 8. Mr. Marx, scientist and man of very addition, sought David Lee in his apartment at Mrs. Coulson's one evening as the latter was putting the finishing touches to his toilette, preparatory to dining with a party of young men at the Alibi Club. I trust, said he, with laborious politeness, that I do not incommode you by my unceremonious appearance." Not a bit of it, replied David cheerfully. Can't you find a chair, or just shove those things off on the floor and sit down anywhere? I'm rather in a mess just now, as you see. David devoted his entire attention to his necktie, and when he considered it beyond criticism, looked inquiringly at his visitor. Mr. Lee, said that gentleman, with the air of a man who makes an astonishing announcement, I propose to spend a portion of this evening calling upon a young lady. To you, said David cordially, now I call that uncommonly wise on your part, but why only a portion? My paper, intended for the Scientific American, showing the development of the monkey into the man, is yet unfinished. Returned Mr. Mark stiffly, hence but a few hours each evening can be devoted to frivolity. Too bad, said David sympathetically. Now I'm afraid I should be inclined to chuck the monkey business and make it the whole evening. Of course, however, that depends on the girl. You seem conversant with the ordinary faces of social life, resumed Mr. Mark's rather patronizingly, while I have had but little leisure to study them, being occupied with more important and serious pursuits. In calling upon a young lady, what, for instance, is your idea of a seemly topic of conversation? Mr. Marks was a deep and unfailing source of pleasure to David, who delighted in drawing him out, always sure of being rewarded for his trouble. The young lady herself, he now returned promptly, carefully adjusting his cuff button. Mr. Marks made a note of this reply on the back of his visiting card. I thought, he explained, that I would just jot down a few topics and hold the card in my hand, so that when one subject was exhausted I could glance carelessly down and introduce another. A most excellent idea, said David gratefully, and original, too. What had you thought of jotting? Well, said Mr. Marks, I begin with Professor Bristow's paper upon metallurgy. Most interesting. No doubt, agreed David swaffly. What else? I thought I might touch lightly upon Professor Green's description of a partial eclipse of the sun in Liberia. There were unusual and most unexpected features connected with it. I would make the touch very light indeed, Mr. Marks, suggested David. Why not mention the weather, or the theatre, or perhaps the last new book? The latest book of note, observed Mr. Marks, making an entry on his card. I suppose that would embrace either Hendrick's treatise, expanding his theory on the extinction of the mastodon, or von Weber's electricity, past, present, and future. A masterpiece, Mr. Lee, a masterpiece. David turned and regarded him curiously. Mr. Marks, he said anxiously, search to our memory. Did you ever frivle? I do not think, said Mr. Marks, reflectively, that I recall the exact definition of the word. David broke into delighted and irrepressible laughter. Brace up, man, brace up! He exclaimed, slapping the surprised scientist on the shoulder. Read a few novels, the more sentimental the better. Go to the theatre. Never mind whether we descended from monkeys or not. For my part, I don't care to know the exact truth. Mr. Marks shuffled his feet uneasily. He wore green carpet slippers with a pink rose over the toes thereof, and his white stockings sprinkled loosely around the ankle. One should keep in touch with the questions of the day, he observed pompously. Now look here, said David, as he brushed his hat. Go out and see girls every evening for a while, but for heaven's sake, don't talk to them about mastodons and metallurgy. If you can't think of anything to say, just sit still and look pleasant, and let them do the talking. You might send the one you like best a few flowers, you know, or something of that sort. I had thought of that, confessed Mr. Marks, but I feared I might umpermise myself unduly by such a very marked attention. I wish to arouse no false hopes, Mr. Lee. David assured him he might safely invest in the flowers, then pause and look with interest at his companion. Mr. Marks, he remarked seriously, what you need is to see life. There's lots of it all around you. Washington is just full of real, vital, pulsating life. Go out and find it. Take my advice, drop your oligies and isms for a while, and live. You'll find it pays in the long run. Perhaps it does, acquiesced Mr. Marks thoughtfully. Perhaps it does. He rose and started for the door, but lingered uncertainly. I am going to see Miss Gray, he announced abruptly. Have you any message? My regards, of course," replied Davis carelessly. I'm really ashamed when I think I've never called upon her since she left here. Mr. Marks slowly retreated to his hall-bedroom and made his twilat with unwanted care. A pot of white hyacinths in full bloom loaded the room with her overpowering fragrance. It would seem he made his purchases first and asked advice afterwards. Mr. Marks proceeded to comb his stiff, light-brown hair directly upward above his massive brow and assume a clean collar. Also a large cravat, which hooked behind, thus presenting a horrid black surface in front, not unlike a funeral-pin cushion, then brushed his coat carefully. It was of great quality broadcloth, therefore the fact that it wrinkled in the back, and was several inches too short in the sleeves, disturbed his serenity not at all. Nor did the manner in which his trousers crept far above his shoe-tips whenever he sat down seem in the least important, for the higher stratas of Mr. Marks's brain had then carefully cultivated to the entire exclusion of all mundane trifles. He then took from the window the pot of hyacinths, wrapped it carefully in newspaper, and prepared to go out. It was very cold. The December wind penetrated to the marrow of his bones, while the paper about the hyacinths fluttered alarmingly, as he resolutely forged his way across Lafayette Park, regardless of the fine, cold rain which fell steadily. Only the wind, after pausing for an instant, rushed down Pennsylvania Avenue and through the park, with renewed vigor, carrying with it Mr. Marks's box-shaped derby as well as the paper about the flowers. The hat rolled rapidly down the path with Mr. Marks in hot pursuit, and finally brought up abruptly against the iron railing surrounding the statue of Jackson on his rampant steed. Brothless but triumphant the man of science clutched his property. He also clutched something else. A flat package, carefully wrapped in thick brown paper, had taken refuge against the railing, and he tucked it securely beneath his arm. I had quite a chase, didn't you? remarked the park policemen sympathetically, readjusting the hyacinths which were considerably the worst for the run. He might have had a civil word for a body, and lettered that functionary as Mr. Marks absently marched off without replying. From the rear of General Jackson now appeared a second wet wind-toss figure anxiously scanning the ground. I say, it remarked abruptly, I've lost a package, you know, didn't happen to see it, did you? Was it flat and long, and wrapped in brown paper? inquired the policemen deliberately. Yes, said the figure hurriedly. Yes, that's it. The other chap picked it up, said the arm of the law indifferently. He went that away, pointing vaguely towards the avenue and resuming his measured pacing to and fro as the other started in pursuit of the unconscious, Mr. Marks. Having made the circuit of the park, he again drew near the Jackson statue in the centre, where he encountered a woman wrapped in a long, dark cloak, and vainly trying to breast the buffeting of the wind. She grasped the iron railing for support as she accosted him, and he observed that her hand was small and aimfully gloved, although her face was completely hidden by a thick veil. I have been so unfortunate as to lose a long, flat package wrapped in brown paper, she said hastily. Perhaps you may have seen it. The policeman was getting familiar with this formula. You aren't the only one that's lost such a bundle to-night, he returned curiously, and proceeded to give her all the information he possessed. With a hasty word of thanks she sped away in the direction indicated, while he watched her fluttering draperies disappear in the distance. Well, I'm blode, he ejaculated fervently. I certainly am blode. Meanwhile, Mr. Marx pursued the even tenor of his way, totally unconscious of having annexed another person's property. Christine Gray had been forced to leave the gentile shelter of Mrs. Coulson's roof for a cheaper abiding place, and it accordingly transferred herself and her belongings to a house within the limits of the sixty dollars a month, which must provide food and lodging as well as raiment for an apparently indefinite period. Life in the war-department, with a recreation and bodily nourishment afforded by a second-class boarding-house, was not a particularly healthy existence for a young and pretty girl. But Christine has yet enjoyed the novelty of being closely occupied, and might be said to rival even the little busy bee of coffee-book renown in as much as she had so far managed to extract honey from weeds as well as flowers. On this particular evening she had perched herself on the side of her bed, having installed her sister in the once comfortable chair the room contained after forcibly depriving her of her hat and coat. Mary Gray had lately completed her course of training at a large hospital, and the mere evening she could spend with her sister were highly prized. The younger girl also looked forward eagerly to these visits, and had settled herself to recount even the most minute trifles which had occurred since their last meeting. Oh, dear, she exclaimed dismally as Mr. Marx's card was handed her, to think he should come to-night. Well, I'll be just as stupid and quiet as I can, and perhaps he won't stay long. Consequently it was a distreté and preoccupied damsel who listened to poor Mr. Marx's strenuous efforts to be lively and agreeable. In vain did he carelessly glance at the card of memoranda in his hand, and laboriously introduce one subject after another. Everything was bored and showed it plainly, and Mr. Marx felt that as a social trifler he was a distinct failure. Not yet vanquished, however, he gave a most unnecessary hitch to the legs of his trousers, which already permitted the display of fully three inches of stocking, and started in afresh. Professor Frisbane asserted the other day during a brief conversation with me. He remarked learnedly, that in his opinion direct communication with the planet Mars was a mere matter of time. Indeed, returned Christine vaguely, and silence ensued. I have been deeply interested in a series of articles now appearing in the Scientific American, volunteered Mr. Marx with renewed animation, which discussed the subject of ossification in all its bearings. I will be glad to lend them to you. No, please don't," replied Christine hurriedly. I mean, I have not any time for reading. A few more topics of general interest were introduced by the gentleman and wet-blanketed by the lady, until at last discouraged he took his leave. When he paused in the hall to put on his overcoat, he discovered the pot of hyacinths and the recently acquired package, both of which he had entirely forgotten. Mr. Marx was puzzled as to the proper course to pursue, but decided to act boldly. Retreating to the doorsteps he rang a violent peal at the bell, and when the maid appeared thrust both plant and bundle into her astonished hands. For Miss Gray, he said abruptly, with my compliments, and promptly disappeared. He stayed everlastingly, molly, remarked Christine, returning to find her sister putting on her hat. And now you're going. It's too bad. Christine said Miss Gray as she buttoned her coat. Where did you get those roses? Christine dimpled and glowed as she touched the bowl of red roses caressingly. It was Mr. Rivers, she replied, and oh, molly, he's been so nice. I wanted to tell you all about it. The gentleman who was just left sends you these with his compliments, Miss, said the maid, appearing suddenly. Christine impatiently pushed the flowers to one side, but curiously untied the stout twine string about the package. A second package was disclosed, closely sealed, and labeled. R-double-O, spelled Christine slowly. Oh, it's just this old paper she spoke of, as though I wanted to read them. What papers? I'm sure I don't remember, molly. Rossification, or ossification, or something of that sort. Christine, remarked her sister, slowly drawing on her gloves. I believe Mr. Marx is a good man. Fair worthy indeed, said Christine lightly. No doubt he rocked his own cradle to save his mother trouble. And it don't follow that I have to read his old bundle of papers. Mary kissed her sister and turned it apart, but paused a moment her hand on the doorknob. Christine, she said earnestly, I don't feel comfortable about Mr. Revers. But here's such strange things in Washington, please be careful, dear. Nonsense, replied Christine equably, I'm quite able to look out for myself, molly. And then there's Harry. Yes, said Miss Gray as she closed the door. To be sure there's Harry in Alaska. Christine left alone hastened to put the blooming plant on the outer edge of the windowsill. I do abominate the odor of white hyacinths, she remarked as she lowered the shade. She then proceeded to clip the stems of the roses and put them into fresh water, lingering over the task as though she liked it and homing a merry little tune. This done she once more picked up the despise package and balanced it on her fingers. If I open it, she deliberated. The door of the bureau was partly open, displaying laces, handkerchiefs, gloves, and ribbons in hopeless confusion. With a contemptuous motion she tossed the package in also. So much for that, she exclaimed aloud, if he wants them again he can come for them, I don't expect to waste my time reading them. Christine now seated herself before the mirror and carefully studied the face that was reflected therein. She noted the brown hair which lay in little softbrings about the low white forehead, the large brown eyes which smile back at her through a fringe of long, curled lashes, the rounded cheek tinted like a shell, the little rosy ears, and the dimpled mouth. And Christine lighted another gas jet that she might have a better view. After an exhaustive study of the mirror she rose and yawned sleepily. I ought to write to Harry, she remarked, as she put her face into the bowl of roses, and inhaled their perfume. But I'm so sleepy, I think I'll go to bed. And I forgot to tell Molly about the theatre, too, but I guess it's all right, anyhow I'm going. And in his hall-bedroom at Mrs. Colson's, Mr. Marx was also seated before his mirror. The traitors upon the evolution of the monkey into the man, they faced downward upon the floor, and the ink had long since dried upon the pen, thrust behind his ear. I believe, he said aloud, that it is a man's duty to personally investigate all phases of life in order to thoroughly understand existence. I shall begin with the social. Mr. Marx ran his fingers rapidly through his upright locks and caressed the shadowy little whiskers which adorned the turning point of the jawbone. I don't see, he remarked reflectively, removing his black cravat. But that I am as good-looking as most men. End of Chapter 8. CHAPTER 9 Not far from the White House, almost in the shadow of the Department of State, stands an old brick house whose many sided walls could, if they desired, tell strange stories of the past and perhaps of the present also, for who knows what comedies and tragedies are transpiring every day at our very footsteps. It is the octagon house, a bit of the history of Washington, a house of memories, a house of shadows. For many years it was untenanted and deserted saved by a well authenticated ghost, a most unsociable ghost who preferred solitude to the best society and made night a thing of terror to curious adventurers. At the present time, however, the lower floors are used during the day by the Society of American Architects and the chance visitor is shown over it by the janitor who inhabits the top floor if the latter happens to be at home and obligingly disposed. He displays the secret doors, now alas, with latches and obtrusive hinges. The unexpected closets and mysterious hallways, the subterranean passage through which persons well known to history passed and repast during the troubled days of 1812. Persons unknown to history are also said to have had business which led them through this passage, and imagination runs rampant as one explores the short bit that escaped the renovation of 18th Street. One gazes with a feeling of awe into the room where the Treaty of Peace was signed and with interest at the room where Dolly Madison slept during the days the British were in the capital city and the White House too dangerous for a woman. But the visitor is not yet satisfied. Was there not, he asks curiously, some tragedy connected with the house or with the old Virginian who built it? And then perhaps he hears the story of the octarune whose uneasy spirit escapes at night from the wall where she was incarcerated and moves restlessly about the silent rooms looking for her murderer, or the slave locked in the attic who starved rather than submit, or the bride who jumped from the top of the spiral staircase, or—but the visitor has heard enough and departs, glad to get back into the noise and sunshine of everyday life. Perhaps though he pauses at the front door and looks back, looks through the circular hall and out the window opposite into the neglected old walled garden, and imagines it again rose-scented, with trim box-bordered paths and close-clipped turf. He sees the rooms ablaze with light, echoing to careless laughter and the tap of dancing feet. He sees the host with courtly manners and true southern hospitality, but with all hot tempered and revengeful. And also in the background he sees the octarune. And as he slowly walks up the street he wonders, be he never so matter of fact, what happens there at night when the doors and windows are closed, if—but he shrugs his shoulders incredulously as he hails a passing car and straightway forgets all about it. On a certain wet December evening, however, nothing supernatural would have been observed about the octagon house had one plucked up courage to venture in. On the contrary, a no less thoroughly alive person than Count Vladimir sat in the old dining-room, and with the assistance of his friend, Colonel St. John, carefully examined a map spread out before them upon a rough-deal table, for the architects were not yet in possession and furniture was limited. Heat and light were apparently limited also, for they wore their overcoats and shivered now and then with the penetrating damp of the place, while two candles in tin candlesticks did their best to accentuate the surrounding darkness. For although it was but a little after six o'clock, the shades of night had settled over the city some time since, and now held undisturbed sway everywhere. The two men sat side by side that they might both look at the map. Their faces were towards the hall, the door leading into which was carefully closed, and with only the blank wall behind them. There was an alertness about Colonel St. John, noticeably different from his former manner. His hair was brushed, and he had again returned to his razor with consequent improvement in his personal appearance. His voice, too, had lost the thin, unpleasant wine, and altogether he gave the impression of a man who has again some interest in life. The trembling of his hands, however, and the shifty expression in his bloodshot eyes, betrayed the habitual drunkard. Is this the best you can do? Inquired Count Vladimir abruptly, as he scanned the map critically, while his companion watched him with keen anxiety. I had so little data on which to work, was the deprecating reply, I did the best I could. But it is not reliable? That's not entirely. Explain again as concisely as possible. The old man leaned forward, his shaking finger indicating on the map the points to which he referred. This, he said slowly, is the mouth of the Potomac. I could not go below that, naturally. Count Vladimir nodded impatiently, and he continued slowly. Here are the outer defenses of Washington, Fort Hunt, and Fort Washington. Their garrisons are noted on the margin. These stars show the locations of their batteries. This information is tentative merely. I had no opportunity to verify it. These red squares indicate the beds of submarine mines, also tentative, but presumably accurate. Nothing absolute, interrupted Count Vladimir. Nothing reliable, doubtful information, Colonel, is sometimes worse than none at all. Colonel St. John's trembling finger followed the course of the river upon the map. Here, he continued, is the arsenal. I have a separate plan of it in my pocket drawn to scale, setting forth the strength and location of all the batteries in great detail. This information is not tentative. I drew the plan myself from personal observation and know it to be correct. There are improvements in process of erection there, and I had private access to the grounds. He produced a sketch as he spoke, and the two bent over it with interest. How did you get this information, Colonel?" inquired Count Vladimir suddenly. Colonel St. John smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn together over his bleared blue eyes. I have an acquaintance employed in the War Department, he said slowly, who was kind enough to show me around one day. He had access to the files. Also he owes me much money. Count Vladimir nodded comprehendingly. The result of an evening or so at Jackson City, he said suavely, I understand. Proceed, Colonel, you interest me. He is willing to oblige me in various little ways, continued the old man quietly, because if I pressed my claim and brought the matter before the authorities he would probably be discharged. It is thus a great republic ensures the integrity of its employees. The rain dashed suddenly against the window, and the shrunken frames rattled with the force of the wind. Count Vladimir turned up the sable collar of his coat and glanced about curiously. So this is the house, he said slowly. His companion acquiesced silently. When I was a boy, he said at last, many years ago Count, I lived in Washington in this immediate neighborhood. I know the house and its history well. It was an admirable selection, Colonel, and reflects credit on your judgment. When I applied for the position of caretaker, said Colonel St. John with a dry smile, I had no difficulty in securing the billet, it was not in demand. What is that? said Count Vladimir abruptly. Both men sprang to their feet and listened breathlessly, only the splashing of the rain and the trot of a passing horse broke the stillness. I could swear, exclaimed Count Vladimir, that I heard the rustle of a woman's skirts. I heard nothing, replied his companion slowly. Nothing! You must have heard it, the sound of silk is unmistakable. Colonel St. John shrugged his shoulders. You are not the first Count to hear strange noises in this house. I am not superstitious myself, but I do not sleep here. I prefer Jackson City. The Russian resumed his chair and took up the sketch of the arsenal, examining it minutely. For how long are you capable of keeping sober? He inquired suddenly. The old man shrank visibly, a cringing manner replacing the faint assumption of manliness and the corners of his mouth working miserably. Not long, he faltered uncertainly. Not long. I am an old man count and not strong. I must have stimulant. This sketch, continued Count Vladimir, carefully rolling it as he spoke, is excellent. I want more of them. Also I want other information. I shall get you appointed in the Department of State, but you must keep sober, do you understand? For how long? Until I have no further use of you, which I fear Colonel, from the turn affairs have taken lately, will be some months. Once a week, or oftener if necessary, I will meet you here. Meantime in the evenings you can continue your chicken-raising at Jackson City. Perhaps you have other friends employed in the War Department who would be willing to oblige you, if so, cultivate them. And what do I get for this service? inquired Colonel St. John, a keen, calculating expression for a moment lighting up his dim eyes. When the work is satisfactorily completed, replied Count Vladimir slowly, you will receive from my government an adequate compensation. From me you obtain your personal safety. The day is past, Colonel, when you could dictate your own terms. The muscles of the old man's face were twitching uncontrollably. He leaned forward and moistened his parched lips with his tongue. I saw him yesterday. He whispered hoarsely. Linned hurst. He nodded. He turned and looked after me. He continued, dropping his voice still lower. I believe he followed me, though I did not look around. He never saw me but once, yet I think he remembers me. If he finds you, said Count Vladimir with a short laugh, your days of liberty and usefulness are over. However, let us return to business. Are you familiar with the present international controversy? I have some knowledge of it. Good! You recall the Roostschuk model? Well it is necessary that I ascertain the policy of this government in regard to it. I desire the entire history from the beginning to the end. I have reason to believe that the most important papers will soon be in my possession, but there will be others of great value. Now follow closely what I say. I wish your whole attention, Colonel. And Colonel St. John, with a visible effort, concentrated his wandering thoughts and listened intently as his companion spoke slowly and concisely, carefully emphasizing certain words and instinctively lowering his voice while the candles on the table spluttered in the draft from the loose casing about the window and the gnawing of a mouse in the empty hall seemed painfully distinct. Suddenly Count Vladimir sprang to his feet. There is someone else in this house, he exclaimed angrily. Who is it? There is no one count. I tell you I felt someone look across my shoulder as we bent over the table just now, I even heard someone breathe. He clutched his companion by the shoulder and held him as though in a vice. By heaven, he said through his clenched teeth, if I thought you were playing a double game. But the ashen face and trembling limbs of the old man refuted the accusation even better than the eager protestations which poured from his lips, and the utter absence of anything to break the monotony of moldy walls and bare boards, save their own two wooden chairs and deal-table, demonstrated the impossibility of concealment. Well, said Count Vladimir, releasing his companion, I believe you, Colonel, and it is fortunate for you that I do. When I begin to doubt you I shall have no scruples about informing the police of your whereabouts. He picked up his hat and smoothed it carefully. I will go now, he remarked, as I have another engagement before dinner, a busy evening but profitable. Good night, Colonel. Colonel St. John accompanied his guest to the front door and stood a moment watching him descend the steps. As he turned to re-enter the house, the candle in his hand suddenly went out, leaving the hall in total darkness. He carefully groped his way towards the dining-room, but stopped abruptly. Who is here? He demanded. Who is it, I say? There was an instant, intense silence, then the sound of quick panting breath and a sudden blast of cold air. Colonel St. John stumbled forward and pushed open the dining-room door. Grasping the remaining candle, he returned to the hall. It was quite empty, but the door at the back, leading into the garden, stood open, and the wind blew it back and forth upon its creaking hinges. He closed it hastily, turning the rusty key with difficulty, and retraced his steps to the dining-room. Halfway across the hall he stopped irresolutely. The atmosphere was filled with a subtle perfume, very different from the musty air he had previously inhaled. Colonel St. John sniffed curiously, then reached for his hat. In his younger days he had not been deficient in physical courage, but he lost no time in seeking the street, and drew a breath of heartfelt relief as he closed the door of the octagon house behind him. Meanwhile, in the old garden, the water lay in little pools upon the neglected flower beds, and the paths were inch-deep with sticky black mud. It was not an attractive place for an evening stroll, yet an irregular line of footsteps showed that someone had recently passed through, presumably taking a shortcut from one street to the other. These footsteps had evidently been made by a man of at least average height, and they led directly to the gap in the old brick wall at the back of the garden. Sticking in the mud at the base of the wall was an overshoe, small and lined with fur, a shoe such as ladies wear over their slippers when an evening dress. It did not seem applicable to the footprints in the garden. CHAPTER X 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-Tibout, CHAPTER X. Senator Byrd was giving a dinner, and was conscious that it dragged heavily. As the guests were carefully selected, food and wine unexceptionable, and the serving beyond criticism, the senator was puzzled. The Secretary of State had arrived alone, bearing Mrs. Redmond's apologies. She was prostrated by a severe headache, and quite unable to be present. The own Cecil Lindhurst, for whom the dinner was given, had been unexpectedly unaccountably late, and had not, in the senator's opinion, offered good and sufficient reason for this breach of etiquette. In two, Isabelle added to her father's annoyance, by not appearing until after dinner was announced, wearing a gown of which he had expressed emphatic disapproval, and subsiding into utter silence as she took her place between Montseur-de-Près and Mr. Rivers. The senator's brows darkened as he observed the listless manner of his daughter and the forced animation of his guests. He liked conversation at his dinners to be spontaneous and laughter genuine, and could detect the real article immediately. Mrs. Chesley, at the head of the table, was totally unconscious of her brother's chagrin. To her the dinner was much like many others. Her purple velvet was highly satisfactory, and the canvas backs cooked to a turn what more could be desired. Therefore, when she felt his eye fixed upon her, she returned his gaze of gloomy disapproval with a smile so vapid and vacuous that it proved the last straw to the harassed senator. Bestowing frown upon his innocent sister, which caused her to drop her fork in astonishment, he turned hastily to the lady on his right, and endeavored to sustain his reputation of a genial and delightful host. But she was afterwards heard to remark that she had rarely been so bored and considered Senator Byrd a much overrated person. Montseur-de-Près and Mr. Rivers only were affected by the depressed atmosphere. The former was making a very substantial meal indeed, and the latter seemed exhilarated but self-absorbed. After one or two unsuccessful attempts to engage Isabel in conversation, he relapsed into a preoccupied silence, totally oblivious of his other neighbour, who finally turned her white shoulder very markedly towards him and pointedly ignored his proximity. And now Mr. Lindhurst remarked Mrs. Chesley in the patronising manner a certain type of person usually adopts towards a foreigner. What is your opinion of Washington? I have found it altogether delightful, Mrs. Chesley. Of course, she resumed, helping herself to salted almonds. You have been to the Capitol. How do our House and Senate compare with your Parliament, for instance? What particularly impressed me with the House of Representatives, interrupted Montseur-de-Près, is the freedom of speech permitted its members. All men are born free and equal, responded Mr. Rivers, rousing himself abruptly. That is our declaration, you know. I went down there, continued Montseur-de-Près discursively, to listen to a debate. I found two gentlemen gesticulating and both talking at once. They grew more irate every moment, and finally one shook his fist at the other. I thought Pistols imminent, and felt sure the friendship of a lifetime was irrevocably broken, for I had often seen them together. I thought how sad it was such things could happen. Then what followed? As I left the Capitol that afternoon, I saw the same two gentlemen strolling down the steps before me, arm in arm, they laughed and chatted evidently in the best of spirits, and made an engagement to dine together that evening. I had the good fortune to know one of them, so I approached him after they had separated, and expressed my pleasure that the breach was so quickly healed. Well, said Mr. Rivers, as the little Frenchman paused for breath, what then? He looked at me in astonishment, and inquired what I meant. I explained that I had been in the diplomatic gallery of the house that afternoon, and had heard, with sorrow, the bitter dispute. He immediately drew himself up very tall and erect, and looked over my head. I vote and argue for the good of my district, he said very stiffly, but by gadser I choose my own friends. And that, said Senator Byrd, laughing, is a privilege claimed by most men, I believe, regardless of country. Mrs. Chesley shook her head doubtfully, as though she could dispute this point if she desired, and admired her rings as they caught the light. She thought she might perhaps have added the hoop of rubies after all, without overloading her fingers. Isabel played with her fork, sending course after course away untouched, and was plainly relieved when dinner came to an end, and she could retire to the piano in the drawing-room. With her lindhurst, speedily followed.abel was playing softly, her red gold hair gleaming under the chandelier, and her grey eyes persistently lowered. The young Englishman watched her in silence. Fate had thrown them frequently together since Mrs. Redmond's ball, and this particular type of American continued to interest him greatly. There's something on your gown, he exclaimed suddenly. Allow me. Taking out his handkerchief, he brushed her skirt lightly. The black spot on its gauzy, pale blue surface remained unchanged, and a hasty movement on her part disclosed another and larger discoloured place at the edge of her satin petticoat. Taking his handkerchief, he touched it with his finger, then glanced up quickly. The skirt was stained by mud and water, and still very wet. Isabel twitched it from him, and brought her hands down upon the keys tumultuously. Yes, it's wet, she said defiantly, as though challenging inquiry. The own Cecil was puzzled. The girl was evidently excited, as her unnaturally bright eyes and the colour which came and went so fitfully indisputably demonstrated. Also he believed she was not far from a nervous collapse. He had sisters of his own, and knew there were times when very deft handling is necessary, if one would avoid trouble. So he stroked his fair moustache affectionately, and reflected carefully before speaking. There's a jolly little room at the head of the stairs, he remarked suggestively at last. I noticed it as I came in. It is very nice and quiet, and the chairs looked uncommonly comfortable. My sitting-room, said Isabel with a gasp of relief. Yes, let us go there. This bird, he said quietly, as they entered the room and he drew forward a low chair. Will you not have a glass of wine? You ate no dinner. I sat opposite, you know. Isabel swept her skirts about her with a hasty movement, which brought the wet spot again into prominence. It was horrid of you to notice it, she said petulantly. Horrid! I beg your pardon, he apologised contritely. I did not mean to vex you. But Isabel was not yet appeased. Look at that muddy place on your shoe, she continued reproachfully. I saw it, but I did not think it necessary to call the attention of the whole room to it, and there is some on your cuff, too. It was quite true. On the heel of his patent leather shoe, freshly dried mud was thickly plastered. Also a large spot marred the underside of an otherwise immaculate cuff. It's just as black as the place on my skirt, continued Isabel, who evidently agreed with the theory that the best mode of defence is by attack. And perhaps you don't know it. There is quite a long splash on the back of your coat. The servants should have brushed you, of course, but I suppose you came so late they had not time. The oncessel gravely examined his cuff. They do match, don't they? He remarked, pleasantly, comparing it with the stain on her skirt. On the whole, she resumed triumphantly, On the whole, Mr. Lindhurst, who are more spotted than I? Isabel touched her skirt gingerly. I think it is drying a little, don't you? She inquired anxiously. A ripple of laughter from the drawing-room floated up the stairs, and a servant entered with a tray containing small cups of black coffee. Isabel took one and drank it eagerly, while her companion, holding his cup in her hand, toyed absently with the spoon and watched her. His eyes were troubled as well as puzzled, and, notwithstanding the composure of his manner, it was evident he was holding himself well in hand. You see, said Isabel, with an effort. Just before dinner, after I was dressed and ready, I heard of a friend who was in trouble, and, of course, I wanted to help it, and I did not want anyone to know, and now this horrid stain and everything. I hope, he said gently, you were able to assist your friend. No, she replied with a shake of the head. That's just it. I didn't help at all. I fear I did harm by going. But I meant well. Her voice shook slightly in spite of her effort to control it, and she pushed her cup aside on the small table beside her and groped vainly for her handkerchief. I wish you'd looked the other way, she exclaimed impatiently. I hate to be stared at. The oncessel was conscious that he could not hold himself quite as well in check as he had believed. He felt a sudden and irresistible desire to put his arm about the slender figure and wipe the tears from the long lashes. He took her hand in both of his, and her hair brushed against his cheek as he stooped over her. Don't cry, he whispered. It hurts me. Don't cry, Isabel. Isabel rolled her handkerchief into a moist little ball and rose suddenly. I think I ought to tell you, she said with a little laugh, which was half a sob, that this afternoon Mr. Rivers asked me to marry him, and I said I would. I thought you might be interested. He released her hand and straightened himself suddenly. I congratulate you, he said slowly. You were right. I am interested. It will be quite a long engagement, she continued. Her fingers nervously interlocked. A year, I hope. I mean, of course. I hope the wedding will be in a year's time, but then one can never tell what may happen. I congratulate you, he said again. Mr. Rivers is a very brilliant man. I have heard him mentioned as a possible member of the next cabinet. Yes, she said, I know, and father is pleased too. They are friends, although Mr. Rivers is much younger. Shall we return to the drawing-room? And Mr. Lindhurst? Yes, Miss Bird. Please forget how foolish I have been tonight. I am very well, and of course very happy. I was a little nervous, I think, and I fear I was rude when you only meant to be kind. Please forgive me, and please also forget everything, will you? There is nothing to remember, Miss Bird, except what you have just told me. The guests were preparing to take their leave as they returned to the drawing-room, and Isabel, with some compunctions of conscience, endeavoured to perform a few neglected duties in regard to entertaining her father's friends. The Secretary of State was the first to depart. He drew her aside with a whispered word of congratulation and watched her face keenly as they talked. Your father told me, he said, and I want to be the first to wish you the happiness you deserve. I was astonished, Isabel, you have kept your friends completely in the dark, my dear. He stooped and kissed her forehead, taking her face between his hands and looking earnestly into her gray eyes. God bless you, my dear, he said gently. May you be as happy as Estelle and I. There can be no better fortune in life for you than that. Good night. The Secretary drove quickly home through the wet streets and went at once to Mrs. Redmond's dressing-room. She half rose from the couch as he approached and held out both hands in welcome. It's perfectly absurd, of course, she said, with a little laugh. But when you go anywhere without me, I'm wretched until you come back. The flowing lace sleeve of her white dressing-gown fell away from her rounded arm with its faint tracery of blue veins. The Secretary liked to follow their course with the tip of his finger and also to hold the small white hand which wore the plain gold band and lay so willingly in his. Was the evening very long, he inquired tenderly? Poor little girl, and how is the head? It is really better, John, almost well, in fact. Tell me about the dinner. I was especially sorry not to go with you to-night. Well, he returned reflectively. You did not miss very much. It was deadly dull, absolutely the only stupid dinner I ever knew bird to give. Tell me who was there and all about it. So he told her all the little details he knew she wished to hear, and she listened attentively, occasionally laughing at some anecdote or interrupting with some trivial question. While outside the wind increased in violence and rain splashed against the windows, running down the panes in little rivers and forming small ponds upon the stone sill, thus accentuating the warmth and colour of the rose-tinted room, he pressed his cheek to hers as he spoke, but started in astonishment. Why a still, he exclaimed, rapidly passing his hand over her head. Your hair is wet. Mrs. Redmond sat suddenly upright and pushed aside his hand. Her breath came quickly, and a round red spot glowed on either cheek. Don't, John, she said wirly. My head is very sensitive. Please don't touch it. But see he returned, holding out his hand for her inspection. Only see how wet my fingers are. Mrs. Redmond took the hand in both of hers, and laid her cheek against it. You dear old silly, she said languidly, my head was so hot and ached so badly I had Josephine put crushed ice on it. I was too vain to let you see me tied up in a towel, so I took it off when I heard you coming, but of course my hair is wet. The secretary smiled indulgently, and returned to the subject of Isabelle Bird's engagement. Mrs. Redmond sat back again upon the couch and listened quietly with closed eyes. By the way, he said reflectively, isn't it about time we entertained Lindhurst? The lace upon the bosom of her gown moved suddenly, and a pause ensued. He has been here, dear, she said at last. You forget the ball. But that is not enough, he objected, rolling the end of the ribbon at her waist about his fingers, and slowly smoothing it out again. We must give a dinner for him and ask the other diplomats. We should have done so before this. All of them, John? Estelle, he exclaimed, laughing. I believe you are getting lazy. For the first time since our marriage you are shirking responsibility. I dislike the English, said Mrs. Redmond in general condemnation. As a rule they are so stolid and heavy they remind me of underdone bread. Well, returned the secretary, relinquishing the ribbon. I admit this young fellow attracts me. There is nothing stolid about him, I assure you. On the contrary, he is remarkably alert. I have met him officially, as well as socially, of course, and I think you will like him when you know him. Mrs. Redmond pushed aside the heavy hair which had fallen over her forehead and turned her face away from the light. We will have the dinner, dear, she said gently, and invite the whole diplomatic corps, if you say so. I think a large affair would be best, don't you? I will leave it entirely to you, he replied. I know I am in safe hands, although they are very small to be so capable. The secretary was much given to such old-fashioned gallantries. Although he had been married five years, he was as much in love with his wife as the day he had gone with her to the little church in Paris and placed upon her finger the small golden band. CHAPTER XI. The fire in Mrs. Redmond's sitting-room burned cheerfully, casting flickering shadows upon the brass and irons and crackling sociably. It was a fire to invite easy-chairs and confidences, or if one happened to be alone, to sit beside and dream, for there were pictures in it and castles in the air round about if one cared to look for them. The mistress of the room sat in a low chair, her hands clasped idly in her lap, and the tip of her slipper upon the fender. She was one of the few people capable of absolute inaction and had been sitting motionless for the past hour, her head resting upon the silk cushion at the back of her chair, and her eyes partly closed as though the dark lashes were too heavy for the white lids they fringed and had weighed them down. She was a study for an artist as she sat there in the dusk of the short winter's day, with the firelight casting its ruddy glow upon the rich folds of her gown and reflecting itself in the dark polished floor. A casual observer would doubtless have labelled the picture repose, but if one looked again one could detect a tired expression about the mouth and a reluctant expectancy in the whole attitude the reverse of restful. The clock on the mantle chimed and she frowned a little. A half hour late, she said aloud as the door opened and Count Vladimir entered quietly. I thought I would announce myself. He remarked as he crossed the room. It was not too much of a liberty in an old friend, was it? Mrs. Redman moved the glass screen which lay in her lap and held it between her face and the fire. I said for a clock, she remarked abruptly, it is now half past. I apologize, he returned. The delay was unavoidable. May I sit down? She bowed distantly. You were dreaming when I came in, he resumed. You used to dream away whole days in Berlin, I remember. A habit is like a perfume, it clings to one. I was not dreaming, she interrupted sharply. I was thinking of you. I am flattered, madame. They spoke in French, a language in which both were proficient and their words were chosen with care. I was wondering, she continued slowly, if you had a heart. A heart, said Count Vladimir reflectively, is the instrument by means of which our blood is circulated. We all possess them, do we not? She moved impatiently and he bent forward that he might see her face. I have a heart, madame, he said quietly, although I have but lately become aware of the fact myself. Shall I tell you how I know? It does not interest me, she returned coldly. A servant entered, replenished the fire and noiselessly withdrew. Vladimir watched him in silence and smiled skeptically. So, he said, when they were again alone, a daughter of Eve, yet not curious, is that not an anomaly? It is only the unsophisticated who are curious, returned Mrs. Redmond slowly, when one has actually tasted the apple, one's teeth are set on edge forever, it is so sour. You speak bitterly, madame. Perhaps so, Count Vladimir. Again he leaned forward that he might see her face more clearly. Tell me, he said, after a long pause, do you ever live the old days over in memory, or is the past dead as well as buried? It is not even buried, she replied, it rises from the grave I dug for it and follows me everywhere. Then you sometimes think of Berlin? With regret? With deep regret. I, too, madame, regret my lost opportunities, like you I wish I might live that part of my life over again. Do not misunderstand me, said Mrs. Redmond distinctly. My regret is not that the old days are gone, but that they ever existed at all. You are happy, yes, he said, interrogatively. I scarcely suppose, she returned indifferently, you asked for this interview simply to discuss my happiness or misery. I presume you want something, what is it? I want to know, he said deliberately, why you failed to keep your appointment on Thursday evening. You do know, Count Vladimir. But not enough, you started and lost your way, you also lost the colonel from the nut as it were, a curious coincidence and one worthy of much thought. They were lost, I tell you, lost, she whispered hoarsely. Even as the Kediv's opals were lost, he returned slowly. Mrs. Redmond caught the back of a chair and studied herself against it. Count Vladimir, she said, with a visible effort at self-control, I cannot allow you to insult me in my own house. You will apologise for your insinuation at once, if you please. I think, he replied with an unpleasant laugh, that Mrs. Redmond has lived so long in Washington, she is inclined to forget Berlin. She put her finger on the electric bell in the wall beside her. I am not afraid of you, Count, she said quietly. But yet, at least, you are too wise a man to throw away a tool before it has served its purpose. If I touch this button, I will tell my servants to show you out and not admit you again. Shall I ring?" Madam, he returned with a slight bow. When you are angry you are superb, I apologise. Mrs. Redmond resumed her chair and again took possession of the glass screen. I have told you all I know, she said coldly after a long pause. There are almost as many kinds of silence as there are types of humanity, and while nothing is more soothing and delightful than the prolonged quiet of real camaraderie, it is equally true that nothing is more exhausting than the silence of distrust or contempt. The little French clock on the mantel ticked rapidly as though hurrying time away and the fire blazed merrily sending an occasional spark over the fender and out into the room while the winter's day waned and the twilight deepened. Is there anything else? Finally inquired Mrs. Redmond without turning her head. Count Vladimir carefully extinguished a spark which had fallen upon the rug and lay smoldering there. Yes, madame, he said slowly, there is something more. I earnestly desire an appointment for a friend. An appointment? A temporary clerkship in the Department of State. The man is old and poor, a worthy charity. A friend of yours, she said with a short laugh, and a worthy charity? Even so, madame. It could be arranged, I suppose, she said unwillingly, if it is absolutely necessary. I would not ask it otherwise, madame. Mrs. Redmond went to her desk and produced a small memorandum book. Be good enough to give me his name and address. She said briefly, I do not promise this appointment, but I will make a note of it. His name, madame, is Joseph Sanders. He lives at Jackson City, a small town in Virginia. Joseph Sanders, she repeated as she wrote it down, an excellent alias, noncommittal and respectable. I think, Count, I will be obliged to know a little more about Mr. Sanders before I interest myself in his behalf. He watched her enter the name and raised his eyebrow slightly as she spoke. I think not, madame, he said confidently, your naturally kind heart will prompt you to assist the needy without making useless inquiries concerning them. In the course of the next few weeks my friend will be installed, I am sure. He is, by the way, an American by birth. And by adoption what? A man without a country, madame, there are many such wanderers. Mrs. Redmond returned the book to her desk and faced her companion. You received my invitation to dinner? This morning only, I shall, of course, accept. I thought you would, force of circumstances obliged me to ask you, your official position, and my husband's, you understand? I was not unduly flattered by the attention, he returned dryly. The dinner, continued Mrs. Redmond, speaking slowly and distinctly, is given for the new British attaché Mr. Lindhurst. Count Vladimir had risen and was standing with his back to the fireplace, watching her every movement closely. She drew a long-stemmed rose from the vase upon the desk, and crossed the room towards him, moving with a languid grace peculiarly her own, the flower hanging loosely from her hand, and her small head held proudly erect. Resuming the low chair before the fire, she slowly lifted the rose and inhaled its perfume, then looked directly at her companion, undeniable challenge in her blue eyes. The dinner, she repeated, is given for Mr. Lindhurst. The ticking of the little clock seemed obtrusively loud as the man and woman gazed at each other in silence. He bent forward eagerly that he might see her face more distinctly in the gathering dusk, and the pupils of his eyes dilated strangely, a sudden, passionate light replacing their usual calm coldness. With an involuntary movement he stooped over her, his quick breath stirring the loose tendrils of hair about her ears. Estelle, he murmured softly, Estelle. The blue eyes widened as they gazed helplessly up at him as though fascinated, a blank baffled expression gradually replacing their first angry surprise. Count Vladimir was speaking again, speaking hurriedly, his incoherent words crowding rapidly upon one another, and his face coming gradually closer as his voice grew lower and his pulses throbbed painfully. And Mrs. Redmond was listening, listening with a curious sense of remote unreality and the trembling stillness with which a bird watches the cat who, having charmed it, prepares to spring. You shall not be troubled, he was saying. I can shield you if you will let me. Estelle, I have wanted you always. Do you understand, always? She made an effort to rise, but he put her gently back. You need not fear Lindhurst, he continued breathlessly. With me you need fear no one. I want you, star of the world, I want you. Mrs. Redmond shook off his restraining hand and sprang to her feet. How dare you! she gassed. How dare you! With unsteady fingers she switched on the electric light and pointed to the door. Count Vladimir took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead. The pupils of his eyes contracted as suddenly as they had expanded, and the eyes themselves resumed their habitually keen expression. Perhaps it is well, madame, he said, alluding to the light. The situation was becoming somewhat strained. Mrs. Redmond tried to speak, but her lips refused to articulate. She was very pale, and her eyes glittered ominously. Let us discuss the question coolly, he remarked, stooping to pick up the red rose which had fallen to the floor. I offer you absolute security, peace of mind, safety, what you will. In return I ask, what? A few sugar plums, a kiss now and then perhaps, nothing more than men have asked of you before, madame, if my memory serves me rightly. She pressed the button in the wall beside her without replying. It is a small price to pay for safety, he continued. I am better as your friend than your enemy, madame. I can be merciless when it serves my purpose. I know, she said slowly, I know. I hold your happiness in the hollow of my hand. You are brave, madame, you possess courage, few men can boast. I admire it, but it will avail you nothing if I elect to speak. I have done all you asked, she said mechanically. Not quite all, madame, somehow you have bungled. It is not in your nature to fail, therefore I am suspicious. What I told you is true, Count Vladimir, I swear it. He moved impulsively forward and seized her hands. I want you to be happy, he said softly. It's such a small thing, I ask. Only a few caresses, only an occasional moment out of your life. How little! Kiss me, Estelle, and promise what I ask. Kiss me now, yourself, and the slate is sponged clean. Come to me, star of the world, and be at rest. He dropped her hands hastily as the door opened and retreated a few paces, pulling to pieces the red rose and breathing heavily. James, said Mrs. Redmond, to the footman who stood awaiting orders. Count Vladimir is going, show him out. And, said James later in the Butler's Pantry in indignant narrative, when I handed him his hat, most respectful and polite, he up and cussed me, that's what he done. Chapter 12 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. Recording by David Lincoln Brooks. The Wife of the Secretary of State. By Ella Middleton-Tibout. Isabelle remarked Mrs. Redmond to Miss Bird as the latter entered the library. Don't ever marry a member of the cabinet. Why not, inquired Miss Bird. You seem to get a good deal of pleasure out of it. It's the awful question of precedence at dinner and things, said Mrs. Redmond vaguely, her white forehead puckered ominously. I literally quake all over when we do our duty and invite the diplomats, for fear I will somehow blunder. Suppose now I should happen to put the premier of the corps in the middle of the table. As the centerpiece suggested Isabelle laughing, he might be very effective, I should think. You know what I mean. And they are always being recalled, or dying, or changing somehow. It is enough to turn one's hair white. Oh, Estelle, said Isabelle, laughing again. This from you, and I know you absolutely revel in your position because of the way you can chatter in foreign languages. You would not change places with any woman living, and you know it. Mrs. Redmond became suddenly grave. I declare to you, Isabelle, she said earnestly, if John would resign and take me out west somewhere, on a ranch, I think, away from it all, I believe I would be the happiest woman in the world. Well, I like it, replied Isabelle, as she sank into a comfortable low chair and removed her gloves. I like rubbing elbows with other nations and meeting all sorts of interesting people, although it does make me realize sometimes what a very insignificant person Ms. Isabelle Birdie is, after all. My elbows are already sore from too much rubbing, remarked Mrs. Redmond ruefully, and they both laughed. What magnificent orchids exclaimed Isabelle suddenly. When, Estelle? Count Valdemire returned to Mrs. Redmond briefly, adding emphatically, I dislike orchids as much as one can dislike a flower. Count Valdemire repeated Isabelle as she pulled a blossom or so into greater prominence. He of the waxed mustache and sphinx-like smile. I think, Estelle, I dislike Count Valdemire as much as one can dislike a man, and sometimes that means a lot. He dines here tonight, remarked Mrs. Redmond as she crossed the room and stood looking at the girl as she sat in the low chair, with the sunlight touching her hair lovingly and turning it into burnished gold. Isabelle's hair was her father's pride, and the chronic despair of her aunt as it would not lend itself to any prescribed form of coiffure, but rebelliously put forth curling tendrils where least expected, as though laughing at the bare idea of restraint. Mrs. Chesley had been heard to say during the chrysalis period of her niece's development, that her red hair and pugnose were calamities which might be born with pious resignation, were it not for the wayward spirit which accompanied them, and from which she was a daily sufferer. Time indeed had shaped the inquiring nose into a pecanth and most attractive appendage, and had softened the hue of the objectionable tresses into a rich red gold, the delight of artists. But Mrs. Chesley was of the opinion that the ungovernable spirit merely smoldered and might be roused at short notice. Mrs. Redmond sat down upon the arm of the chair, and her eyes involuntarily followed the ray of light cast by the diamond upon the plump white hand lying lightly in the girl's lap. It was a very handsome diamond, and compelled attention, so Mrs. Redmond thought almost obtrusively, Mr. Rivers, she said slowly, has regretted. Yes, replied Isabel quietly, he had another engagement. He was very sorry. Still Redmond turned suddenly and took her friend's face between her hands, looking earnestly into the gray eyes which clouded a little and failed to respond to her affectionate gaze with their customary frankness. Why did you do it, she said impulsively. Tell me, Isabel. Why, does anybody want to get married, returned Isabel, laughing impatiently and turning her head away from the inquiring eyes. Why did you do it yourself for that matter? Ah, said Mrs. Redmond quickly, that's different. She looked involuntarily towards a photograph of her husband, and, rising, placed it further back on the mantel where it was in no danger of falling, touching it gently and relinquishing it half regretfully, while the girl watched her curiously. Estelle, she said almost timidly, did you love him that way before you were married, or did it come later? Ah, no, she continued hastily as her companion was about to reply, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know, but you do love your husband more and more all the time, Estelle. Don't you? Yes, said Mrs. Redmond softly, more and more every day. And are you happy married, happier than when you were a girl? Aunt Mary says that every right-minded woman—I am happy, interrupted Mrs. Redmond, speaking quickly and emphatically, so happy, Isabel, that I would be quite willing to give up all chance of heaven hereafter in order to preserve my heaven upon earth. I don't quite understand, Estelle. I mean, said Mrs. Redmond, speaking to the picture on the mantel rather than to the girl listening wide-eyed in the low chair, I mean that I possess the love and respect of a good man, and there is nothing in the world I would not do rather than to lose it. But Estelle interrupted Isabel in a puzzled voice. Of course you expect your husband to love and respect you. Every woman does. I don't understand—and please, God, you never will, said Mrs. Redmond earnestly, adding cheerfully. And now my solemn mood is gone. It was all your fault, anyhow, for getting engaged so quietly that you stole a march even on me. Let me see your ring. And how about Mr. Lee, Isabel, and others I could mention? Estelle turned her ring slowly around her finger and watched the diamond as it caught the light. Estelle, she said gravely, I think I'd like to tell you something. About Mr. Lee? Isabel did not reply at once. She rested her chin on her hand and gazed straight before her, a troubled look in her gray eyes and a serious expression about the lips, usually so prone to curve into infectious smiles displaying captivating little dimples where least expected. Well, said Mrs. Redmond after waiting some minutes in silence, one afternoon began Isabel slowly. I was in the library, at home, in the curtained alcove, you know. Mrs. Redmond nodded and drew up her chair. I know, she said. Well, resumed Isabel with an evident effort. I think I must have fallen into a dose, for I don't remember anything as special until I heard voices in the library. It was Father and Mr. Rivers, and they seemed to have been talking a long time. The first thing I heard distinctly was Mr. Rivers saying very positively, I believe Lee is the guilty man. And then Estelle, of course, I waked right up and listened with all my might. Of course, assented Mrs. Redmond. Father said doubtfully, the secretary has every confidence in him. And Mr. Rivers said that doesn't prove anything. A child could pull wool over his eyes if he wanted to. Mr. Rivers did not know what he was talking about, remarked Mrs. Redmond indignantly, but Isabel continued her story without noticing the interruption. They talked a long time, and I gathered that an important paper had been stolen from the State Department. Father said Mr. Lee was certainly responsible, and that decisive steps of some sort ought to be taken at once, and Mr. Rivers, Mrs. Redmond had turned her head so that her face was in the shadow. Well, she said almost sharply, what did Mr. Rivers say? He said, replied Isabel gravely, that he had been having Mr. Lee watched. Shadowed was the word. It sounds horrid, doesn't it? It certainly does, agreed Mrs. Redmond with a little shiver, and that he hoped matters would soon be brought to a climax, and when he said that, Estelle, I think I hated him. Go on, said Mrs. Redmond briefly. There was a good deal more, continued Isabel reflectively, and presently Father said he thought he could test Mr. Lee that very afternoon, as he expected him on some business for the secretary. He suggested that they make up a bundle of blank papers, and label it Ruschuk, then let them lie on the table, and leave Mr. Lee alone in the room. Father said he felt sure the papers would remain untouched, but Mr. Rivers thought not. I know it was not very honorable to listen to all this, but I couldn't help it, Estelle. I just couldn't. I felt angry that they should suspect Mr. Lee or anyone else of such a thing, and I wanted to stay there myself and watch to prove that they were wrong, and then tell them just what I thought of them. You understand, don't you? Yes, dear, I understand. Well, resumed the girl with heightened color. They fixed up the papers and smoked awhile without saying anything, and then all at once Mr. Rivers began talking about me, saying he wanted to marry me. I was so surprised I nearly tumbled out of the alcove and spoiled everything, and I almost wish I had. I wish so too, Isabel. Father said, went on Isabel hurriedly, how pleased he would be in all that sort of thing, and then the doorbell rang and they went upstairs. It was Mr. Lee, and he came into the library and sat down by the table with those miserable papers right under his nose. After a while he saw them. Mrs. Redmond was leaning forward now, listening intently to every word, a curious light in her blue eyes. Go on, she said breathlessly, go on. He picked them up and turned them over and over and studied the outside wrapper. It had rust-chook confidential printed very large on it in red ink. I could see it distinctly. He kept on turning them over doubtfully, and then, Estelle, he looked hastily behind him and put them in his pocket. Mrs. Redmond leaned back in her chairs, though the tension had suddenly relaxed. Just then, continued Isabel, Father sent for Mr. Lee, and I could come out. I felt the way I used to feel as a child when I had been swinging too long, all light-headed and giddy, you know, with everything blurry. It's a horrid sensation. Well I sat there in Father's chair and thought it all over, and the more I thought, the sorry I felt for Mr. Lee. Although he had proved himself dishonorable, I did not want Father and Mr. Rivers to know it, and after all it was only a bundle of blank papers, and there was no great harm done. And so, Estelle, I made up another package and printed rust-chook confidential on it just like the first. Father taught me how to print, and you can't tell my letters from his. "'You made another package?' said Mrs. Redmond incredulously. "'Oh yes,' replied Isabel in a tired voice. It was quite easy. I despise Mr. Lee, of course, and have a contempt for him, but it is not necessary that anybody else should know.' Mrs. Redmond put her hand gently upon the bright hair. "'Poor little Isabel,' she said softly. "'Just as I got them fixed,' resumed Isabel quietly. Mr. Rivers came in and looked at the table, and there was the bundle exactly as he put it, staring him right in the face. Then he saw me, and the first thing I knew, he was asking me to marry him, and I said, I would, Estelle, because it seemed to me I might as well do that as anything.' Mrs. Redmond had crossed the room and stood looking out over the broad avenue with compressed lips and moist lashes. "'Is that all?' she inquired, but without turning around. "'No,' said Isabel, hesitatingly, not quite. "'It was that stormy Thursday when you were ill and could not dine with us. You remember, don't you?' "'Perfectly, Isabel. After I was dressed, it occurred to me I might go to Mr. Lee and ask him to give back those papers, and perhaps he would explain why he took them. I thought I had plenty of time before dinner, and it was only kind to warn him about the shadowing. Anyhow, I went. "'You went alone?' to Mr. Lee's lodgings, exclaimed Mrs. Redmond, turning from the window in genuine astonishment. "'Isabel!' "'Yes,' said the girl quietly, and I wish from the bottom of my heart I had stayed at home. She paused uncertainly, and looked anxiously at her companion. "'This is very confidential, Estelle,' she said, with a little quiver in her voice, but I must talk to someone, and Aunt Mary never understands things. I have been so worried.' Mrs. Redmond drew the chair closer and sat down quietly, taking Isabel's hand in hers caressingly. "'Tell me all about it, dear,' she said gently. "'John says I'm a good listener. Then we will talk the whole thing over and see what it is best to be done. You are such a comfortable friend,' returned Isabel gratefully, and I feel it is so safe to talk to you.' "'Where was I?' "'You had started for Mr. Lee's lodgings,' said Estelle, her voice a little mechanical, and her eyes still following the flashing of the diamond upon the hand resting confidingly in hers.' "'Well,' resumed Isabel, just before I got to the house, Mr. Lee himself came down the steps and turned in the opposite direction. Of course I called to him, but he didn't hear me, and I tried to catch up with him, but he walked too quickly for me. It was blowing and raining, and the streets were slippery. I had never been out alone at night before, and I was awfully afraid, but I kept on following him, scarcely knowing what I was doing. And oh, Estelle, he went—' "'Yes,' said Mrs. Redmond breathlessly, as she paused a moment. "'Where? Isabel, where?' A sudden rustle of stiff silk became evident in the hall, and a decided voice said crisply, "'No, you need not show me the way. I will announce myself.'" Mary exclaimed Isabel with an impatient gesture as Mrs. Chesley sailed into the room with the manner of one confident of her welcome. "'I was sure I would find Isabel here,' she remarked, placidly sinking into the most comfortable chair. "'You should not let her monopolize so many of your mornings, my dear. I often say to her father that I really don't know what she would do without you.'" Mrs. Redmond made an appropriate reply, and the conversation drifted into the subjects uppermost in Mrs. Chesley's mind—clothes and servants—while her niece relapsed into a silence she mentally deplored as sullen, and her hostess valiantly endeavored to maintain a courteous and interested manner in spite of the unopportune arrival of her visitor. CHAPTER XIII 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. Dressing by David Lincoln Brooks. The Wife of the Secretary of State by Ella Middleton Tybout. CHAPTER XIII How do I look? inquired Mrs. Redmond some hours later, suddenly appearing in her husband's dressing-room. There was but one answer possible, and the Secretary promptly made it, stooping to kiss the white forehead and touch the beautifully dressed hair caressingly. I'm so glad you think so, she said, consulting the mirror anxiously. This gown was an extravagance, John, but I do think it is a success. You need your opals, replied the Secretary, who took a genuine interest in all the details of his wife's toilet. That string of pearls is too insignificant. You have a perfect passion for those opals, returned Mrs. Redmond with a little laugh, and I don't like them at all. I had much rather wear the jewels you gave me. But it gives me so much pleasure to see you in them, dear. You should indulge an old man in such a harmless whim. You shall not call yourself old, said Mrs. Redmond, laying a soft little hand across his lips. Of course I will wear them if you really wish it. Will you ring for Josephine to get them for me? When the maid had departed on her errand, Mrs. Redmond stepped back a few paces and looked critically at her husband. I'm not satisfied with your appearance, sir, she said severely. There are lines about your mouth and that horrid, tired look in your eyes again. What is it, John?" The Secretary sighed and adjusted his cuff. It is just the outcome of the day, Estelle, he replied. Those papers have not yet been found and the President is much annoyed. I think I am getting too old for politics. Every day, almost every hour, brings fresh anxieties, and I do not seem to have the ability to cope with them. Is it anything special, dear? I think, replied the Secretary, putting his arm around her waist and seeming to derive some comfort from the action. I think the thing which troubles me most is the knowledge that someone I trusted has deceived me. The papers were undoubtedly stolen by an employee of the department and the thief has not been found. Therefore I am growing suspicious of everybody, a most unhealthy atmosphere in which to live. John, said Mrs. Redmond, as she carefully pinned a white carnation to the lapel of his coat. Perhaps the papers were not stolen, after all. They may only be mislaid. The Secretary shook his head positively. You do not understand the importance of the matter, Estelle, he said quietly. They were not mislaid. The thief must be found, and he need expect no mercy from me, whoever he may be. Whoever he may be, repeated Mrs. Redmond absently, putting the brushes on the dressing table straight. He does not deserve any mercy, John. Do you really expect to find him? Sooner or later he must be found, returned the Secretary positively. What he has done successfully once, he will attempt again. The cleverest thief invariably steals one thing too much, and in so doing overreaches himself. Yes, she said breathlessly, yes I suppose so. Once too often, and then... Here is Josephine with the opals, interrupted the Secretary cheerfully. We will talk of something more interesting. Let me help you with your necklace. With fingers much too large for the work, but strangely deft, nevertheless he unclasped the string of pearls, and replaced them with the opals. While Josephine skillfully adjusted the crescent in her mistress's dark hair. Estelle, he exclaimed, as the maid withdrew, you are the light of my eyes, you know, but sometimes you positively dazzle them. Mrs. Redmond swept her skirt about her, and made him a low curtsy. Come, she said, taking his arm. We must go downstairs. It is time for our guests to arrive. And I want—oh, John, I want this dinner to be absolutely perfect. If any contra-tah occurs, I think I should like to retire into strictly private life, and exist on the memory of my past greatness. They had entered the long drawing-room, glowing with light, and fragrant with many flowers, offering by its subdued richness and unobtrusive beauty a silent testimonial to the alliance of wealth and good taste, a combination as rare as it is desirable. Suppose, said the secretary, glancing carelessly about, suppose Estelle, I should tell you tomorrow or morning that all this was gone for ever, and there was nothing left, that you and I must begin at the beginning with just each other, and our bread to earn. What then? Mrs. Redmond caught her breath, and raised her eyes to his, with an indescribably sweet expression. I think, John, she said gravely, I should be almost glad, because I might then perhaps— The Russian ambassador and Countess Alexis announced the footman impassively. Count Faldimir. The secretary and Mrs. Redmond advanced to meet their guests, who now arrived in quick succession and comprised the principal members of the diplomatic corps, with a slight sprinkling of Americans prominent in Washington society by reason of politics or money. Among the latter was the Honorable Joshua Grimes, multimillionaire, proprietor of The Daily Messenger, and member of Congress from South Dakota. As Mr. Grimes himself would doubtless have remarked, he might look a little out of his element among his present associates, but when an emergency arose he thought he could show them who was the biggest duck in the puddle after all. And Mr. Grimes believed an emergency was near at hand. To lend hers the member from South Dakota was an unfailing source of pleasure. He's so typical, don't you know, the Englishman confided to Miss Bird on one occasion. As a rule I have been disappointed in the American politician, but Mr. Grimes is most satisfactory. Mr. Grimes, like many of his kind, was a fattest, and reveled in his ability to indulge himself in that direction. His hobby was precious stones, and again and again his appraising eyes sought Mrs. Redmond's opals with a covetous, wondering expression, as though almost resentful of her right of possession, and his fingers positively itched to touch them and assure himself of their reality. Dinner ended, he gravitated in her direction that he might have a nearer view, and perhaps glean a little information concerning them. Mrs. Redmond was seated upon a small divan beside Miss Bird, who was chatting in a perfunctory manner with Count Waldemir, while Monsieur Dupré entertained his hostess with his usual volubility. As Mr. Grimes drew near, the little Frenchman politely made way for him, but smiled as he observed his courteous gesture pass unnoticed, and exchanged a quick glance with Lindhurst, who had approached with the secretary and stood facing Mrs. Redmond as she sat with her back to the light, her rich gown falling in graceful folds about her, and the crescent in her hair scintillating brilliantly. "'Surely you're not leaving so early, Mr. Grimes,' she remarked, under the impression that he had sought her to say good night. "'I'm a man with one idea, Mrs. Redmond,' returned Mr. Grimes, sitting down abruptly. "'It's been so with me all my life.' "'Yes,' said Mrs. Redmond politely. "'First it was money, or rather making it. "'Well, I got all I wanted, so it no longer interests me. Just now it's stones.' "'Yes,' said Mrs. Redmond again. "'I've studied him a good bit,' he continued slowly, and I flatter myself, I'm something of a judge. I know a good thing when I see it, and being a collector I want one like it. Now I have some pretty good opals, but they are not a patch on those of yours. "'Would you mind telling me where you got them?' Count Waldemir gave a scarcely perceptible glance across the sofa as he continued to discuss the ethics of golf with Miss Bird, and Lindhurst paused involuntarily before responding to the polite interest of the secretary regarding Devonshire Creme. The opal at Mrs. Redmond's throat glowed suddenly scarlet, a blue flame radiating therefrom as though flaunting its value before less costly jewels. "'Do you like them?' she said quietly. "'I'm so glad. "'I really don't know where they came from originally. They are simply family jewels to be handed down from one generation to another. "'We are always desert when Mrs. Redmond wears her opals,' said Mr. Dupré with a slight bow. "'I never saw their equal. Never,' said Mr. Grimes. He was plainly much impressed. "'Nor I,' said Count Waldemir, joining suddenly in the conversation. "'Nor I, except once. And where was that?' In Egypt, at the court of the Kadive. The secretary glanced smilingly at his wife, while Lindhurst adjusted his monocle and brought it to bear upon Count Waldemir. And by common consent they relegated Devonshire and his products to the background and joined the group about the divan. "'I suspect your romance,' cried Isabel, laughing. "'Let us hear it, Count.' "'Not a tall romance,' he replied, addressing Miss Bird, but looking beyond her at his hostess. "'Rather a curious superstition regarding them. "'I'm not much on superstitions,' remarked Mr. Grimes, parenthetically. "'I reckon I never had time to tamper with them.' "'Tell us, Count,' urged Isabel again. "'Shall I, madam?' "'Pray do,' said Mrs. Redmond quietly. "'The Kadive's opals,' began Count Waldemir slowly, which, madam, are quite as beautiful as yours and very similar, are not an enviable possession. In fact, they are waited with a curse which brings bad luck to the one who wears them.' "'All opals do,' interrupted Isabel, unless one's birthday is in October.' "'My birthday's in June,' said Mrs. Redmond with a little laugh. "'In the beginning,' resumed Count Waldemir, or so the subjects of the Kadive believe, these opals were translucent stones, pure and exquisite but without fire or color. They were the property of the Kadive's favorite many centuries ago. She was, of course, young and beautiful, but apparently indiscreet, for she fell in love with an officer of the palace guard and even raised her veil to show him her face. How she happened to see him in spite of the restrictions of the harem I have forgotten, also how she managed to escape. They were, however, discovered floating down the Nile together in a boat and promptly captured. She was sedorned with the opals. The man was executed. And the girl, inquired Isabel, as he paused for an instant, what of her? Her hands were bound, he replied impressively, and she was deprived of her veil and turned out into the streets still wearing the jewels. To speak with her or provide her with food or shelter was punishable with death, and she wandered about the streets and outcast until she succumbed to starvation. Before she died, she cursed the stones she wore and the man who gave them to her, and prayed that her spirit might enter into them and bring bad luck to those who wore them, even as they had brought disgrace to her. A very vindictive young woman, said Monsieur Dupré lightly. And so continued Count Voldemire slowly. The opals glow and fade and glow again, even as the hearts of those who wear them burn, turn cold, and grow passionately hot once more. It is also said, well, inquired Mrs. Redmond, as he paused uncertainly. It is also said, Madame, that the Kadive's opals are most brilliant when the heart of the wearer is most troubled and unhappy, and that should they by any chance come into the possession of an absolutely happy woman, they would lose their evil power. Their fiery beauty would vanish, and the stones themselves would become cracked and worthless. Rott, ejaculated Mr. Grimes in an audible aside, while moving disgustedly away, and the little group dispersed as the secretary proposed music as a balm to their lacerated feelings, and escorted Miss Bird to the piano. Lindhurst turned to speak to his hostess, but the trivial remark he had intended to make gave place to an involuntary pause of admiration. Mrs. Redmond leaned back, among the pillows on the divan, a red spot glowing on her cheeks, in opposition to the stones about her waist, in her hair, and at her throat, which seemed to simultaneously put forth scarlet flames of indignation at the concluding words of the story. The Englishman pulled at his long, fair moustache and sought for an appropriate remark, but his vocabulary, unlike Monsieur de Près, was not always equal to the occasion. So he merely looked down on the picture, marveling at the length of the curling black lashes fringing the white lids of the half-closed eyes, and unconsciously noting each detail of the perfect toilet from the exquisitely dressed hair to the tip of the slipper, most visible among the folds of the white lace gown. And then suddenly the lashes were lifted, and eyes not blue tonight, but purple and misty, as with the shadow of suffering, looked directly into his. They said something, too, and Lindhurst wondered greatly for the eyes appealed. And as they gazed through the monocle, anxiously questioning the heart of the man, there flashed into the steady, quiet English eyes an answer to the appeal. It was born without his consent or volition it is true, but nonetheless clear, distinct, and definite in its purpose. Only an instant and the black lashes again measured their curling length against the cheek, while the scarlet of the opals faded, and Lindhurst removed his monocle and carefully polished it with his handkerchief. Shall we join the others? said Mrs. Redmond, rising. And Lindhurst bowed quietly as he returned his handkerchief to his pocket and replaced his monocle. End of Chapter 13