 CHAPTER XII. THE VANISHING Diplomatist. It was three days after the ambassador's disappearance that Miss Eurygalo, Secretary of the French Embassy and temporary chargé d'affaires, reported the matter to Chief Campbell in the Secret Service Bureau, adding there to a detailed statement of several singular incidents following close upon it. He told it in order, concisely and to the point, while Grimm and his chief listened. Mr. Bossegur, the ambassador, you understand, is a man whose habits are remarkably regular, he began. He has made it a rule to be at his desk every morning at ten o'clock, and between that time and one o'clock he dictates his correspondence and clears up whatever routine work there is before him. I have known him for many years, and I have been Secretary of the Embassy under him in Germany and Japan and this country. I have never known him to vary this general order of work unless because of illness or necessary absence. Well, Miss Eurygalo, last Tuesday, this is Friday, the ambassador was at his desk as usual. He dictated a dozen or more letters, and had begun another, a private letter to his sister in Paris. He was well along in this letter when, without any apparent reason, he rose from his desk and left the room, closing the door behind him. His stenographer's impression was that some detail of business had occurred to him, and he had gone into the general office farther down the hall to attend to it. I may say, Miss Eurygalo, that this impression seemed strengthened by the fact that he had left a fresh cigarette burning in his ashtray, and his pen was behind his ear. It was all as if he had merely stepped out, intending to return immediately. The sort of thing, Miss Eurygalo, that any man might have done. It so happened that when he went out he left a sentence of his letter incomplete. I tell you this to show that the impulse to go must have been a sudden one, yet there was nothing in his manner, so his stenographer says, to indicate excitement, or any other than his usual frame of mind. It was about five minutes of twelve o'clock, high noon, when he went out. When he didn't return immediately, the stenographer began transcribing the letters. At one o'clock Miss Cerebra Segur still had not returned, and his stenographer went to luncheon. As he talked some inbred excitement seemed to be growing upon him, to perhaps to his recital of the facts, and he paused at last to regain control of himself. Incidentally he wondered if Mr. Graham was taking the slightest interest in what he was saying. Certainly there was nothing in his impassive face to indicate it. Understand, Miss Eurygalo, the secretary continued after a moment, that I knew nothing whatever of this until late that afternoon. That is, Tuesday afternoon about five o'clock. I was engaged all day upon some important work in my office, and had had no occasion to see Miss Cerebra Segur since a word or so when he came in at ten o'clock. My attention was called to the affair finally by his stenographer, Miss Cere Netterville, who came to me for instructions. He had finished the letters and the ambassador had not returned to sign them. At this point I began an investigation, Miss Cere, and the further I went the more uneasy I grew. Now, Miss Cere, there are only two entrances to the embassy, the front door, where a servant is in constant attendance from nine in the morning until ten at night, and the rear door, which can only be reached through the kitchen. Neither of the two men who had been stationed at the front door had seen the ambassador since breakfast. Or he could not have gone out that way. Compré? It seemed ridiculous, Miss Cerebra. But then I went to the kitchen. The chef had been there all day, and he had not seen the ambassador at all. I inquired further. No one in the embassy, not a clerk, nor a servant, nor a member of the ambassador's family, had seen him since he left his office. Again he paused and ran one hand across his troubled brow. Miss Cerebra, he went on, and there was a tense note in his voice. The ambassador of France has disappeared, gone, vanished. We searched the house from the cellar to the servant's quarters, even the roof, but there was no trace of him. The hat he usually wore was in the hall, and all his other hats were accounted for. You may remember, Miss Cerebra, that Tuesday was cold, but all his top coats were found in their proper places. So it seems, Miss Cerebra, and repression ended in a burst of excitement. If he left the embassy, he did not go out by either door, and he went without hat or coat. He stopped helplessly, and his gaze alternated inquirily, between the benevolent face of the chief and the expressionless countenance of Mr. Grimm. If he left the embassy, Mr. Grimm repeated, if your search of the house proved conclusively that he wasn't there, he did leave it, didn't he? Mr. Rigolo stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded. And there are windows, you know, Mr. Grimm went on then. As I understand it, Miss Cerebra, no one except you and the stenographer saw the ambassador after ten o'clock in the morning? We, Miss Cerebra, say, Mr. Rigolo began excitedly. I beg pardon, I believe that is correct. You saw him about ten, you say. Therefore no one except the stenographer saw him after ten o'clock? That is also true as far as I know. Any callers, letters, telegrams, telephone messages? I made inquiries in that direction, Miss Cerebra, was the reply. I have the words of the servants at the door and of the stenographer, that there were no callers, and the statement of the stenographer that there were no telephone calls or telegrams. There were only four letters for him personally. He left them all on his desk. Here they are. Mr. Grimm looked them over leisurely. They were commonplace enough, containing nothing that might be construed into a reason for the disappearance. The letters, Miss Cerebra, said, here, had dictated were laid on the desk by the stenographer. Miss Cerebra Rigolo brushed on voluably, excitedly. In the anxiety and uneasiness following the disappearance, they were allowed to remain there overnight. On Wednesday morning, Miss Cerebra, and he hesitated impressively. Those letters bore his signature in his own handwriting. Mr. Grimm turned his listless eyes full upon Miss Cerebra Rigolo's perturbed face for one scant instant. No doubt of it being his signature, he queried. No, Miss Cerebra, no, the secretary exclaimed emphatically. Vus avai, that is, I have known his signature for years. There is no doubt. The letters were not of a private nature, if you would care to look at copies of them. He offered the duplicates tentatively. Mr. Grimm read them over slowly. The while Miss Cerebra Rigolo sat nervously staring at him. They, too, seemed meaningless as bearing on the matter in hand. Finally, Mr. Grimm nodded, and Miss Cerebra Rigolo resumed. And Wednesday night, Miss Cerebra, another strange thing happened. Miss Cerebra Aguier smoked many cigarettes, of a kind made especially for him in France, and shipped to him here. He keeps them in a case on his dressing-table. On Thursday morning his valet reported to me that this case of cigarettes had disappeared. Of course, observed Mr. Grimm. Miss Cerebra Aguier has a latch key to the Embassy. Of course. Anything unusual happened last night? That is, Thursday night? Nothing, Miss Cerebra. That is, nothing we can find. Mr. Grimm was silent for a time, and fell to twisting the seal ring on his finger. Mr. Campbell turned around and moved a paper-weight one inch to the left, where it belonged. While Miss Cerebra Rigolo disappointed at their amazing apathy, squirmed uneasily in his chair. It would appear, then, Mr. Grimm remarked musingly, that after his mysterious disappearance, the Ambassador has either twice returned to his house at night, or else sent someone there, to bring the letters to him for signature, or later, to get his cigarettes. Certes-moi, monsieur. I mean, that seems to be true, but where is he? Why should he not come back? What does it mean? Madame Boisecure is frantic, prostrated. She wanted to go to the police, but I did not think it wise that it should become public, so I came here. Very well, commented Mr. Grimm. Let it rest as it is. Meanwhile you may reassure Madame. Point out to her that if Mr. Boisecure signed the letters Tuesday night, he was, at least, alive, and if he came or sent for the cigarettes Wednesday night, he was still alive. I shall call at the Embassy this afternoon. No, it isn't advisable to go with you now. Give me your latchkey, please. Miss Cerebra Rigolo produced the key, and passed it over without a word. And one other thing, Mr. Grimm continued, please collect all the revolvers that may be in the house and take charge of them yourself. If any one, by chance, heard a burglar prowling around there tonight, he might shoot. And in that event either kill monsieur Boisecure or me. When the secretary had gone, Mr. Campbell idly drummed on his desk as he studied the face of his subordinate. So much, he commented, finally. It's Miss Thorne again, said the young man, as if answering a question. Perhaps these reports I have received a day from the Latin capitals may age you in dispelling that mystery. Campbell suggested, and Mr. Grimm turned to them eagerly. Meanwhile, our royal visitor, Prince Benedetto de Bruzee, remains unknown. The young man's teeth closed with a snap. It's only a question of time, chief, he said abruptly. I'll find him. I'll find him. And he sat down to read the reports. CHAPTER XIII. A CONFERENCE IN THE DARK. The white rays of a distant arc light filtered through the half-drawn velvet hangings and laid a faintly illumined path across the ambassador's desk. The heavy leather chairs were mere impalpable splotches in the shadows. The cut-glass knobs of a mahogany cabinet caught the glint of light and reflected it dimly. Outside was the vague, indefinable night drone of a city asleep, unbroken by any sound that was distinguishable, until finally there came the distant boom of a clock. It struck twice. Seated on a couch in one corner of the ambassador's office was Mr. Grimm. He was leaning against the high arm of leather, with his feet on the seat, thoughtfully nursing his knees. If his attitude indicated anything except sheer comfort, it was that he was listening. He had been there for two hours, wide awake and absolutely motionless. Five, ten, fifteen minutes more passed, and then Mr. Grimm heard the grind and whirr of an automobile a block or so away, coming toward the embassy. Now it was in front. Honk, honk, honk, honk. It culled plaintively. Honk, honk, honk, honk. The signal at last. The automobile went rushing on, full tilt, while Mr. Grimm removed his feet from the seat and dropped them noiselessly to the floor. Thus, with his hands on his knees, and listening, listening with every faculty strained, he sat motionless, peering toward the open door that led into the hall. The car was gone now, and the sound of it was swallowed up in the distance. Still, he sat there. It was obviously some noise in the house for which he was waiting. Minute after minute passed, and still nothing. There was not even the whisper of a wind-stirred drapery. He was about to rise when suddenly, with no other noise than that of the sharp click of the switch, the electric lights in the room blazed up brilliantly. The glared dazzle Mr. Grimm with its blinding flood, but he didn't move. Then softly, almost a whisper. Good evening, Mr. Grimm. It was a woman's voice, pleasant, unsurprised, perfectly modulated. Mr. Grimm certainly did not expect it now, but he knew it instantly. There was not another quite like it in the wide, wide world. And though he was still blinking a little, he came to his feet courteously. Good morning, Miss Thorn. He corrected gravely. Now his vision was clearing, and he saw her, a graceful figure silhouetted against the rich green of the wall draperies. Her lips were curled the least bit, as if she might have been smiling, and her wonderful eyes reflected a glint of—of—was it amusement? The folds of her evening dress fell away from her, and one bare white arm was extended, as her hand still rested on the switch. And you didn't hear me? Still in the half whisper? I didn't think you would. Now I'm going to put out the lights for an instant while you put the shades down. And then—then we must have a—a conference. The switch snapped. The lights died as suddenly as they had been born, and Mr. Grimm, moving noiselessly, visited each of the four windows in turn. Then the lights blazed brilliantly again. Just for a moment. Miss Thorn explained to him quietly, and she handed him a sheet of paper. I want you to read this. Read it carefully. Then I shall turn out the lights again. They are dangerous. After that we may discuss the matter at our leisure. Mr. Grimm read the paper while Miss Thorn's eyes questioned his impassive face. At length he looked up indolently, listlessly, and the switch snapped. She crossed the room and sat down. Mr. Grimm sat beside her. I think, Miss Thorn suggested tentatively, that that accounts perfectly for Monsieur Boise Gour's disappearance. It gives one explanation at least, Mr. Grimm assented musingly. Kidnapped, held prisoner, fifty thousand dollars demanded for his safety and release. A pause. And to whom, may I ask, was this demand addressed? To Madame Boise Gour, replied Miss Thorn. I have the envelope in which it came. It was mailed at the General Post Office at half past one o'clock this afternoon, so the cancelling stamp shows, and the envelope was addressed as the letter was written on a typewriter. And how, inquired Mr. Grimm after a long pause, how did it come into your possession? He waited a little. Why didn't Monsieur Rigolo report this development to me this afternoon when I was here? Monsieur Rigolo did not inform you of it because he didn't know of it himself, she replied, answering the last question first. It came into my possession directly from the hands of Madame Boise Gour. She gave it to me. Why? Mr. Grimm was peering through the inscrutable darkness straight into her face. A white dob in the gloom, shapeless, indistinct. I have known Madame Boise Gour for half a dozen years, Miss Thorn continued, in explanation. We have been friends that long. I first met her in Tokyo, later in Berlin, and within a few weeks, here in Washington. You see, I have traveled in the time I have been an agent for my government. Well, Madame Boise Gour received this letter about half past four o'clock this afternoon, and about half past five she sent for me and placed it in my hands, together with all the singular details following upon the ambassador's disappearance. So it would seem that you and I are allies for this once, and the problem is already solved. There merely remains the task of finding and releasing the ambassador. Mr. Grimm sat perfectly still. And why, he asked slowly, are you here now? For the same reason that you are here, she replied readily, to see for myself if the—the person who twice came here at night, once for the ambassador's letter and once for his cigarettes, would, by any chance, make another trip. I knew you were here, of course. You knew I was here, repeated Mr. Grimm musingly. And may I, just as you knew that I, or someone at least, had entered this house a few minutes ago, she interrupted. The automobile horn outside was a signal, wasn't it? Hastings was in the car, or was it Blair or Johnson? Mr. Grimm did not say. Didn't you anticipate any personal danger when you entered? He queried instead. Weren't you afraid I might shoot? No. There was a long silence. Mr. Grimm still sat with his elbows on his knees, staring, staring at the vague white splotch which was Ms. Thorn's face and bare neck. One of her white arms hung at her side like a pallid serpent, and her hand was at rest on the seat of the couch. It seems, Ms. Thorn, he said at length, casually, quite casually, that our paths of duty aren't inextricably tangled. Twice previously we have met under circumstances that were more than strange, and now this. Whatever injustice I may have done you in the past by my suspicions has, I hope, been forgiven, and in each instance we were able to work side by side toward a conclusion. I am wondering now if this singular affair will take a similar course? He paused. Ms. Thorn started to speak, but he silenced her with a slight gesture of his hand. It is only fair to say to you that we, that is, the Secret Service, have learned many things about you, he resumed in the same casual tone. We have, through our foreign agents, traced you step by step from Rome to Washington. We know that you are, in a way, a representative of a sovereign of Europe. We know that you were on a secret mission to the Spanish court, perhaps for this sovereign, and remained in Madrid for a month. We know that from there you went to Paris, also on a secret mission, perhaps the same, and remain there for three weeks. We know that you met diplomatic agents of these governments later in London. We know all this, we know the manner of your coming to this country, of your coming to Washington, but we don't know why you were here. Again, she started to speak, and again he stopped her. We don't know your name, but that is of no consequence. We do know that in Spain, you were Senora Casavan. In Paris, Mademoiselle Dobinon. In London, Ms. Jane Kellogg. And here, Ms. Isabella Thorn. We realize that exigencies arise in your calling and mine, which make changes of name desirable, necessary even, and there is no criticism of that. Now as the representative of your government, rather a government, you have a right to be here, although unaccredited. You have a right to remain here as long as your acts are consistent with our laws. You have a right to your secrets as long as they do not, directly or indirectly, threaten the welfare of this country. Now why are you here? He received no answer. He expected none. After a moment he went on. Admitting that you are a secret agent of Italy, admitting everything that you claim to be, you haven't convinced me that you were not the person who came here for the letters and the cigarettes. You have said nothing to prove to my satisfaction that you were not the individual I was waiting for tonight. You don't mean that you suspect, she began in a tone of amazement. I don't mean that I suspect anything, he interposed. I mean merely that you haven't convinced me. There's nothing inconsistent in the fact that you are what you say you are, and that in spite of that you came to-night for. He was interrupted by a laugh, a throaty silvery note that he remembered well. His idle hands closed spasmodically, only to be instantly relaxed. Suppose, Mr. Grimm, I should tell you that immediately after Madame Boisegure placed the matter in my hands this afternoon, I went straight to your office to show this letter to you and to ask your assistance, she inquired. Suppose that I left my card for you with a clerk there, on being informed that you were out. Remember, I knew you were on the case for Madame Boisegure. Would that indicate anything except that I wanted to put the matter squarely before you and work with you? We will suppose that much, Mr. Grimm agreed. That is the statement of fact, Miss Thorn added. My card, which you will find at your office, will show that. And when I left your office I went to the hotel where you live with the same purpose. You were not there, and I left a card for you. And that is the statement of fact. It was not difficult, owing to the extraordinary circumstances, to imagine that you would be here tonight, just as you are. And I came here. My purpose still was to inform you of what I knew, and work with you. Does that convince you? And how did you enter the embassy, Mr. Grimm persisted? Not with a last key, as you did, she replied. Madame Boisegure, at my suggestion, left the French window in the hall there unfastened, and I came in that way. The way I may add, that Monsieur l'ambassadeur went out when he disappeared. Very well, commented Mr. Grimm, and finally, I think perhaps I owe you an apology, Miss Thorn, another one. The circumstances now, as they were at our previous meetings, are so unusual that— Is it necessary to go on? There was a certain growing deference in his tone. I wonder if you account for Monsieur Boisegure's disappearance as I do, he inquired. I dare say, and Miss Thorn leaned toward him with sudden eagerness in her manner and voice. Your theory is—she questioned. If we believe the servants, we know that Monsieur Boisegure did not go out either by the front door or rear, Mr. Grimm explained. That being true, the French window by which you entered seems to have been the way. Yes, yes, Miss Thorn interpolated. And the circumstances attending the disappearance? How do you account for the fact that he went evidently of his own will? Precisely as you must account for it if you have studied the situation here as I have, responded Mr. Grimm. For instance, sitting at his desk here, and he turned to indicate it, he could readily see out the windows overlooking the street. There was only a narrow strip of land between the house and the sidewalk. Now if someone on the sidewalk, or in a carriage, promptly suggested Miss Thorn, or in a carriage, Mr. Grimm supplemented, had attracted his attention. Someone he knew. It is not at all unlikely that he rose for no apparent reason, as he did do, passed along the hall. And through the French window, across the lawn to the carriage, and not a person in the house would have seen him go out. Precisely. There seems no doubt that was the way she mused. And of course he must have entered the carriage of his own free will. In other words, on some pretext or other he was lured in, then made prisoner, and— He paused suddenly, and his hand met Miss Thorn's warningly. The silence of the night was broken by the violent clatter of footsteps, apparently approaching the embassy. The noise was unmistakable. Someone was running. The window, Miss Thorn whispered. She rose quickly and started to cross the room to look out. Mr. Grimm sat motionless, listening. An instant later, and there came a tremendous crash of glass, the French window in the hallway by the sound, and then rapid footsteps still running along the hall. Mr. Grimm moved toward the door, unruffled, perfectly self-possessed. There was only a narrowing of his eyes at the abruptness and the clatter of it all. And then the electric lights in the hall flashed up. Before Mr. Grimm stood a man, framed by the doorway, staring unseeingly into the darkened room. His face was haggard and white as death, his mouth a gait as if from exertion, and the lips bloodless, his eyes were wildly distended as if from fright, clothing disarranged, collar unfastened, and dangling. The Ambassador, Ms. Thorne whispered, thrillingly. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Kalinda in Raymond, New Hampshire on February 4, 2008. Chapter 14 of Elusive Isabel. 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 Roger Moline. Elusive Isabel by Jacques Futrell. Chapter 14. A Rescue and an Escape. Ms. Thorne's voice startled Mr. Grimm a little, but he had no doubts. It was Monsieur Boiseguire. Mr. Grimm was going toward the unframed figure when, without any apparent reason, the Ambassador turned and ran along the hall. And at that instant the lights went out again. For one moment Grimm stood still, dazed and blinded by the sudden blackness, and again he started toward the door. Ms. Thorne was beside him. Lights, he whispered intensely, find the switch. He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved away and stepped out into the hall, feeling with both his hands along the wall. A few feet away, in the direction the Ambassador had gone, there seemed to be a violent struggle in progress. There was the scuffling of feet and quick-drawn breaths as muscles strained against muscle. The lights, if he could only find the switch. Then, as his hands moved along the wall, they came in contact with another hand, a hand pressed firmly against the plastering, barring his progress. A light blow in the face caused him to step back quickly. The scuffling sound suddenly resolved itself into moving footsteps, and the front door opened and closed with a bang. Mr. Grimm's listless eyes snapped, and his white teeth came together sharply as he started toward the front door. But fate seemed to be against him still. He stumbled over a chair, and his own impetus forward sent him sprawling. His head struck the wall with a resounding whack. And then, over the house came utter silence. From outside, he heard the clatter of a cab. Finally, that died away in the distance. Ms. Thorn, he inquired quietly. I'm here, she answered in a despairing voice. But I can't find the switch. Are you hurt? No. And then she found the switch. The lights flared up. Mr. Grimm was sitting thoughtfully on the floor. That simplifies the matter considerably, he observed complacently as he rose. The men who signaled to me when you entered the embassy will never let that cab get out of their sight. Ms. Thorn stood leaning forward a little, eagerly gazing at him with those wonderful blue-gray eyes, and an expression of perhaps it was admiration on her face. Are you sure, she demanded at last? I know it was his response. And just then, Monsieur Wigelot, secretary of the embassy, thrust an inquisitive head timidly around the corner of the stairs. The crash of glass had aroused him. What happened? he asked breathlessly. We don't know just yet, replied Mr. Grimm. If the noise aroused anyone else, please assure them that there's nothing the matter. And you might infure Madame Bossegur that the ambassador will return home tomorrow. Good night. At his hotel, when he reached there, Mr. Grimm found Ms. Thorn's card, and he drew a long breath. At his office, he found another of her cards, and he drew another long breath. He did like corroborative details, did Mr. Grimm, and, of course, this. On the following day, Ms. Thorn accompanied him to Alexandria, and they were driven in a closed carriage out toward the western edge of the city. Finally, the carriage stopped at a signal from Mr. Grimm, and he assisted Ms. Thorn out, after which he turned and spoke to someone remaining inside, a man. The house is two blocks west along that street there, he explained, and he indicated an intersecting thoroughfare just ahead. It is number 97. Five minutes after we enter, you will drive up in front of the door and wait. If we don't return in 15 minutes, come in after us. Do you anticipate danger, Ms. Thorn queried quickly? If I had anticipated danger, replied Mr. Grimm, I should not have permitted you to come with me. They entered the house, number 97, with a key which Mr. Grimm produced, and a minute or so later walked into a room where three men were sitting. One of them was of a coarse repulsive type, large and heavy, another rather dapper of superficial polish, evidently a foreigner, and the third, the third was Ambassador Boisegur. Good morning, gentlemen, Mr. Grimm greeted them, then ceremoniously. Boisegur, your carriage is at the door. The three men came to their feet instantly, and one of them, he of the heavy face, drew a revolver. Mr. Grimm faced him placidly. Do you know what would happen to you if you killed me, he inquired pleasantly? You wouldn't live three minutes. Do you imagine I came in here blindly? There are a dozen men guarding the entrances to the house, a pistol shot would bring them in, put down the gun, eyes challenged eyes for one long, tense instant, and the man carefully laid the weapon on the table. Mr. Grimm strolled over and picked it up, after which he glanced inquiringly at the other man, the Ambassador's second guard. And you are the gentlemen, I dare say, who made the necessary trips to the Ambassador's house, probably using his latch key, he remarked interrogatively. First for the letters to be signed, and again for the cigarette? There was no answer, and Mr. Grimm turned questioningly to Monsieur Bussagir, silent, white-of-face, motionless. Yes, Monsieur, the Ambassador burst out suddenly. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Miss Thorn. And your escape, Monsieur, continued Mr. Grimm. I did escape, Monsieur, last night, the Ambassador explained, but they knew it immediately. They pursued me into my own house, these two, and another, and dragged me back here. Monde Dieu, Monsieur, that's all that's necessary, remarked Mr. Grimm. You're free to go now. But there are others, Monsieur Bussagir interposed desperately. Two more, somewhere below, and they will not allow, they will attack Mr. Grimm's listless eyes narrowed slightly, and he turned to Miss Thorn. She was a little white, but he saw enough in her face to satisfy him. I shall escort Monsieur Bussagir to his carriage, Miss Thorn, he said calmly. These men will remain here until I return. Take the revolver. If either of them so much as wags his head, shoot. You are not, not afraid. No, she smiled faintly. I am not afraid. Mr. Grimm and the Ambassador went down the stairs and out the front door. Mr. Grimm was just turning to re-enter the house, when from above came a muffled venomous crash, a shot. He took the steps going up, two at a time. Miss Thorn was leaning against the wall as if dazed. The revolver lay at her feet. A door in a far corner of the room stood open, and the clatter of footsteps echoed through the house. One of them leaped at me, and I fired, she gasped in explanation. He struck me, but I'm not hurt. She stooped quickly, picked up the revolver, and made as if to follow the dying footsteps. Mr. Grimm stopped her. It doesn't matter, he said quietly, let them go. And after a while, earnestly, if I had dreamed of such a thing as this, I should never have consented to allow you. I understand, she interrupted, and for one instant her outstretched hand rested on his arm. The Ambassador? Perfectly safe, responded Mr. Grimm. Two of my men are with him. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 15 of Elusive Isabelle 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 Roger Moline Elusive Isabelle by Jacques Foutrelle Chapter 15, Master of the Situation As the women rose and started out, leaving the gentlemen over their coffee and cigars, Miss Thorn paused at the door, and the blue-gray eyes flashed some subtle message to the French Ambassador, who, after an instant, nodded comprehendingly, then resumed his conversation. As he left the room a few minutes later, he noticed that Mr. Grimm had joined a group of Ottomaniacs, of which Mr. Cadwallader was the enthusiastic center. He spoke to his hostess, the wife of the Minister from Portugal, for a moment, then went to Miss Thorn and dropped into a seat beside her. She greeted him with a smile, and was still smiling as she talked. I believe, Monsieur, she said in French, you sent a code message to the cable office this afternoon. His eyes questioned hers quickly. And please bear in mind that we probably are being watched as we talk. She went on pleasantly. Mr. Grimm is the man to be afraid of. Smile, don't look so serious, she laughed outright. Yes, I sent a code message, he replied. It was your resignation? Yes. Well, it wasn't sent, of course, she informed him, and her eyes were sparkling, as if something amusing had been said. One of my agents stopped it. I may add that it will not be sent. The ambassador's eyes grew steely, then blank again. Mademoiselle, what am I to understand from that? He demanded. You are to understand that I am absolute master of the situation in Washington at this moment, she replied positively. The smile on her lips and the tone of her voice were strangely at variance. From the beginning, I let you understand that, ultimately, you would receive your instructions from Paris. Now I know they will reach you by cable tomorrow. Within a week, the compact will be signed. Whether you approve of it or not, it will be signed for your country by a special envoy whose authority is greater than yours. His Highness, the Prince Benedetto de Brucci. Has he reached Washington? He is in Washington. He has been here for some time, incognito. She was silent a moment. You have been a source of danger to our plans, she added. If it had not been for an accident, you would still have been comfortably kept out in Alexandria, where Mr. Grimm and I found you. Please remember, Monsieur, that we will accomplish what we set out to do. Nothing can stop us. Nothing. At just about the same moment, the name of Prince de Brucci had been used in the dining room, but in a different connection. Mr. Cadwallader was reciting some incident of an automobile trip in Italy, when he had been connected with the British Embassy there. The Prince was driving, he said, and one of the best I ever saw. Corking chapped the Prince. Democratic, you know, and all that sort of thing. He was one scion of royalty who didn't mind soiling his hands by diving in under a car and fixing it himself. At that time, he was inclined to be wild. That was eight or nine years ago. But they say now he has settled down to work and is one of the real diplomatic powers of Italy. I haven't seen him for half a dozen years. How old a man is he? asked Mr. Grimm, carelessly. Thirty-five, thirty-eight perhaps, I don't know, replied Mr. Cadwallader. It's odd, you know. The number of princes and blue bloods and all that sort of thing one can find knocking about in Italy and Germany and Spain. One never hears of half of them. I never had heard of Prince de Brucci until I went to Italy. And I've heard jolly well little of him since, except indirectly. Mr. Cadwallader lapsed into silence as he sat staring at a large group photograph which was framed on a wall of the dining room. Isn't that the royal family of Italy? He asked. He rose and went over to it. By jove it is. And here is the prince and the group. The picture was taken, I should say, about the time I knew him. Mr. Grimm strolled over idly and stood for a long time staring at the photograph. He can drive a motor, you know, said Mr. Cadwallader admiringly. And Italy is the place to drive them. They forgot to make any speed laws over there. And if a chap gets in your way and you knock him silly, they arrest him for obstructing traffic, you know. Over here, if a chap really starts to go anyplace in a hurry, some bolly idiot holds him up. Have you ever been held up? Quarried Mr. Grimm. No, but I expect to be every day, was the reply. I've got a new motor, you know, and I've never been able to see how fast it is. The other evening I ran up to Baltimore with it in an hour and 37 minutes from Alexandria to Druid Hill Park. And that's better than 40 miles. I never did let the motor out, you know, because we ran in the dark most of the way. Mr. Grimm was still gazing at the photograph. Did you go alone? He asked. There's no fun motoring alone, you know. Signorita Rodriguez was with me. Charming girl, what? A little while later, Mr. Grimm sauntered out into the drying room and made his way towards Ms. Thorn and the French ambassador. Monsieur Boiseguin rose and offered his hand cordially. I hope, Monsieur, said Mr. Grimm, that you are no worse off for your unpleasant experience. Not at all, thanks to you, was the reply. I have just thanked Ms. Thorn for her part in the affair, and I'm glad to have been of service, interrupted Mr. Grimm lightly. The ambassador bowed ceremoniously and moved away. Mr. Grimm dropped into the seat he had just left. You've left the legation, haven't you? He asked. You drove me out, she laughed. Drove you out, he repeated. Drove you out? Why, it was not only uncomfortable, but it was rather conspicuous, because of the constant espionage of your Mr. Blair and your Mr. Johnson and your Mr. Hastings, she explained, still laughing. So I have moved to the hotel hillyard. Mr. Grimm was twisting the seal ring on his little finger. I'm sorry if I've made it uncomfortable for you, he apologized. You see, it's necessary to- No explanation, Ms. Thorn interrupted. I understand. I'm glad you do, he replied seriously. How long do you intend to remain in the city? Really, I don't know. Two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, two, three, four weeks, perhaps? Why? I was just wondering. Signorita Rodriguez came toward them. We're going to play bridge, she said, and we need you, Isabel, to make the four. Come. I hate to take her away, Mr. Grimm. Mr. Grimm and Ms. Thorn rose together. For an instant, her slim white hand rested on Mr. Grimm's sleeve, and she stared into his eyes, understandingly, with a little of melancholy in her own. They left Mr. Grimm there. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 16 of Elusive Isabel 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 Roger Maline Elusive Isabel by Jacques Futrell Chapter 16 Letters from Jail For two weeks, Signor Pietro Petrazini, known to the Secret Service as an unaccredited agent of the Italian government, and the self-confessed assailant of Signor Alvarez of the Mexican Legation, had been taking his ease in a cell. He had been formally arraigned and committed without bail to await the result of the bullet wound, which had been inflicted upon the diplomatist from Mexico at the German Embassy Ball, and, since then, undisturbed and apparently careless of the outcome, he had spent his time in reading and smoking. He had answered questions with only a curt yes or no when he deigned to answer them at all, and there had been no collars or inquiries for him. He had abruptly declined a suggestion of counsel. Twice each day, morning and night, he had asked a question of the jailer who brought his simple meals. How is Signor Alvarez? He is still in critical condition. The answer was always the same. Whereupon the secret agent would return to his reading with not a shadow of uneasiness or concern on his face. Occasionally, there came a courteous little note from Miss Thorn, which he read without emotion, afterward casting them aside or tearing them up. He never answered them. And then, one day, there came another note, which, for no apparent reason, seemed to stir him from his lethargy. Outwardly, it was like all the others. But when Signor Petrozini scanned the sheet, his eyes lighted strangely, and he stood staring down at it, as though to hide a sudden change of expression on his face. His gaze was concentrated on two small splotches of ink, where it seemed the pen had scratched, as Miss Thorn signed her name. The guard stood at the barred door for a moment, then started to turn away. The prisoner stopped him with a quick gesture. Oh, guard, may I have a glass of milk, please? He asked. No ice. I prefer it, tepid. He thrust a small coin between his eyes, he thrust a small coin between the bars, the guard accepted it and passed on. Then, still standing at the door, the prisoner read the note again. My dear friend, I understand from an indirect source that there has been a marked improvement in Signor Alvarez's condition, and I am hastening to send you the good news. There is every hope that within a short while, if he continues to improve, we can arrange a bail bond, and you will be free until the time of trial anyway. Might it not be well for you to consult an attorney at once? Drop me a line to let me know you received this. Sincerely, Isabel Thorn. Finally, the prisoner tossed the note on a tiny table in the corner of a cell and resumed his reading. After a time, the guard returned with the milk. Would it be against the rules for me to write an answer to this? Courage Signor Petrozzini, and he indicated the note. Certainly not, was the reply. If I might trouble you then, for pen and ink and paper, suggested the Signor, and he smiled a little. Believe me, I would prefer to get them for myself. I guess that's right, the guard grinned good-naturedly. Again, he went away, and the prisoner sat thoughtfully, sipping the milk. He took half of it, then lighted a cigarette, puffed it once or twice, and permitted the light to die. After a little, there came again the clatter of the guard's feet on the cement pavement, and the writing materials were thrust through the bars. Thank you, said the prisoner. The guard went on with a nod, and a moment later the Signor heard the clanger of a steel door down the corridor as it was closed and locked. He leaned forward in his chair with half-closed eyes, listening for a long time, then rose and noiselessly approached the cell door. Again, he listened intently, after which he resumed his seat. He tossed away the cigarette he had, and lighted a fresh one, afterward holding the note over the flame of the match. Here and there, with a paper chart in the heat, a letter or word stood out from the door. A word stood out from the bare whiteness of the paper, and finally a message complete appeared between the innocuous ink-written lines. The prisoner read it greedily, and privately informed, there is little chance of Alvarez's recovery. Shall I arrange escape for you, or have Ambassador intercede? Would advise former, as the other might take months, and meeting to sign treaty alliance would be dangerously delayed. Signor Petrazini permitted the sputtering flame to ignite the paper, and thoughtfully watched the blaze destroy it. The last tiny scrap dropped on the floor, burned out, and he crushed the ashes under his heel. Then he began to write, My dear Miss Thorn, many thanks for your courteous little note. I am delighted to know of the improvement in Signor Alvarez's condition. I had hoped that my impulsive act in shooting him would not end in a tragedy. Please keep me informed of the further change in his condition. As yet, I do not see the necessity of consulting an attorney, but later I may be compelled to do so. Respectfully, Pietro Petrazini. This done, the secret agent carefully cleaned the ink from the pen, wiping it dry with his handkerchief, then thrust it into the half empty glass of milk. The fluid clung to the steel nib thinly. He went on writing with it between the lines of ink. I am in no danger. I hold credentials to the United States, which, when presented, will make me responsible only to the Italian government as special envoy according to international law. Arrange escape for one week from tonight. Use any money necessary. Make careful arrangements for the test and signing of Compact for two nights after. Again, the prisoner cleaned the steel nib, after which he put it back in the bottle of ink, leaving it there. He waved the sheet of paper back and forth to dry it, and at last scrutinized it minutely, standing under the light from the high up window of his cell. Letter by letter, the milk evaporated, leaving the sheet perfectly clean and white, except for the ink-written message. This sheet he folded, placed in an envelope, and addressed. Later, the guard passed along the corridor, and Signor Petruzini thrust the letter out to him. Be good enough to post that, please, he requested. It isn't sealed. I don't know if your prison rules require you to read the letters that go out. If so, read it, or have it read, then seal it. For answer, the guard dampened the flap of the envelope, sealed it, thrust it into his pocket, and passed on. The secret agent sat down again and sipped his milk meditatively. One hour later, Mr. Grimm, accompanied by Johnson, came out of a photographer's dark room in Pennsylvania Avenue with a developed negative which he set on a rack to dry. At the end of another hour, he was sitting at his desk, studying, under a magnifying glass, a finished print of the negative. Word by word, he was writing on a slip of paper what his magnifying glass gave him, and so, curiously enough, it came to pass that Ms. Thorn and Chief Campbell of the Secret Service were reading the hidden milk-written message at almost the identical moment. Johnson got Petruzini's letter from the postman, Mr. Grimm was explaining. I opened it, photographed it, sealed it again, and re-mailed it. There was not more than half an hour's delay, and Ms. Thorn cannot possibly know of it. He paused a moment. It's an odd thing that writing such as that is absolutely invisible to the naked eye, and yet one photographed becomes decipherable in the negative. What do you make of it? Mr. Campbell asked. The guileless blue eyes were alive with eagerness. Well, he's right, of course, about not being in danger. Said Mr. Grimm. If he came with credentials as special envoy, this government must respect them, even if Signor Alvarez dies, and leave it to his own government to punish him. If we were officially aware that he has such credentials, I doubt if we would have the right to keep him confined. We would merely have to hand him over to the Italian Embassy and demand his punishment. And, of course, all that makes him more dangerous than ever. Yes, I know that, said the Chief a little impatiently. But who is this man? Who is this man? Mr. Grimm repeated, as if surprised at the question. I was looking for Prince Benedetto da Brutzi of Italy. I have found him. Mr. Campbell's clock-like brain ticked over the situation in detail. It's like this, Mr. Grimm elucidated. He has credentials which he knows will free him if he is forced to present them. But I imagine they were given to him more for protection in an emergency like this than for introducing him to our government. As the matter stands, he can't afford to discover himself by using those credentials. And yet, if the Latin compact is signed, he must be free. Remember, too, that he is accredited from three countries. Italy, France, and Spain. He was silent for a moment. Naturally, his escape from prison would preserve his incognito, and at the same time permit him to sign the compact. There was silence for a long time. I believe the situation is without precedent, said Mr. Campbell slowly. The special envoy of three great powers held for attempted. Officially, we are not aware of his purpose or his identity, Mr. Grimm reminded him. If he escaped, it would clarify the situation tremendously. If he escaped, repeated Mr. Campbell musingly. But of course, the compact would not be signed. At least in this country, Mr. Grimm went on tentatively. Mr. Campbell gazed straight into the listless eyes of the young man for a minute or more, and gradually, full understanding came home to him. Finally, he nodded his head. Use your own judgment, Mr. Grimm, he directed. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 17 of Elusive Isabel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Title Chapter, A Call On The Warden The restful silence of the night lay over the great prison. Here and there, in the Grimm corridors, a guard dozed in the glare of an electric light. And in the office, too, a desk light glimmered where the warden sat at his desk. Pouring over a report. Once he glanced up at the clock, it was five minutes of eleven, and then he went on with his reading. After a little, the silence was broken by the wear of the clock, and the first sharp stroke of the hour. And at just that moment, the door from the street opened, and a man entered. He was rather tall and slender, and a sinister black mask hit his face from the quickly raised eyes of the warden. For a bare fraction of a second, the two men stared at each other. Then, instinctively, the warden's right hand moved toward the open drawer of his desk, where a revolver lay, and is left towards several electrically connected levers. The intruder noted both gestures, and unarmed himself stood silent. The warden was first to speak. Well, what is it? You have a prisoner here. Petro Petrozini was the reply, in a pleasant voice. I have come to demand his release. The warden's right hand was raised above the desktop, and the revolver in it clicked one only. You have come to demand his release? He queried. He still sat motionless, with his eyes fixed on the black mask. How did you pass the outside guard? He was bribed, was he ready to respond. Now, warden, the masked intruder continued pacifically. It would be much more pleasant all around, and there would be less personal danger in it for both of us, if you would release signal Petrozini without question. I may add that no bribe was offered to you because your integrity was beyond question. Thank you, said the warden grimly, and it shall remain so as long as I have this. He tapped on their desk with the revolver. Oh, that isn't loaded, said the masked man quietly. One quick glance at the weapon showed the warden that the cartridges had been drawn. He stood close with a snap at the treachery of it, and with his left hand he pulled back one of the levers, that which would arouse the jailers, tunkeys, and guards. Instead of the insistent clangor which he expected, there was silence. That wire has been caught, the stranger volunteered. With clenched teeth, the warden pulled the police alarm, and that wire was caught too, the stranger explained. The warden came to his feet with white face, and nails biting into the palms of his hands. He still held the revolver as he advanced upon the masked man threateningly. Not too close now warned the intruder, with a sudden haggling of his voice. Believe me, it would be best for you to release this man because it must be done pleasantly or otherwise. I have no desire to injure you, still less do I intend that you shall injure me, and it will be needless for either of us to make a personal matter of it. I want your prisoner, signal Petrozini, you will release him at once, that's all. The warden paused, dazed, in credit loss before the audacity of it, while he sturdied two calm eyes which peered at him through the slits of the mask. And if I don't release him, he demanded at last fiercely. Then I shall take him, was the reply. It has been made impossible for you to give an alarm, the stranger went on. The very men on whom you most depended have been bought, and even if they were within sound of your voice now, they wouldn't respond. One of your assistants who has been here for years, unloaded the revolver in the desk there, and less than an hour ago caught the prison alarm wire. I personally caught the police alarm outside the building, so you see? As yet, there was no weapon in sight, save the unloaded revolver in the warden's hand. At no time had the stranger's voice been raised, his tone was a perfectly normal one. Besides yourself, there are only five other men employed here who are now awake, the masked man continued. These are four inner guards and the outer guard. They have all been bought, the ton keys at $5,000 each, and the outer guard at $7,000. The receipt of all this money is conditional upon the release of Signo Petrosini. Therefore, it is to their interest to aid me, as against you. I am telling you all this, frankly and fully, to make you see how futile any resistance would be. But who? Who is this Signo Petrosini that such powerful influence he should be brought to bear in his behalf demanded the bewildered warden? He is a man who can command a vast fortune, and Senor Alvarez is at the point of death. That, I think, makes it clear. Now, if you will sit down please. Sit down below the warden. Suddenly he was seized by a violent maddening rage. He took one step forward and raised the empty revolver to strike. The masked man moves slightly to one side, and his clenched fist cuts the warden on the point of the chin. The official went down without a sound and lay still, inert. A moment later, the door leading into the corridor of the prison opened, and Signo Petrosini, accompanied by one of the guards, entered the warden's office. The masked man glanced around at them, and with emotion of his head, indicated the door leading to the street. They passed through, closing the door behind them. For a little time, the intruder stood staring down at the still body. Then he went to the telephone and called police headquarters. There has been a jail delivery at the prison, he said, in answer to the hello of the desk sergeant at the other end of the wire. Better send some of your men up to investigate. Who is that? came the answering question. The stranger replaced the receiver on the hook, stripped off his black mask, dropped it on the floor beside the motionless warden, and went out. It was Mr. Green. End of chapter. of her apartments in the hotel, and turned up the light, they found Mr. Grimm already there. He rose courteously. At the sight of him, Miss Thorn's face went deathly white, and the escaped prisoner turned toward the door again. I would advise that you stay your highness, said Mr. Grimm coldly. Signo Petrosini paused, amazed. You will merely subject yourself to the humiliation of arrest if you attempt to leave. The house is guarded by a dozen men. Your highness, Miss Thorn repeated blankly. You are assuming a great deal, aren't you, Mr. Grimm? I don't believe, and Mr. Grimm's listless eyes were fixed on those of the escaped prisoner. I don't believe that Prince Benedito de Bruzzi will deny his identity. There was one of those long, tense silences when eye challenges eye, when wit is pitted against wit, and mind is hauled round to a new and sometimes unattractive view of a situation. Miss Thorn stood silent with rigid features, colorless as marble, but slowly a sneer settled about the lips of Signo Petrosini that was, and he sat down. You seem to know everything, Mr. Grimm, he taunted. I tried to know everything, your highness, was the reply. Mr. Grimm was still standing. I know, for instance, that one week ago the plot which had your freedom for its purpose was born. I know the contents of every letter that passed between you and Miss Thorn here, not to a standing the invisible ink. I know that four days ago several thousand dollars was smuggled into you concealed in a basket of fruit. I know, with that money you bribed your way out, while Miss Thorn or one of her agents bribed the guard in front. I know that the escape was planned for tonight, and that the man who was delegated to take charge of it is now locked in my office under guard. It may interest you to know that it was I who took his place and made the escape possible. I know that much. You, you, the prince burst out suddenly, you aided me to escape. Miss Thorn was staring, staring at them with her eyes widely distended, and her red lips slightly parted. Why did you assist him? she demanded. Details are tiresome, Miss Thorn, replied Mr. Grimm, with the utmost courtesy. There is one other thing I know, that the Latin compact will not be signed in the United States. The prince's eyes met Miss Thorn's inquiringly, and she shook her head. The sneer was still playing about his mouth. Anything else of special interest that you know? he queried. Yes, of interest to both you and Miss Thorn, that is, merely if the Latin compact is signed anywhere, the English-speaking countries of the world might construe it as a cause's belly, and strike soon enough, and hard enough, to put an end to it once for all. Again there was silence for a little while. Slowly the prince's eyes were darkening, and a shadow flitted across Miss Thorn's face. The prince rose impatiently. Well, what is the meaning of all this? Are you going to take me back to prison? No, said Mr. Grimm. He glanced at his watch. I will give each of you one half hour to pack your belongings. We must catch a train at one o'clock. Leave the city? gasped Miss Thorn. Impossible, exclaimed the prince. One half hour, said Mr. Grimm, coldly. But—but it's out of the question, expostulated Miss Thorn. One half hour, repeated Mr. Grimm. He didn't dare to meet those wonderful blue-gray eyes now. A special car with private compartments will be attached to the regular train, and the only inconvenience to you will be the fact that the three of us will be compelled to set up all night. Half a dozen other secret servicemen will be on the train with us. And then the prince's entire manner underwent a change. Mr. Grimm, he said earnestly, it is absolutely necessary that I remain in Washington for another week. Remain here even if I am locked up again. Lock me up again if you like. I can't sign compacts in prison. Twenty-five minutes, replied Mr. Grimm quietly. But here, exclaimed the prince explosively, I have credentials which will ensure my protection in spite of your laws. I know that, said Mr. Grimm placidly. Credentials of that nature cannot be presented at midnight, and you will not be here to-morrow to present them. The fact that you have those credentials, Your Highness, is one reason why you must leave Washington now, to-night. End of Chapter 18 Mr. Grimm appeared at his elbow. No, he said. Can't I send a telegram if I like? Demanded the prince sharply. No, nor a note, nor a letter, nor may you speak to anyone, Mr. Grimm informed him quietly. No, nor a note, nor a letter, nor may you speak to anyone, Mr. Grimm informed him quietly. No, nor a note, nor a letter, nor may you speak to anyone, Why, it's an outrage, flamed the prince. It depends altogether on the viewpoint, Your Highness, said Mr. Grimm courteously. If you will pardon me, I might suggest that it is needless to attract attention by your present attitude. You may, I say you may, compel me to humiliate you. The prince glared at him angrily. I mean, handcuff you, Mr. Grimm added gratuitously. Handcuff me? I shouldn't hesitate, Your Highness, if it was necessary. After a moment, Ms. Thorne signified her readiness, and they started out. At the door, Mr. Grimm stopped and turned back to the desk, as if struck by some sudden thought, leaving them together. Oh, Ms. Thorne left a message for someone, Mr. Grimm was saying to the clerk. She's decided it is unnecessary. He turned and glanced toward her, and the clerk's eyes followed his. Please give it to me. It was passed over without comment. It was a sealed envelope addressed to Mr. Charles Winthrop Rankin. Mr. Grimm glanced at the superscription, tore the envelope into bits, and dropped it into a basket. A minute later, he was assisting Ms. Thorne and the prince into an automobile that was waiting in front. As the car moved away, two other automobiles appeared from corners nearby and trailed along behind to the station. There, a private compartment car was in readiness for them. It was a long, dreary ride, a ride of utter silence saved for the roar and clatter of the moving train. Mr. Grimm, vigilant, implacable, sad at ease. Ms. Thorne, resigned to the inevitable, whatever it might be, studied the calm, quiet face from beneath drooping lids, and the prince, sullen, scowling, nervously wriggling in his seat. Philadelphia was passed, and Trenton, and then the dawn began to break through the night. It was quite light when they rolled into Jersey City. I'm sorry for all the inconvenience I have caused, Mr. Grimm apologized to Ms. Thorne as he assisted her to a light. You must be exhausted. If it were only that, she replied with a slight smile, and it is too early to ask where we are going. The prince turned quickly at the question. We take the Lysitania for Liverpool at ten o'clock, said Mr. Grimm, obligingly. Meanwhile, let's get some coffee and a bite to eat. Are you going to make the trip with us? Asked the prince. Mr. Grimm shrugged his shoulders. Weary and spiritless, they went aboard the boat, and a little while later they steamed out into the stream and threaded their way down the bay. Ms. Thorne stood at the rail, gazing back upon the city they were leaving. Mr. Grimm stood beside her. The prince, still sullen, still scowling, sat a dozen feet away. This is a wonderful thing you have done, Mr. Grimm, said Ms. Thorne at last. Thank you, he said simply. It was a destructive thing that you intended to do. Did you ever see a more marvelous thing than that? And he indicated the skyline of New York. It's the most marvelous bit of mechanism in the world, the dynamo of the Western Hemisphere. You would have destroyed it, because in the World War, that would have been the first point of attack. She raised her eyebrows, but was silent. Somehow he went on after a moment. I could never associate a woman with destructiveness, with wars, and with violence. That is an unjust way of saying it, she interposed, and then musingly, isn't it odd that you and I, standing here by the rail, have, in a way, held the destinies of the whole great earth in our hands? And now your remark makes me feel that you alone have stood for peace and the general good, and I for destruction and evil. I didn't mean that, Mr. Grimm said quickly. You have done your duty as you saw it, and failed, she interrupted. And I have done my duty as I saw it. And one, she added. She smiled a little sadly. I think perhaps you and I might have been excellent friends, if it had not been for all this. I know we should have, said Mr. Grimm almost eagerly. I wonder if you will ever forgive me for, for, forgive you, she repeated. There is nothing to forgive. One must do one's duty. But I wish it could have been otherwise. The Statue of Liberty slit by, and Governor's Island, and Fort Hamilton. Then, in the distance, Sandy Hook Light came into view. I'm going to leave you here, said Mr. Grimm, and for the first time there was a tense, strained note in his voice. Ms. Thorn's blue-gray eyes had grown mystically thoughtful. The words startled her a little, and she turned to face him. It may be that you and I shall never meet again, Mr. Grimm went on. We will meet again, she said gravely. When and where, I don't know, but it will come. And perhaps then, we may be friends, he was pleading now. Why, we are friends now, aren't we? She asked, and again the smile curled her scarlet lips. Surely we are friends, aren't we? We are, he declared positively. As they started forward, a revenue cutter, which had been hovering about Sandy Hook, put toward them, flying some signal at her mast head. Slowly, the great boat on which they stood crept along. Then the clang of a bell in the engine room brought her to a standstill, and the revenue cutter came alongside. I leave you here, Mr. Grimm said again. It's good-bye. Good-bye, she said softly. Good-bye till we meet once more. She extended both hands impulsively, and he stood for an instant, staring into the limpid gray eyes. Then, turning, went below. From the revenue cutter, he waved a hand at her, as the great Lysitania, moving again, sped on her way. The Prince joined Miss Thorne at the rail. The scowl was still in his face. And now what, he demanded abruptly. This man has treated us as if we were a pair of children. He's a wonderful man, she replied. That may be, but we have been fools to allow him to do all this. Miss Thorne turned flatly and faced him. We are not beaten yet, she said slowly. If all things go well, we, well, we are not beaten yet. The Lysitania was rounding Montauk Point when the wireless brought her to half-speed with a curt message. Isabel Thorne and Pietro Petrazini aboard Lysitania wanted on warrants charging conspiracy. Tugboat will take them off, intercepting you beyond Montauk Point. Campbell, Secret Service. What does that mean? asked the Prince bewildered. It means that the compact will be signed in Washington in spite of Mr. Grimm, and there was a glitter of triumph in their eyes. With the aid of one of the maids in the depot at Jersey City, I managed to get a telegram of explanation and instruction to Defoe in New York, and this is the result. He signed Mr. Campbell's name, I suppose, to give weight to the message. An hour later a tugboat came alongside and they went aboard. End of Chapter 19 Recording by Roger Maline From where he sat in a tiny alcove which chetted out and encroached upon the line of the sidewalk, Mr. Grimm looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue, the central thread of Washington, ever changing, always brilliant, splashed at regular intervals with light from high-flung electric arcs. The early theatre crowd was in the street, well dressed, well fed, careless for the moment of all things, say physical comfort and amusement. Automobiles, carriages, cabs, cars flowed past endlessly, and yet Mr. Grimm saw not of it. In the distance at one end of the avenue, the dome of the capital, cleft the shadows of the night, and a single light sparkled at its apex. In the other direction, at the left of the Treasury Building, which abruptly blocks the wide thoroughfare, were shimmering windows of the White House. Motionless, moody, thoughtful, Mr. Grimm sat staring, staring straight ahead, comprehending none of these things which lay before him as in a panorama. Instead his memory was conjuring up a pair of subtle, blue-gray eyes, now pleading, now coquettish, now frankly defiant, too slim, white, wonderful hands, the echo of a pleasant, throaty laugh, a splendid, elusive, radiant-haired phantom, truly a woman of mystery. Who was this Isabel Thorn, who, for months past, had been the storm-center and directing mind of a vast international intrigue which threatened the world with war? Who this remarkable young woman, who with ease and assurance commanded ambassadors and played nations as pawns? Now that she was safely out of the country, Mr. Grimm had leisure to speculate. Upon him had devolved the duty of blocking her plans, and he had done so, merciless alike of his own feeling and of hers. Hesitation or evasion had never occurred to him. It was a thing to be done, and he did it. He wondered if she had understood, there at the last beside the rail, he wondered if she knew the struggle it had caused him deliberately to send her out of his life, or had he even surmised that her expulsion from the country, by his direct act, was wholly lacking in the exultation of triumph to him, that it struck deeper than that, below the listless, official exterior into his personal happiness, and wondering, he knew that she did understand. A silent shod waiter came and placed the coffee-things at his elbow. He didn't heed. The waiter poured a demitas, and inquiringly lifted a lump of sugar in the silver tongs. Still Mr. Grimm didn't heed. At last the waiter deposited the sugar on the edge of the fragile saucer, and moved away as silently as he had come. A newspaper which Mr. Grimm had placed on the end of the table, when he sat down, rattled a little as a breeze from the open window caught it, then the top of the sheet slid off and fell to the floor. Mr. Grimm was still staring out the window. Slowly the room behind him was thinning of its crowd, as the theatre-bound diners went out in twos and threes. The last of these disappeared finally, and save for Mr. Grimm there were not more than a dozen persons left in the place. Thus for a few minutes, and then the swinging doors leading from the street clicked, and a gentleman entered. He glanced around, as if seeking a seat near a window, then moved along in Mr. Grimm's direction, between the rows of tables. His gaze lingered on Mr. Grimm for an instant, and when he came opposite he stooped and picked up the fallen newspaper-sheet. Your paper, he inquired courteously. Mr. Grimm was still gazing, dreamily out of the window. I beg pardon, insisted the newcomer pleasantly. He folded the paper once, and replaced it on the table. One hand lingered for just the fraction of a moment above Mr. Grimm's coffee-cup. Aroused by the remark Mr. Grimm glanced around. Oh, thank you! he apologized hastily. I didn't hear you at first. Thank you! The newcomer nodded, smiled and passed on, taking a seat two or three tables down. Apparently this trifling courtesy had broken the spell of reverie. For Mr. Grimm squared around the table again, drew his coffee-cup towards him, and dropped in the single lump of sugar. He idly stirred it for a moment, as his eyes turned again toward the open window. Then he lifted the tiny cup and emptied it. Again he sat motionless for a long time, and thrice the newcomer only a few feet away glanced at him narrowly. And now it seemed a peculiar drowsiness was overtaking Mr. Grimm. Once he caught himself nodding and raised his head with a jerk. Then he noticed that the arc lights in the street were wobbling curiously, and he fell to wondering why that single flame sparkled at the apex of the capital dome. Things around him grew hazy, vague, unreal, and then, as if realizing that something was the matter with him, he came to his feet. He took one step forward into the space between the tables, reeled, attempted to steady himself by holding on to a chair. Then everything grew black about him, and he pitched forward on the floor. His face was dead white, his fingers moved a little, nervously weakly. Then they were still. Several people rose at the sound of the falling body, and the newcomer hurried forward. His coat sleeve caught the empty demi-tasse, as he stooped and swept it to the floor, where it was shattered. The head waiter and another came, Pell-Mell, and those diners who had risen came more slowly. What's the matter? asked the head waiter anxiously. Already the newcomer was supporting Mr. Grimm on his knee, and flicking water in his face. Nothing serious, I fancy. He answered shortly. He's subject to these little attacks. What are they? Who is he? The stranger tore at Mr. Grimm's collar until it came loose. Then he fell to chafing, the still hands. He is Mr. Grimm, a government employee. I know him, he answered again. I imagine it's nothing more serious than indigestion. A little knot had gathered about them, with offers of assistance. Waiter, hadn't you better send for a physician? Someone suggested. I am a physician. The stranger put in impatiently. Have someone call a cab, and I'll see that he's taken home. It happens that we live in the same apartment house, just a few blocks from here. Obedient to the crisply spoken directions, a cab was called, and five minutes later, Mr. Grimm, still insensible, was lifted into it. The stranger took a seat beside him. The cabby touched his horse with a whip, and the vehicle fell into the endless moving line. When the light of returning consciousness finally pierced the black lethargy that enshrouded him, Mr. Grimm's mind was a chaos of vagrant absurd fantasies. Then, slowly, slowly, realization struggled back to its own, and he came to know things. First was the knowledge that he was lying flat on his back, on a couch, it seemed. Then that he was in the dark, an utter abject darkness. And finally came an overwhelming sense of silence. For a while he lay motionless, with not even the movement of an eyelash to indicate consciousness, wrapped in a delicious langer. Gradually this passed, and the feeble flutter of his heart grew into a steady, rhythmic beat. The keen brain was awakening. He was beginning to remember. What had happened? He knew only that in some manner a drug had been administered to him, a bitter dose tasting of opium. That speechlessly he had fought against it, that he had risen from the table in the restaurant, and that he had fallen. All the rest was blank. With eyes still closed, and nervous hands inert at his sides, he listened. The while he turned the situation over in speculative mood. The waiter had administered the drug, of course, unless it had been the courteous stranger who had replaced the newspaper on the table. That thought opened new fields of conjecture. Mr. Grimm had no recollection of ever having seen him before, and he had paid only the enforced attention of politeness to him. And why had the drug been administered? Vaguely, incoherently, Mr. Grimm imagined that in some way it had to do with the great international plot of war in which Miss Thorne was so delicate and vital an instrument. Where was he? Conjecture stopped there. Evidently, he was where the courteous gentleman in the restaurant wanted him to be. A prisoner? Probably. In danger? Long, careful attention to detail work and the Secret Service had convinced Mr. Grimm that he was always in danger. That was one reason, and the best, why he had lain motionless without so much as lifting a finger since that first glimmer of consciousness had entered his brain. He was probably under scrutiny, even in the darkness. And for the present it was desirable to accommodate any chance watcher by remaining apparently unconscious. And for a long time he lay, listening. Was there another person in the room? Mr. Grimm's ears were keenly alive for the inadvertent shuffling of a foot or the sound of breathing. Nothing. Even the night roar of the city was missing. The silence was oppressive. At last he opened his eyes. A pall of gloom encompassed him. A pall without one rift of light. His fingers, moving slowly, explored the limits of the couch whereon he lay. Confident at last that wherever he was he was unwatched, Mr. Grimm was on the point of concluding that further inaction was useless. When his straining ears caught the faint grating of metal against metal, perhaps the insertion of a key in the lock. His hands grew still. His eyes closed. And after a moment a door creaked slightly on its hinges, and a breath of cool air informed Mr. Grimm that that open door, wherever it was, led to the outside and freedom. There was another faint creaking as the door was shut. Mr. Grimm's nervous hands closed involuntarily, and his lips were set together tightly. Was it to be a knife thrust in the dark? If not, then what? He expected the flare of a match. Instead, there was a soft tread and the rustle of skirts. A woman! Mr. Grimm's caution was all but forgotten in his surprise. As the steps drew nearer, his clenched fingers loosened. He waited. Two hands stretched forward in the dark, touched him simultaneously. One in the face, one in the breast. A singular thrill shot through him, but there was not the flicker of an eye or the twitching of a finger. The woman, it was a woman, seemed now to be bending over him. Then he heard her drop on her knees beside him, and she pressed an inquiring ear to his left side. It was the heart test. Thank God! She breathed softly. It was only by a masterful effort that Mr. Grimm held himself limp and inert, for a strange fragrance was enveloping him. A fragrance he well knew. The hands were fumbling at his breast again, and there was the sharp crackle of paper. At first he didn't understand. Then he knew that the woman had pinned a paper to the lapel of his coat. Finally she straightened up and took two steps away from him, after which came a pause. His keenly attuned ears caught her faint breathing. Then the rustle of her skirts as she turned back. She was leaning over him again. Her lips touched his forehead, barely. Again there was a quick rustling of skirts, the door creaked, and silence. Deep, oppressive, overwhelming silence. Isabel. Was he dreaming? And then he ceased wondering and fell to remembering her kiss, light as air. And the softly spoken, Thank God! She did care then. She had understood that day. The kiss of a woman beloved is a splendid heart tonic. Mr. Grimm straightened up suddenly on the couch, himself again. He touched the slip of paper which he had pinned to his coat to make sure it was not all a dream, after which he recalled the fact that while he had heard the door creak before she went out, he had not heard it creak afterward. Therefore the door was open. She had left it open. Purposely? That was beside the question at the moment. And why? How was she in Washington? Pondering that question, Mr. Grimm's excellent teeth clicked sharply together, and he rose. He knew the answer. The contract was to be signed. The alliance which would array the civilized world in arms. He had failed to block that, as he thought. If Miss Thorn had returned, then Prince Benedetto da Brutzi, who held absolute power to sign the Compact for Italy, France, and Spain, had also returned. Stealthily, feeling his way as he went, Mr. Grimm moved toward the door leading to freedom, guided by the fresh draft of air. He reached the door. It was standing open, and a moment later stepped out into the starlit night. It was open country here, with a thread of white road just ahead and farther along a fringe of shrubbery. Mr. Grimm reached the road, far down it, a pinpoint in the night, a light flickered through interleasing branches. The tail lamp of an automobile, of course. Mr. Grimm left the road and skirted a sparse hedge in the direction of the light. After a moment, he heard the engine of an automobile, and saw a woman, barely discernible, step into the car. As it started forward, he staked everything on one bold move, and won, his reward being a narrow sitting space in the rear of the car, hidden from its occupants by the tunnel. One mile, two miles, three miles they charged through the night, and still he clung on. At last there came relief. That's the place where the lights are, just ahead. There was no mistaking that voice raised above the clamor of the engine. The car slackened speed, and Mr. Grimm dropped off and darted behind some convenient bushes. And the first thing he did there was to light a match and read what was written on the slip of paper pinned to his coat. It was simply, My dear Mr. Grimm, by the time you read this, the compact will have been signed, and your efforts to prevent it splendid as they were futile. It is a tribute to you that it was unanimously agreed that you must be accounted for at the time of the signing, hence the drugging in the restaurant. It was only an act of kindness that I should come here to see that all was well with you, and leave the door open behind me. Believe me when I say that you are the one man in whom I have never been disappointed. Accept this as my farewell. For now I assume again the name and position rightfully mine, and know, too, that I shall always cherish the belief that you will remember me as your friend Isabel Thorn. P.S. The Prince and I left the steamer at Montauk Point on a tugboat. Mr. Grimm kissed the note twice, then burned it. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 22 of Elusive Isabel. 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 Roger Maline Elusive Isabel by Jacques Foutrelle Chapter 22. The Compact A room, low ceiling, dim, gloomy, sinister as an inquisition chamber, a single large table in the center holding a kerosene lamp, writing materials and a metal spheroid, a shade larger than a one-pound shell, and around it a semicircle of silent, masked, and cowled figures. There were twelve of them, eleven men and a woman. In the shadows, which grew denser at the far end of the room, was a squat globular object, a massive, smooth-sided, black threatening thing of iron. One of the men glanced at his watch. It was just two o'clock, then rose and took a position beside the table, facing the semicircle. He placed the timepiece on the table in front of him. Gentlemen, he said, and there was the faintest trace of a foreign accent. I shall speak English, because I know that whatever your nationality, all of you are familiar with that tongue. And now an apology for the theatric aspect of all this, the masks, the time and place of meeting, and the rest of it. He paused a moment. There is only one person living who knows the name and position of all of you. And by a sweep of his hand he indicated the motionless figure of the woman. It was by her decision that masks are worn. For while we all know the details of the Latin compact, there is a bare chance that someone will not sign, and it is not desirable that the identity of that person be known to all of us. The reason for the selection of this time and place is obvious, for an inkling of the proposed signing has reached the Secret Service. I will add the United States was chosen as the birthplace of this new epoch in history for several reasons, one being the proximity to Central and South America, and another the inadequate police system which enables greater freedom of action. He stopped and drew from his pocket a folded parchment. He tapped the tips of his fingers with it from time to time as he talked. The Latin compact, gentlemen, is not the dream of a night nor of a decade. As long as 50 years ago it was suggested, and whatever differences the Latin countries of the world have among themselves, they have always realized that ultimately they must stand together against the other nations of the world. This idea germinated into action three years ago, and since that time agents have covered the world in its interest. This meeting is the fruition of all that work, and this, he held the parchment aloft, is the instrument that will unite us. Never has a diplomatic secret been kept as this has been kept. Never has a greater reprisal been planned. It means, gentlemen, the domination of the world, socially, spiritually, commercially, and artistically. It means that England and the United States whose sphere of influence has extended around the globe will be beaten back, that the flag of the Latin countries will wave again over lost possessions. It means all of that and more. His voice had risen as he talked until it had grown vibrant with enthusiasm, and his hands pointed his remarks with quick, sharp gestures. All this, he went on, was never possible until three years ago, when the navies of the world were given over to the hands of one nation, my country. Five years ago a fellow countrymen of mine happened to be present at an electrical exhibition in New York City, and there he witnessed an interesting experiment, practical demonstration of the fact that a submarine mine may be exploded by the use of the Marconi wireless system. He was a practical electrician himself, and the idea lingered in his mind. For two years he experimented, and finally this resulted. He picked up the metal spheroid and held it out for their inspection. As it stands it is absolutely perfect and gives a world supremacy to the Latin countries because it places all the navies of the world at our mercy. It is a variation of the well-known percussion cap, or fuse, by which mines and torpedoes are exploded. The theory of it is simple, as are the theories of all great inventions. The secret of its construction is known only to its inventor, a man of whom you never heard. It is merely that the mechanism of the cap is so delicate that the Marconi wireless waves and only those will fire the cap. In other words, this cap is tuned, if I may use the word, to a certain number of vibrations and half vibrations. A wireless instrument of high power with a modifying addition which the inventor has added has only to be set in motion to discharge it at any distance up to 25 miles. High power wireless waves recognize no obstacle so the explosion of a submarine mine is as easily brought about as would be the explosion of a mine on dry land. You will readily see its value as a protective agency for our seaports. He replaced the spheroid on the table, but its chief value is not in that, he resumed. His chief value to the Latin compact gentleman is that the United States and England are now concluding negotiations unknown to each other by which they will protect their seaports by means of mines primed with this cap. The tuning of the caps which we will use is known only to us. The tuning of the caps which they will use is also known to us. The addition to the wireless apparatus which they will use is such that they cannot, even by accident, explode a mine guarding our seaports. But on the other hand, the addition to the wireless apparatus which we will use permits of the extreme high charge which will explode their mines. To make it clear, we could send the Navy against such a city as New York or Liverpool and explode every mine in front of us as we want and meanwhile our mines are impervious. Another word and I have finished. Five gentlemen whom I imagine are present now have witnessed the test of this cap by direct command of their home governments. For the benefit of the others of you, a simple test has been arranged for tonight. This cap on the table is charged. Its inventor is at his wireless instrument 15 miles away. At three o'clock he will turn on the current that will explode it. Four of the 11 men looked at their watches. It is now 17 minutes past two. I am instructed for the purposes of the test to place this cap anywhere you may select, in this house or outside of it, in a box sealed or underwater. The purpose is merely to demonstrate its efficacy, to prove to your complete satisfaction that it can be exploded under practically any conditions. His entire manner underwent a change. He drew a chair up to the table and stood for an instant with his hand resting on the back. The compact is written in three languages, English, French, and Italian. I shall ask you to sign after reading either or all precisely as the directions you have received from your home government instruct. On behalf of the three greatest Latin countries as special envoy of each, I will sign first. He dropped into the chair, signed each of the three parchment pages three times, then rose and offered the pen to the cowled figure at one end of the semicircle. The man came forward, read the English transcript, studied the three signatures already there with a certain error of surprise, then signed. The second man signed, the third man, and the fourth. The fifth had just risen to go forward when the door opened silently and Mr. Grimm entered. Without a glance, either to right or left, he went straight toward the table and extended a hand to take the compact. For an instant there had come amazement, a dumb astonishment at the intrusion. It passed and the hand of the man who had done the talking darted out, seized the compact and held it behind him. If you will be good enough to give that to me, your highness, suggested Mr. Grimm quietly. For half a minute the masked man stared straight into the listless eyes of the intruder and then, Mr. Grimm, you are in very grave danger. That is beside the question, was the reply. Be good enough to give me that document. He backed away as he spoke, kicked the door closed with one heel, then leaned against it, facing them. Or better yet, he went on after a moment, burn it. There is a lamp in front of you. He paused for an answer. It would be absurd of me to attempt to take it by force, he added.