl turned and fled, her hands clasped over her ears, and her trembling limbs almost refusing to support her. Upon reaching the street she did not wait for her escort. Leaving him to meet unprotected whatever fate might await him, she sought the shelter of her boarding-house as speedily as possible. As she reached the front steps she paused suddenly. There! she remarked aloud, I forgot all about Mr. Rivers. That gentleman, absorbed in picking his way carefully among the empty tin cans, piles of rags and other debris of the attic, was much alarmed by the girl's scream of fright and the sound of her retreating footsteps. He started at once in anxious pursuit, and listened to her story, which, told in the stiff boarding-house parlor, lost much of its reality, even to Christine herself. But late that evening the member of Congress, in the privacy of his own apartments, carefully recalled each word of her narrative, and finally took from his card case the two bits of paper, and gave them his close attention. I wonder, he remarked, returning the papers to the seclusion of the card case, whether it was imagination or... Anyway, I'll send roses to-morrow. End of Chapter 19. Recording by Corrie Samuel. Where was David Lee? This was the question which agitated Mrs. Colson's boarding-house from Garrett to Seller, and caused endless comet and conjecture among the lesser lights of the Department of State. The higher officials said little for publication, but frequently conferred among themselves, apparently to no purpose. The private secretary was missing. That fact was self-evident. But beyond it was a silence as impenetrable as the silence of the grave itself. It is my belief, remarked Miss Jackson, with the air of one who expects to create a sensation. It's my belief, Mrs. Colson, that he committed suicide. He may have been crossed in love, you know. This theory, having been advanced every night at dinner since Lee's disappearance, failed to make the impression which might otherwise have been expected. Much more likely to owe money and be in hiding somewhere, said the old gentleman with the gray moustache, gruffly. Oh, General, expostulated the ladies in staccato chorus. I feel for his mother, said Mrs. Colson, ignoring the fact that David was well known to have been an orphan for many years. Ah, it is we poor women who always suffer in such cases, murmured the White House baby, helping herself liberally to mint sauce. But, then, when do we not suffer? Well, said Miss Jackson thoughtfully, I must say I would like to know what has become of him. And in quite another part of the city, a girl repeated this remark as she stood before her mirror, adding the finishing touches to her evening toilette. Isabelle Byrd was, so her aunt affirmed, as cross as two sticks. Nothing suited her.  Isabelle fastened her necklace with a vindictive snap.  She hated immaculate shirt fronts with little pearl studs. She hated box parties. She hated everything. And most of all, she hated David Lee. A sneak, she said hotly to her reflection in the mirror. A dishonorable sneak. But I would like to know where he is. Down in the library, Senator Byrd made substantially the same remark to his prospective son-in-law as they waited for dinner to be announced, and the member of Congress acquiesced, absently. The Secret Service, affirmed the Senator contemptuously, has made a fizzle of the case. I tell you, Rivers, it's a flat impossibility for a man to march off the face of the earth in this day and generation. The police force can sometimes be squared, interrupted Rivers quietly. What do you mean? Merely that no official organization is without its vulnerable corner, perfect-looking apples are sometimes rotten at the core, you know. To what apple are you alluding, inquired Senator Byrd dryly. The younger man laughed and passed his hand caressingly over his moustache. Confidentially speaking, he said slowly, the President. Now the Honorable Charles Rivers was well known to be in close touch with the head of the nation. Indeed, it was rumored that in case of vacancy occurring in the Cabinet, his appointment there too was a foregone conclusion. It was also whispered that he was far from adverse to accepting such an honor, regarding it as another step towards the Presidential Chair, for Mr. Rivers was ambitious, and in America, all things are possible, provided the right strings are pulled to bring them about. Senator Byrd knew this. He also knew the President. I understand what you mean, he said thoughtfully. At least I think so, though he has never put it into words so far as I am aware. I hope he never may. And I, said Rivers compositely, hope to see the matter shifted to the bottom and just as administered unflinchingly. I have studied the subject from the disappearance of the first papers, and have reluctantly arrived at my conclusion. I agree with the President. You are wrong, said Senator Byrd positively. Wrong. I would stake my honor on it. I believe, continued Rivers slowly, Lee abstracted the papers with the full knowledge of the Secretary, and that they are in collusion. I believe the Secretary, and he only, knows where to find David Lee. But the motive? Ah, that, I grant you, is a mystery yet to be unraveled. I am inclined to look for the woman in the case. Cherché la femme, you know. Hush, interrupted the Senator hastily, Isabel. But it was too late. It was, indeed, Isabel standing in the doorway. Her red-gold hair and white frock brought out most effectively by the dark background. Mr. Rivers had never thought his fiancé half so charming as when she advanced tempestuously and faced him with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes.  I heard you. Both men had risen upon her entrance and remained speechless. Senator Byrd glanced nervously about, and breathed a sigh of apprehension. His daughter was plainly a prey to the demon of temper which he had hoped was relegated to her stormy childhood and before which he had always stood powerless. Had she been a boy, he sometimes reflected, he would have known how to deal with her. But a girl was very different, so the Senator subjected the imaginary boy to severe discipline while the flesh and bone girl grew apace. Spoiled to death, her aunt lamented, but mighty lovable, her father thought. Just now, however, he wished the boy existed as he advanced and laid a hesitating hand upon her arm. Dinner is late, he remarked tentatively, with the laudable desire of diverting her tension. But Isabel shook off the hand impatiently and addressed herself to her lover. How dare you say such things, she demanded with an emphatic stamp of her white-shod foot.  Isabel interrupted her father anxiously. My dear child, it isn't so, continued the girl quickly. Why, Mr. Redmond is the best man in the whole world.   I know it isn't so. How do you know, inquired Rivers Cooley? In fact, how do you know anything about it? I know it isn't so, she said simply, because I know the Secretary. The member of Congress laughed sarcastically. Oh, he said, is that it? I thought perhaps Lee might have taken you into his confidence. You used to be uncommonly chummy, you know, and... Well, you seem to take a most extraordinary interest in the matter. The color left Isabel's cheek suddenly and her attitude became tense and rigid. The watchful senator knew the signs of the times and thought regretfully of the explosion to follow. A dinner is served, said the butler, appearing opportunely. With a polite bow and an air of tolerant benignancy, Mr. Rivers smiled at his betrothed and offered his arm. Let us bury the hatchet, he said, swobbly, and go to dinner. But Isabel was already halfway across the room.  There, I'm glad I've said it.  Upon my word, he exclaimed as the library door slammed emphatically. She doesn't mean it, Rivers, said the senator anxiously. I assure you she doesn't know what she's saying. The door opened again and a white hand and arm appeared in the aperture. Take it back, said a muffled voice. I never did want it very much. And a small object fell on the rug beside the member of Congress as the door closed again and swiftly flying feet could be heard ascending the stairs. The honorable Charles Rivers stooped and picked up the ring. Tomorrow, he remarked, watching the diamond flash, I will put this on again. We will have a few tears and an affecting reconciliation. Don't apologize, senator. I like a girl of spirit and I understand women. He put the ring in his pocket and walked thoughtfully to the window and back. All the same, he continued gravely, I've got to prove to her that I am right and you have got to make her be quiet. It's a pity she overheard. Can you keep her from talking to anybody?  Yes, said the harassed senator. Yes, certainly. Let us go to dinner, Rivers. I think Isabel will not appear. Perhaps you will kindly make her excuses to Mrs. Redmond that the theater and say she is indisposed. Mr. Rivers cheerfully agreed to deliver the message and proceeded to enjoy his dinner with unalloyed appetite, while Isabel lay face down upon her bed, her pretty ground crushed and forgotten, and her slight form shaken with the tempest of angry sobs. Senator Byrd, after the departure of his guest, sat before his library fire and consumed many meditative cigars. He felt relieved to have no imperative engagement demanding his presence and disinclined for any definite occupation, so the senator smoked on, pondering over many things as the fragrant Havana's slowly disappeared and the moments passed. He thought of the guest from whom he had just parted. A bright fellow by Jove, with a keen intellect, undoubtedly the coming man, Isabel is uncommonly fortunate. He thought long and anxiously about the complications in the State Department and their problematical outcome. Of the secretary, gentle, courteous, honorable, and of sound judgment, a man so popular in his party that he had had more than once been suggested as a successor to the president, a man with few enemies and many friends, and apparently incapable of a dishonorable thought, of David Lee, and the necessarily intimate and confidential relations of a private secretary to his chief. He thought of Isabel and of her mother, dead since her birth. Something had given way in the senator's heart the day he followed his young wife to her grave, and the vacuum had never been quite filled.  The senator let his cigar go out, holding it listlessly in his hand as he lived again in the past. You will make her happy, won't you, the faint voice had continued. I want her to be very happy, and when she grows up she must marry the man she loves, as I did, dear, as I did. Well, he had tried to make her happy, Esther's child, with Esther's eyes and voice. If her mother had lived, the log smoldered and fell apart, and Senator Byrd roused himself abruptly, put out the lights, and went upstairs. As he passed his daughter's door he paused and knocked softly. Come in, called Isabel, I've been waiting for a long time, and he smiled a little as he turned on the light and closed the door. Isabel had gone to bed, and now sat upright among the pillows, her bright hair streaming down her back, and her arms stretched out towards her father. I made an exhibition of myself, she exclaimed, pulling his cheek down to hers. Didn't I, Daddy, as usual, and you were sorry? Well, agreed the senator. I think you did, little girl, I was sorry. I'm not, she said with a defiant toss of her head. He deserved it, and I hope it made him uncomfortable. The senator thought of Mr. River's placid enjoyment of his dinner and made no reply. Isabel rusted her head on his shoulder and sighed contentedly. I'm glad you came in, she said slowly. Somehow I feel awfully lonely tonight. The senator had felt lonely also, down by the library fire, so he simply smoothed her hair caressingly and said nothing. He's been gone almost a week, said the girl suddenly. What do you suppose has become of him? I don't know, dear. The senator made no pretense at not understanding to whom she referred. But what do you think? I think, he said gravely, it looks very black for Lee, Isabel. But all the same, she said eagerly, all the same, Father, you don't believe what Mr. River said, do you? Senator Burt thoughtfully twisted a lock of the shining hair about his finger. No, dear, he said at last. I don't believe it. Oh, Father, she exclaimed with a nemphatic squeeze. You're such a sensible man. The senator laughed and asked some questions as to her engagements for the next few days. She was going to be with Mrs. Redmond at the diplomatic breakfast on New Year's Day, she said. After that she did not know. She would like to go away. Washington was so tiresome. The senator suggested a trip abroad when Congress adjourned. Unless, he remarked with some hesitation, you will be thinking of getting married about that time. Isabel sat upright and wrinkled her white forehead pretentiously. I might as well tell you, Father, she said solemnly. I have decided never to marry. You don't mind supporting me, do you? The senator did not mind at all. He thought, however, she might some time change her views on this point. But she shook her head positively.   And I won't marry anybody. You shall marry the man you love, said her father gently. But Isabel, I know you could only love an honorable man. Isn't that true? Isabel sank back among her pillows and turned her face to the wall. All the nice men are dishonorable, she saw. And all the honorable men are nasty. I shall never, never marry.  She needs her mother, he thought regretfully. Esther would have known just what to do, while I should only bungle. If she had only been a boy, and the senator slowly unfastened his collar.


This is a locked Windows 10 machine and this is my bash bunny I put the switch in payload to position 2 and I insert the bash bunny in the Windows machine green let it turn on now it is going to wait for the installation of the network drivers that's the red here and then after that it's going to start emulating a network drive and run the responders script that's here the flashing waiting for credentials we have a green LED we have credentials and now I can unplug it