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I Spy by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Part 4 out of 5

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"It's more than that, sir. No more coffee," and the detective, his sudden
doubts dispelled by Miller's sunny smile, leaned back once more in his
chair. "It seems that officials here are awakening to the realization
that government secrets are being betrayed. If the American troops are
ordered to a certain point on the border, the order is known in Mexico
before it is executed. It is the same with coded communications to
Foreign Powers. The movements of our fleet are known to foreign naval
attachés even before the maneuvers are carried out. The whereabouts of
the smallest torpedo boat and submarine is no secret--to any but the
American people."

"Is that so?" Miller looked politely incredulous. "And is the Secret
Service not investigating the matter?"

"Sure; they'll handle it all right." Mitchell twisted about in his chair.
"At present, Captain, my entire attention is claimed by the Spencer
murder. Where would you suggest that I begin my search among Whitney's
household for a motive which will explain the murder?"

"Why not try and find Julie, the French maid?"

The eagerness died out of Mitchell's face. "We are trying," he said. "But
we can convict Miss Whitney without her evidence."

"So you think Julie's testimony will implicate Miss Whitney still further
in the crime?"

"I do. I have no doubt she is accessory after the fact, and, provided
with funds by Miss Whitney, stole away so as not to give evidence
against her."

"You have a curious conception of human nature, Mitchell," was Miller's
only comment as he signed to their waiter to bring his check. He did not
speak again until he and the detective were in the street. "You have
overlooked a very important point, Mitchell, in your investigation of
Spencer's murder."

"What is that?"

"You apparently believe that Miss Whitney murdered Spencer between three
and four in the morning and then went back to her bedroom ..."

"Go on," urged Mitchell.

"At the inquest all witnesses testified that Miss Whitney was the first
to find Spencer and that she was in the elevator with him." Miller spoke
with impressiveness. "Even the most hardened criminal would not have
deliberately walked into that elevator and shut himself in with the man
he had murdered a short time before--and yet, you argue that a highly
strung, delicately nurtured girl did exactly that. It's preposterous!"

"It does sound cold-blooded," admitted the detective. "It is just
possible that after committing the crime, she lost consciousness and
remained in the elevator all night...."

"Talk sense!" ejaculated Miller disgustedly and, without waiting to hear
the detective's thanks for his luncheon, turned on his heel and hurried
up Fourteenth Street. Mitchell watched his tall, erect figure out of
sight with absorbed attention.

"I'd give a lot to know who he suspects murdered Spencer," he muttered
under his breath, and started for the Municipal Building.

As Miller approached his hotel, he thought he saw Foster's yellow touring
car move away from the ladies' entrance. After procuring his mail he went
at once to his room. He was about to open his letters when his eyes fell
on an open drawer of his desk. Putting down the bundle in his hand, he
carefully investigated every pigeonhole and drawer. The papers he looked
for were missing.

Rising quickly, Miller examined the windows of his room and bathroom.
They were securely fastened on the inside. In deep thought he went out
into the hall to where the floor chambermaid and a companion were sitting
in full view of his door.

"Have you been here long?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied the elder girl. "I've been on duty here ever
since noon, and Mary," laying her hand on her companion, "was here
all the morning."

"Has either of you seen anyone enter my bedroom?"

"No, sir, only yourself, sir," answered the first speaker, and Mary
echoed her words.



The prospect was uninviting at any time and to Julie, who had stared at
the rows of slatternly kept backyards until she grew familiar with each
battered garbage can, the sight was hateful. The rain had driven even the
starved alley cats to cover, and with a sigh forlorn in its wretchedness,
she turned from the window and contemplated her nicely furnished bedroom.
The two days she had been there had passed on leaden feet. Captain
Miller's money had secured her a haven of refuge--food and a roof over
her head--but had deprived her of liberty and the daily newspaper. The
first had been the only restriction he had placed upon her acceptance of
his bounty. His plea--protect Kathleen--had found a ready echo in her
loyal heart, and blindly she had obeyed him.

The first day had passed in numb resignation, then had followed the
reaction. As she recovered from bodily fatigue there came a quickening of
the blood, and in spite of the cold driving rain, a longing for the
out-of-doors possessed her.

Since the breaking out of the great world war, with its invasion of
Belgium and her beloved France, she had become an inveterate newspaper
reader, and during the days of "extras" she had formed the habit of
depending upon them. From day to day, month to month, she had followed
the ever shifting, always fighting forces on the firing line, and her
knowledge of the situation in Europe would have shamed some of the
students of the times. Her own personal loss and agonizing sorrow had
been engulfed in her acceptance of the world's tragedy, but it had made
adamantine her desire to serve France.

Forty-eight hours had passed and she had not seen a daily paper. She had
asked her landlady, Mrs. Robinson, for the loan of her _Star_, only to be
told that Mrs. Robinson never took it. She had thereupon presented her
with three cents and asked her to secure the morning papers. But Mrs.
Robinson, on her return from market earlier in the day, had forgotten to
comply with her request. The one servant, when appealed to in the hall,
had promised to get her an evening _Times_, but on inquiry, Mrs. Robinson
had informed her that the woman had finished her work and gone home.

What was happening in Europe? Had the Allies attempted the drive hinted
at during the winter months? Had Italy cast her lot with the Allies?
Julie's restlessness increased as each question remained unanswered. From
whom could she get a newspaper? Mrs. Robinson had assured her that she
was the only boarder in the house, and on the one occasion on which she
had left her room, she had seen no one but the servant. The latter had
gone out, and Mrs. Robinson had not responded to her call ten minutes
before. Julie sighed again and gazed wearily out over the backyards; then
a thought came to her. Why not go to a front window and hail a newsboy;
there might be one in the vicinity?

With brightened eyes Julie left her room and, walking down the hall,
turned the knob of the door opposite her own. It would not open.
Bethinking herself, Julie rapped timidly on the door panel; then
receiving no reply, she rapped again. No voice nor footstep responded to
the summons; apparently the room was empty. Considerably perplexed, Julie
turned and made her way to the second bedroom floor. Quickly she rapped
at each closed door and tried its knob. Each door was locked and her
repeated raps went unanswered. In the fourth floor she met with the same
results, and, returning again to the stairs, she made her way down them
almost at a run.

The silent and apparently empty house frightened her, and it was with a
fast beating heart that she made her way to the ground floor and into
the drawing-room. Its sumptuous furnishings astounded her. Mrs. Robinson
had neither the air nor the well-dressed appearance of a woman of
wealth. From her swarthy skin and black eyes and hair Julie had taken
her for a Creole.

The stair door leading to the basement was not locked, and Julie laid a
hesitating hand on it. Should she seek Mrs. Robinson in the kitchen?
Almost without her own volition she released her hold on the knob and
retraced her steps to the front door. She needed air; the silent house
was getting on her nerves. She suddenly remembered the noises she had
heard in the night and which, in the morning, she had attributed to her
feverish condition.

Noiselessly she removed the night latch and slipped into the vestibule.
She stood for a moment filling her lungs with the cold refreshing air,
then bethinking herself, stepped behind the closed section of the outer
door. She must not be seen by a chance policeman. As she stepped back her
foot encountered a small bundle, and she looked down. Joy of joys I It
was a folded newspaper. As she opened it she saw in the dim light of dusk
the red letter stamping: "Subscriber's copy." What had Mrs. Robinson
meant by telling her she did not take newspapers?

Not pausing to worry further over that problem, she hastily scanned the
first page of the five-thirty edition of the _Times_; and her eyes
dilated as she read the scare headings:




Too stunned to move or cry out, Julie stared dumbly at the newspaper.
Kathleen Whitney, her kind friend rather than employer, was
convicted--then her absence had not benefited her? Captain Miller's
advice had been wrong. Her faith in him was misplaced. To what had he
brought her? She cast a terrified look at the partly closed door behind
her. Better jail than--The thought of jail brought her whirling senses
back to Kathleen. But Kathleen was not in jail; the paper stated that she
was out on bail. If at home, she could be reached.

Utterly regardless of her hatless condition, she dragged the shawl,
previously borrowed from Mrs. Robinson, over her head, and closing the
front door, bolted up the street, the newspaper still clutched in her
hand. Darkness was closing in, and the rain had driven the few
pedestrians usually in that location scurrying to their homes. Julie was
five or more blocks from the Robinson house when she saw a yellow touring
car draw up to the opposite curb and a man spring out. He paused for a
second to examine one of the lamps and its light threw his face in bold
relief against the darkness. It was Henry, the chauffeur. Julie shrank
back behind a tree-box, muffling her face in the friendly shawl. But the
precaution was unnecessary, for Henry did not glance toward her as he
hastened around the touring car and entered a near-by house.

For some seconds Julie stood peering doubtfully in the direction he had
gone. Why was Henry driving a car other than the Whitneys'? Had they, by
chance, discharged him? Or was he up to some particular deviltry? Her
latent distrust of Henry and her suspicions as to his nationality surged
uppermost, and not waiting to count the cost, she darted across the
street and peered into the empty touring car. Opening the door, Julie
climbed into the tonneau and, seating herself on the floor, pulled the
heavy laprobe over her. Thus protected, she sat in the darkened interior
of the car for what seemed an interminable time. The slam of a door and
the sound of approaching footsteps caused her to half rise and peep
through the storm window. At sight of Henry standing by the bonnet
lighting his pipe she sank hastily back and secreted herself under the
laprobe. His pipe drawing to his satisfaction, Henry, with barely a
backward glance into the dark tonneau, stowed himself behind the steering
wheel and started the car up the street.

Baron Frederic von Fincke looked from his bank book to his companion, a
pleasant-featured, gray-haired man. "The balance is low," he said.

"I come with unlimited financial credit," and the short, stockily built
man drew from an inside pocket a leather cardcase and passed it to the
Baron, who read its contents carefully before returning it.

"I am glad you have arrived, Hartzmann," he volunteered. "As a diplomatic
center Washington is dull. I call at the State Department--no news; it is
not in touch with secret history."

"My dear Baron, what can you expect?" Hartzmann shrugged his shoulders
amusedly. "Trained diplomats do not confide state secrets to a premier
who derives his income from a newspaper and the lecture platform."

"True. Diplomat and politician are synonymous in America; oil and water
would sooner mix in the Old World." Von Fincke carefully replaced his
bank book in a dispatch-box. "Your friend, Captain von Mueller, has won
many friends during his sojourn in Washington."

"A brilliant man; he will go far." Hartzmann rubbed his hands with
satisfaction. "His work in England will not be forgotten. He has courage,
and the instinct of the hunter; he never blunders."

"High praise," said von Fincke. "I am the more glad to hear it because I
have intrusted a most delicate mission to him--the securing of Whitney's
_latest_ invention"--with peculiar meaning. "My other efforts in that
line having proved failures." Quickly he forestalled the question he saw
coming, "And your plan of campaign, Hartzmann, what of it?"

"First, let me give you this," taking several papers from his vest
pocket. "It is a list of factories throughout the United States supplying
munitions of war to the Allies. You may find it useful."

"Thanks." Von Fincke read the paper with minute care before placing it
inside his dispatch-box. "A concerted movement has been commenced by us
to secure a majority control of many of these plants."

"In several instances it is planned to buy the great gun and munition
factories outright," explained Hartzmann. "Our agents are already trying
to engage the output of munitions until 1916, so that even if the United
States requires powder and high explosives, it will be impossible to
supply the Government."

"Anything, anything to stop the supply going to the Allies." Von Fincke
emphasized his words with a characteristic gesture.

"Our work is already telling." Hartzmann carefully replaced several
papers in an inside pocket. "In Russia, the men of the first Russian
reserve have to wait before engaging the enemy until the Russian soldiers
in the outer trenches are _dead_ so as to get their guns and ammunition
to fight with."

"Excellent!" and von Fincke beamed with pleasure.

"I shall instigate strikes in the munitions factories," continued
Hartzmann. "Tell me, how have you succeeded with the passports?"

Von Fincke's expression changed. "Not so well as I hoped. The Secret
Service are active in investigating all that are issued. It is difficult
to circulate them under such espionage."

"It is risky," agreed Hartzmann. "Our agents have opened headquarters in
New York. We hope to destroy by means of fire bombs British ships
clearing from American ports."

"If that is accomplished, it will lend material aid to our war zone
policy," exulted von Fincke.

"And later on we hope to establish the American seaports as bases for a
fleet of naval auxiliaries, loaded with supplies for our swift submarines
and cruisers. I am making arrangements for taking care of the necessary
clearance papers."

"Excellent!" ejaculated von Fincke for the second time, and opened a
notebook which he took from his dispatch-box. "Our reservists in this
country report regularly. Under the guise of rifle clubs they keep
themselves in excellent practice. Bodies of them are unobtrusively
seeking employment along the Canadian border."

"Well done; it is a wise move." Hartzmann helped himself to a cigar.
"What about this Spencer mystery, Baron? As our agent in Mexican affairs
he received a small fortune. Does not his death come at a most
unfortunate moment?"

Von Fincke pursed up his lips. "No. Spencer was a good tool, but
sometimes too inquisitive; however, I shall not be sorry if Miss Whitney
receives the full penalty for her crime." The two men regarded each other
in silence for a brief second, then von Fincke added: "From reports which
have reached me, I judge the mine is well laid, and Mexico will yet prove
troublesome to her northern neighbor."

"And useful to us," mused Hartzmann. "The United States when angry with
Germany will make war--on Mexico."

"Perhaps," skeptically, "but to me it appears intervention in Mexico will
hang fire until ..."

"Engineered," Hartzmann smiled meaningly. "Huerta will leave shortly for
the Panama-Pacific Exposition, and then ..." Not completing his sentence,
he pointed to a paragraph near the bottom of the first page of the
_Times_ which lay spread on the table by him. "The Sisters in Unity, I
see, is a strictly neutral organization for peace at any price."

"The dear ladies!" Mockingly von Fincke's hand rose in salute. "They are
the best propagandists in the country, and Senator Foster proves an able
advocate of peace--when urged by a woman."

"He is a clever speaker," agreed Hartzmann.

"Most men in public life have their uses. Have you nothing to report of
the pernicious activities of the United States Government?"

Without replying von Fincke pressed the button of his electric bell. "Is
Heinrich here?" he asked a moment later as his servant entered.

"Yes, Baron."

"Then show him in." Von Fincke turned back to his guest. "A clever man,
Heinrich, and useful. Come in," as a discreet tap sounded on the door;
and the chauffeur, carefully closing the door, saluted. "Any news of the
Atlantic fleet, Heinrich?"

"Its departure for the Panama-Pacific Exposition at San Francisco via the
Panama Canal has been indefinitely postponed."

"The Department must have awakened to the fact that if sent there the
fleet would have to return by rail," growled von Fincke. "There is not
enough coal in California at present to supply the fleet--the battleships
and cruisers could not escape from attack, but might even be captured at
the dock."

"Have you learned where the fleet will be sent?" asked Hartzmann,
watching the chauffeur narrowly.

"It is to go to New York for a grand review, Herr Captain."

"Ah, a mobilization?"

"No, Herr Captain; I think not. The reserve fleet will be missing."

"Will the President review the fleet?"

"It is so believed, Herr Captain."

Von Fincke, who had been silently eyeing his companions, stood up.
"Would that not give us an opportunity to bottle up the fleet in the
North River by slipping down one of our biggest ocean steamers and
sinking her in the channel?"

"It might be done," but Hartzmann looked doubtful. "The Harbor Police of
New York are vigilant. I fear the warping of a great steamer from her
berth would attract instant attention."

"Not if properly engineered, Hartzmann." A soft tap at the door
interrupted von Fincke. "Come in," he called.

"Captain von Mueller," announced the valet, and von Fincke advanced
eagerly to meet the newcomer.

"Welcome, Herr Captain. I hoped that you would get my note in time."

"I found it on my return to the hotel. Hartzmann, well met." Von Mueller
returned the older man's firm clasp. "It is some years...."

"Years? What are they when old friends foregather," exclaimed Hartzmann.
"Let us sit and talk."

"Wait, wait," remonstrated von Fincke. "Heinrich," turning to the
chauffeur, who stood respectfully waiting, "did you learn the strength of
the fleet?"

"Of the thirty-five United States battleships, only twenty-one are in
commission and ready for emergency," he said. "Of these twenty-one three
have broken shafts, and the fourth is a turbine engine battleship, which
needs overhauling."

"Is this all the fighting strength of the United States navy?" questioned
Hartzmann, jotting down the figures in a notebook.

"No, Herr Captain; there are seventy fighting craft; but not in
commission and all require overhauling. Half of the submarines will
not--er--'sub,' so to speak." A ghost of a smile crossed Heinrich's lips.
"The complement of torpedo vessels has been reduced from fifteen to
twenty-five per cent, and the Atlantic Fleet needs five thousand men."

"Interesting data," said von Mueller. "I congratulate you, Heinrich. What
of the army?"

"Nothing definite to report today, Herr Captain. If rumor speaks truly,
discontent will shortly reduce the standing army to a man and a mule."

"A mule can fight on occasions," laughed von Mueller.

"But not against trained men, backed up by field guns firing in one hour
two hundred thousand shells carrying high explosives," boasted Hartzmann
triumphantly. "Weapons such as these, von Mueller, alter the face of
nature as well as the fate of nations."

"Any further news tonight, Heinrich?" asked von Fincke.

"No, Baron." The chauffeur saluted. "Any orders?"

"A moment," broke in von Mueller. "I will be at the Whitney residence
tonight, Heinrich; see that I am admitted," he added, observing the
slight change in the chauffeur's expression.

"It can be arranged, Herr Captain," hastily. "I was but thinking of
Julie--the French she-devil. Should she come ..."

"She will not return." Von Mueller spoke with confidence. "I have
convinced her that she will better protect Miss Whitney by remaining in
hiding, thus directing attention to herself as the criminal."

"But will she not read the papers?" touching the _Times_.

"No; the landlady will keep them from her."

"The police are ransacking the town for her," persisted Heinrich.

"They will not find Julie"--von Mueller lowered his voice. "They never
investigate Robinson's."

"So!" Von Fincke elevated his eyebrows, and his smile was not pleasant.



Kathleen Whitney breathed inward thanks when dinner was over. It had been
a trying ordeal on top of an agonizing day. Cloistered in her room with
only her sad thoughts for company, she had been relieved to find that
Miss Kiametia Grey had been prevailed upon by Mrs. Whitney to prolong her
afternoon visit to include a family dinner. But the spinster's endeavor
to divert her by relating society gossip finally palled, and! she
permitted her thoughts to stray to other scenes.

"Did you receive your invitation to the Morton reception, Kathleen?"
asked Miss Kiametia, breaking off her conversation with Mrs. Whitney with
her customary abruptness, and startling Kathleen back to the present.

"Yes--no; I don't know," was her confused reply.

"It is here." Mrs. Whitney went into the library and returned with a
large envelope.

"What night?" Miss Kiametia took the card and examined its heavily
embossed surface with interest. "_Nouveau riche_ stamped all over it, as
well as R.S.V.P.--'Real Slick Vittles, People,'" and she laughed

"A11 the trimmings." Mrs. Whitney replaced the card in its envelope. "I
have written our regrets. I understand the reception is given to announce
the engagement of Mona Morton to some South American Monte Cristo."

"Speaking of engagements," Whitney turned to the spinster, "what about
you and Randall Foster, Kiametia?"

"I shall never marry." Miss Kiametia's half bantering tone dropped, and
the eyes she turned to Kathleen were shadowed with a haunting regret.
"The habits of a life-time cannot be broken."

"Oh, Kiametia!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney in open disappointment. "Senator
Foster is splendid--and I had hoped--_why_ do you discourage his

"Can't stand the way he wears his hair," announced Miss Kiametia with an
air of finality which warned against further discussion.

"Marry him and make him change his barber," advised Whitney rising. "I
have to go out, Minna; you and Kathleen must not wait up for me. Good
night, Kiametia; Henry is downstairs, he can take you home in the car,
if you wish. See you tomorrow," and he moved toward the door. After a
brief hesitation Kathleen followed him into the hall.

"Must you go out, Dad?" she asked helping him with his overcoat. "It is
still stormy tonight, and I feel lonely"--her voice broke, and turning
Whitney impulsively took her in his arms.

"My darling little girl." He stopped and steadied his voice as he kissed
her tenderly. "There, don't worry, trust old Dad to put things
straight--as he did your broken dollies. Go early to bed, dear, and get
some rest."

"Rest!" Kathleen strove to suppress all trace of bitterness. "Now, don't
have me on your mind; come home early," and she returned his kiss and
went slowly back into the drawing-room, as the front door closed after
her father.

"We are going up to my boudoir, Kathleen; won't you come, dear?" asked
Mrs. Whitney.

"Not just now, mother; I want to talk to Vincent when he gets the table
cleared away."

"I envy you, Vincent," chimed in Miss Kiametia. "Such an excellent
servant. Oh, Minna, don't go to the elevator; suppose we walk upstairs."

Left by herself Kathleen went in search of Vincent. He was not in the
pantry, but judging by the still unwashed dishes that he was probably
eating his supper in the kitchen, she refrained from calling him
upstairs, and walked listlessly back into the drawing-room.

Sick at heart, utterly discouraged, she threw herself down on the large
sofa and sank back among the pillows. Throughout the long day she had
tried to banish all thought of Charles Miller. It was hopeless; his image
was in her heart as well as before her mental vision. To some women it is
given to love lightly, tasting but the essence, while to others love is a
lifetime of steadfast devotion. And that winter had brought to Kathleen
her one great passion; for weal or for woe she had given her heart to
Charles Miller, and she must drain the cup to the bitter dregs.

With the gradual awakening to the belief that Charles Miller was really a
blackguard, a--she shuddered, and raised her hands as if to ward off an
overwhelming horror. And he had dared to approach her that morning with
loving words on his lips. His eyes had met hers frankly--there had been
no effort to avoid, no show of fear--no, he was only facing a loyal
woman. Kathleen choked back a moan. Truly, he understood the art of
dissimulation. If she had not known of his duplicity, of his guilt, his
expression as he addressed her that morning would have proclaimed him
innocent of all wrongdoing. His expression, ah, it had been that which
had sowed a little seed of hope in her heart. Perhaps she could sketch
his face as he appeared that morning, again catch the expression that
inspired confidence in spite of all.

She sat bolt upright and glanced eagerly about for a scrap of paper and a
pencil. The white back of a magazine on a lamp table caught her eye and
she went toward it. By the lamp lay Miss Kiametia's gold mesh purse,
vanity box, and pencil. Kathleen snatched up the dangling baubles and the
magazine and returned to the sofa. If only she could get her impression
down on paper before remembrance faded! She could copy it at her leisure.
She jerked feverishly at the gold pencil, and as she pulled it out laid
its point on the white paper--and then sat petrified. It was a hypodermic
needle. Some seconds passed before she moved; then she raised the gold
cylinder--outwardly it resembled a pencil, inside were concealed the
syringe and needle. With anxious haste she manipulated its delicate
mechanism, and slipped back the needle to its hiding place.

Forgotten for the moment was her own problem. Brilliant, gifted Kiametia
Grey a drug fiend--Oh, the pity of it! In the light of her discovery
Kathleen remembered many idiosyncrasies which the drug habit would
explain; often that winter she had found Miss Kiametia dozing in her
chair at the theater, at dinners, in motors, but had put it down to
over-fatigue from too much social gayety. Miss Kiametia's variable likes
and dislikes, her sudden whims and fancies, her irritability--all were
traceable to the same cause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Captain Miller," he announced, and retired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you think the coroner's jury influenced my judgment, sweetheart?
Shame--I have more faith than you. I know that you are innocent of
Spencer's death."

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

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

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

"Yes," huskily.

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

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

"Wh-what is it you ask?" she stammered.

"The plans of your father's _latest_ invention," patiently. "I do not
mean the camera."

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

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

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

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

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

"A special delivery for you, Miss Kathleen," he said, "from the State

Kathleen took the proffered envelope mechanically.

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

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

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

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

"United Service Club,

"London, England.


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

"Very truly yours,

"Percival Hargraves."

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


"I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he--warn
Uncle--Kathleen ... Kathleen...."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"John Hargraves is dead."

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

"Quite so; that is my point--_I_ did not _marry_ you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's--his--finger print--but the voice, my God! the voice.... Kathleen,
Kathleen!" A gurgle choked his utterance, and the magnifying glass
clattered beside him as he fell inertly on the floor.



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

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

"Kathleen--is she ill?" he asked.

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

"It isn't Miss Kathleen," he answered cautiously. "Mr. Whitney has had
a stroke."

"What?" Miller recoiled. "When?"

"Some time last night."

"Will he recover?"

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

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

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

"Miss Grey found him!" Miller's eyes opened wide in astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

"You answered the bell at four in the morning?" in surprise. "I
understood you did not sleep at the Whitneys'."

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

"Did you see Miss Kathleen?"

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

"Keep me informed of what transpires at the Whitneys'," directed Miller,
picking up his coat.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

"Don't go, dear," she begged. "How is Dad?"

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

"I wasn't asleep--only thinking"--drearily--"I am glad you came in. Does
Dr. McLane hold out any hope?"

"Yes," and Mrs. Whitney's care-worn face brightened. "Is it not
good news?"

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

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

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

"Thank you, dear, I'll get it later," but the troubled shadow did not
lift from Mrs. Whitney's pretty face. "Both Vincent and Henry have asked
me for their wages; I have given Henry part ..."

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

"Why, Kathleen! Has he been disrespectful?"

"N-no, only--I don't trust him."

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

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

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

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

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

"No, never."

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

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

"I sent word to that effect when answering the note teller's letter."

"Who is the holder of the note?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do come and sit with us," suggested Kathleen.

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

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

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

"Now!" Kathleen looked down at her negligée attire. "Can't he wait until
tomorrow? Dr. McLane said I could get up then."

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

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

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

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

"Hasn't your mother told you?" Mrs. Whitney shook her head, and answered
for Kathleen.

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

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

"Sinclair Spencer made you residuary legatee."

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

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

"We understand how you must feel."

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

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

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

"Where were you yesterday afternoon, Randall?" she asked.

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

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

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

"Oh, Kiametia, you must not go," protested Mrs. Whitney. "You are such a
comfort--such a help...."

"Don't go," added Kathleen. "Your presence makes my enforced idleness
here easier to bear."

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

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

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

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

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

"Not for ten days or more."

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

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

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

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

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


Kathleen's eyes flew open. "Julie! You have come back!"

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

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

"No, mademoiselle."

"Where have you been?"

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

"I am sure of that, Julie"--touched by the feeling in the maid's voice.

"I was misled"--bitterly--"and by one I thought to be
trusted--Captain Miller."

"Julie! He did not offer...."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Henry is a spy--a traitor--it did not suit my plans to have him know my

"But Julie...."

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

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

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

"No, Julie."

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

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

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

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

Trenton, hurry.




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

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

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

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

"Have you?" dryly. "I doubt it; but go ahead"--generous encouragement
in her tone.

"How is Whitney?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Not today."

"When was he last here?"

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

"Did Kathleen see him on Wednesday?"

"I don't think so."

"Has he been here since?"

"I can't say; possibly the servants can tell you."

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


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

"Not in words," dryly. "But my woman's intuition tells me ..."

"Yes?" as she paused.

"That Kathleen worships the ground he walks on."

"Too bad." Foster sat back, looking troubled. "Too, too bad."

"What's this? A deathbed repentance? _You_ introduced Miller in
Washington," and the spinster's sharp eyes bored into him.

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

"Humph!" Miss Kiametia moved closer to his side. "Go on--confession is
good for the soul."

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

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

"How did you happen to be around at that hour?"

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

"Did you see anyone else in the room?"

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

"Why didn't you turn on the electric lights?" impatiently.

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

"And afterward did you find any trace of papers' having been stolen?
Drawers opened, or anything?"

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

"What!" Foster shot her a swift glance. "Asleep?"

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

"Poor girl!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hush!" The spinster pointed to the portières in the doorway leading to
the drawing-room. "Who is lurking there?"

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

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

"No," they replied in concert.

"Strange! I saw him enter the front door half an hour ago, using a

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

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

"Perhaps he came to see Kathleen," suggested Foster.

"Could you go and see if he is with her, Miss Grey?" urged Mitchell. "Her
suite of rooms is the one place where I have not looked."

"Yes, I--I suppose so," but the spinster held back.

"Do go," put in Foster gently. "A clandestine meeting is not wise
for either Kathleen or Miller. Think of the construction which may
be put upon it."

"True." But Miss Kiametia rose reluctantly, and to gain time to collect
her ideas, walked over to the table to gather up her scarf and gold mesh
purse. As she picked up the latter a slight scream escaped her. Instantly
the two men were by her side.

"See, it's missing!" she cried, raising the gold mesh purse with its
dangling vanity box.

"What is missing?" demanded Foster. "Don't look so distracted, my

"M-m-my g-gold p-p-pencil," she stuttered.

"Is that all?" and Foster smiled in relief. "I'll buy you another

"Indeed you won't," recovering some degree of composure. "I'll find
mine, if I have to search this house from the top to the bottom."

"But please see Miss Whitney first," broke in Mitchell.

Miss Kiametia cast him a strange look. "That is the first place I shall
go," she announced, and the two men watched her depart in silence. Foster
was about to speak when the electric lights flickered, grew dim, and then
went slowly out.

"Trouble in the power house," grumbled Mitchell, searching his pocket for
his electric torch. "I noticed a tie-up in the street cars just before I
came in. Can you find any candles on the mantel, sir?" flashing his torch
in that direction. "Every light in the house must be out."

* * * * *

Henry, the chauffeur, paused in indecision on Baron Frederic von Fincke's
doorstep. "You are quite certain the Baron said he would return on the
night train?"

"Quite," answered the valet. "He is due here at seven o'clock in the
morning. Good night."

"Good night," echoed Henry, and turning went swiftly down the street. He
stopped for a moment at a news stand, talked with the proprietor, and
then turned his footsteps toward the Whitneys'. As he passed the War,
State, and Navy Building the lighted windows attracted his attention.
With deepening interest he noted the location of the rooms from which the
light shone. Officials of the government were working late.

Turning, Henry sped down a side street and slipping up an alley, entered
the Whitney house by the rear entrance. He stood in deep thought outside
the kitchen door for a moment before opening it; a flash from his
electric torch showed the dark room was totally empty. Satisfied that
Rosa had gone to her bedroom, he crept softly up the back stairs and
along the front hall of the first bedroom floor. He had almost reached
Miss Kiametia Grey's bedroom door when a slight noise made him pause and
glance up the winding front stairs. He shrank farther back in the shadows
of the dark hall as a faint light appeared, outlining a white face
peering down the staircase.

Henry caught his breath sharply. How came Julie to be back in the house?
The she-devil! Spying upon him. By God! The reckoning was close at hand,
and he crawled forward a pace, then stopped. Julie had vanished, and with
her the light. Henry debated for a moment. With Julie in the house, his
plans were changed.

Losing no time, and as noiseless as the shadows about him, Henry made
his way down the back stairs, into the kitchen, down another flight of
steps into the sub-cellar, past the bottom of the elevator shaft, the
motor room, and to the front of the house. With swift, deft fingers he
swung aside a panel of shelves containing rows of preserve jars and
pickles, and stepped inside a small chamber. Carefully he drew to the
panel which, with its strong, well-oiled hinges, made no sound as it
slipped into place. A second more and the small chamber was flooded with
light as Henry found the switch. Never glancing at the batteries lining
the wall, he went direct to the small pine table, and his fingers sought
the telegraph instruments and set them in motion.

Upstairs in the library the two candles which Foster had been able to
find in the desk drawer burned brightly in their improvised candlesticks.
The flame, however, served but to intensify the darkness of the large
room. The minutes had ticked themselves away in swift succession, but
still Miss Kiametia Grey did not return. Mitchell shut his watch with an
impatient snap, and Foster, his nerves not fully under control, looked up
at the sound.

"What can be keeping Miss Grey?" he asked.

"Can't imagine, unless--" The detective never completed the sentence.

"Come quickly," whispered a voice over his shoulder, and swinging about
with a convulsive start, Mitchell recognized Charles Miller. With common
impulse he and Foster sprang up, but he was the first to reach Miller's
side, and the candlelight shone on burnished steel. "Put up the
handcuffs, Mitchell," directed Miller contemptuously. "The time has not
yet come to use them."

"I am not so sure of that," retorted Mitchell. "You are ..."

"We can argue the point later." Miller made for the door. "Both of you
come with me; but for God's sake, make no noise." His manner impressed
them, and after one second's hesitation, the detective replaced the
handcuffs, and in their stead produced a revolver.

"Go ahead," he said. "But remember, Miller, if you attempt to escape you
will be arrested."

Without replying Miller led the way through the silent house, his torch
and occasional whispered direction guiding them to the sub-cellar.

Inside the chamber under the parking of the house, Henry worked with
tireless energy, taking down the coded messages as they flashed from the
skilled fingers of the Government operators in the great War, State, and
Navy Department but a stone's throw away. Suddenly, above the click of
the sounder his abnormal sense of hearing caught a faint noise on the
other side of the closed panel. One movement of his hand and the chamber
was in darkness and the telegraph instrument stilled. Backing into a
corner, Henry waited, his eyes still blinded by the change from light to
darkness; but he heard the opening of the panel, and the soft swish of a
woman's skirts.

"Julie!" His lips formed the word, but no sound issued from him as he
launched himself forward. For a few seconds he closed with his adversary.
Backward and forward they rocked; then a shot rang out and with a sob a
figure sank limply across the pine table.

"This way!" shouted Miller, and guided by his voice Mitchell and Foster
dashed after him. They stopped just inside the chamber. Miller's torch
cast its beams across the pine table and its silent burden. A gasping cry
broke from Foster:

"Mrs. Whitney!"



"Dead!" The detective bent over Mrs. Whitney. "Shot through the heart."
He turned to his silent companions. "Who fired that revolver?" and his
own covered Miller menacingly.

Miller, spying the electric lamp, switched it on before answering. Still
silent, he pointed to the telegrapher's outfit which confronted them and
to the tell-tale wires leading to the outer world.

"The shot was fired," he said, "by the man who tunneled out to the
conduit in which are the cables running to the White House and War,
State, and Navy Building, and tapped them."

"Where is he?" Mitchell cast a bewildered look about the small chamber.

"I felt someone brush by me on the stairs in the darkness," volunteered
Foster, recovering somewhat from his stupefaction. "I fear he has got
safely away."

"No." Miller stepped back from Mrs. Whitney's side. "Chief Connor of
the Secret Service has a cordon of operatives about the house.
Heinrich Strauss, alias Henry Ross, chauffeur, cannot escape. Listen,
isn't that a shot?"

"I hope to God they've caught him alive!" exclaimed Mitchell, looking
sorrowfully at the dead woman. "He'll swing for this murder, if not for
the death of Sinclair Spencer."

"I doubt if he was guilty of that crime," said Miller quietly.

"What!" Mitchell stared incredulously at him. "What leads you to
think that?"

"Hush!" Miller held up a warning hand as the sound of hurrying footsteps
reached them. A second more and Julie appeared in the sub-cellar, guided
by their light. Her eyes were gleaming with a strange excitement.
Unnoticed by the others, Miller swiftly removed his coat and threw it
over Mrs. Whitney so that it covered her face.

"He is caught, that Henry!" called Julie, catching sight of Foster
standing in the opening of the secret chamber. "He was getting away, oh,
so softly in the dark, and I tripped him. But yes, and he
fired"--touching a red gash in her cheek. "But the others, they pounced
upon him. La--la! And they are bringing him here. But what--?" trying to
peer past Foster.

Miller stepped forward. "Crouch down behind those barrels, Julie," he
ordered, and the Frenchwoman, startled by his sudden appearance, obeyed
mechanically. By sheer force of personality Miller took command. "Go back
and wait in the telegraph room," he whispered hurriedly. "You do the
questioning, Mitchell; I'll keep out of sight here."

Before Mitchell could ask the question burning on his lips, a number of
men made their way down the staircase, Heinrich Strauss in their midst,
handcuffed to the tallest operative. Mitchell saluted as he recognized
the foremost man.

"This room will interest you, Chief," he said, making way for him, and
Connor took a comprehensive look over the chamber.

"We've found the leak," he acknowledged. "Clever work that," inspecting
the arrangement of the wires. He drew back at the sight of the covered
figure stretched across the table. "What's this--murder?"

"Yes," answered Mitchell. "Henry, here," jerking his thumb toward the
erstwhile chauffeur, "killed the woman before we could interfere."

"Did I?" demanded Heinrich. "How are you going to prove it? I wasn't in
this room ..."

"You waste time," said a cool voice behind him, and Miller stepped into
the circle. "The game is up, Heinrich."

"You renegade!" Heinrich was livid with fury.

"This man is Heinrich Strauss," continued Miller quietly. "One of the
most expert electricians and telegraph operators in Germany. He could be
described as an electrical genius."

"His work shows that," acknowledged Chief Connor.

A slight stir in the doorway caused Heinrich to turn, and he smiled
evilly at sight of Kathleen and Miss Kiametia Grey.

"I'm glad you've come," he said, addressing Kathleen directly, as she
shrank back at sight of him. "That man there," pointing to Miller, "is
Karl von Mueller, captain in the Secret Service." A low moan broke from
Kathleen, and she looked anywhere but at Miller, who had stepped forward
to stand between her and the pine table with its pathetic burden. "Von
Mueller," continued Heinrich, "killed Sinclair Spencer."

"I deny it," exclaimed Miller.

"Lies won't help," retorted Heinrich. "Miss Whitney, did you not attempt
to rub off with your handkerchief from Spencer's blood-stained shirt,
Captain von Mueller's finger print?"

The question from that source was unexpected. Twice Kathleen strove to
answer. She cast an agonized look about the circle of men, but their set,
stern faces gave her no help.

"Yes," and the monosyllable was little more than a murmur.

"Ah, take that down, Detective Mitchell," exclaimed Heinrich,
triumphantly. "And von Mueller was in the house that night--do you deny

"No." Miller's clear voice did not falter nor did his gaze, and Mitchell,
handcuffs in evidence, looked perplexedly at Chief Connor. The latter was
watching Miller like a lynx, and the Secret Service operatives closed up
in the entranceway--there was no chance to escape, handcuffs seemed

The smile that crossed Heinrich's lips was cruel. "We will swing
together, von Mueller," he said. "Turning state's evidence will not save
you, you traitor!" With an effort he controlled his rage, and spoke more
calmly, "Chief Connor, your informer last night stole Whitney's
invention; besides admitting to me that he had it, he left these
tell-tale finger prints"--his hand sought his pocket, but a quick jerk on
the handcuffs stopped him. "Take it out yourself," he snarled to the
operative next him, "inside pocket." His request was quickly complied
with. "There, that tells the story; open it."

Detective Mitchell bent eagerly forward and gazed at the sheet, then
turned to Miller.

"Let me see your hands," he directed. Obediently Miller held them palm
uppermost, and the detective and Chief Connor examined the half-moon scar
on the index finger of his right hand with minute care.

"It tallies," exclaimed Mitchell. A cry from Kathleen broke the silence.
Miller whitened as he heard it.

"The evidence is conclusive, is it not?" mocked Heinrich. "If that dead
woman could speak"--pointing to the table--"she would tell you how she
saw the crime committed."

"Suppose we take her mute testimony"--and with a swift movement Miller
removed his coat.

"Merciful God!" With eyes starting from his head Heinrich recoiled. "Mrs.
Whitney! Why didn't she let me know she was coming down here?"

"Ah, then she was in the habit of coming?"

Miller's remark remained unanswered. Heinrich stared and stared again at
Mrs. Whitney, great beads of sweat standing on his forehead. "I thought
it was Julie--that hell-cat!" he muttered. "Why, why didn't she speak,
and let me know who she was?" Then suddenly he collapsed on the one
chair in the chamber and bowed his head.

At sight of Mrs. Whitney a gasping cry escaped Kathleen. Involuntarily
her eyes strayed about the chamber, her dazed senses slowly grasping the
situation. In the appalling silence one idea became paramount--Henry, the
chauffeur, was a spy, and both his words and behavior implicated Mrs.
Whitney. She, his accomplice? Oh, impossible! She put the thought from
her, but memories, unconsidered trifles, rose to combat Kathleen's
loyalty. Had Mrs. Whitney's smilingly collected manner and dignified
reserve cloaked a cold, calculating, and treacherous nature?

Kathleen shuddered in horror, and reeled back into Miss Kiametia's arms.
The spinster, shaken out of her forced composure, was crying without
realizing it. She placed a protecting arm about Kathleen and held her in
close embrace. Over the shoulders of the men, Julie, who had crawled from
her hiding place behind the barrels, peered at them in mingled curiosity
and incredulity.

"Heinrich!" Miller's voice penetrated even the spy's benumbed brain. "Why
is Mrs. Whitney wearing these finger tips?" and he held up the limp right
hand. Each finger was fitted with a wax tip, and on the index finger,
distinct and plain, was the scar shaped like a half moon.

Stunned, the men and women present looked first at Mrs. Whitney's hand,
then at Miller, and last at Heinrich. No one spoke, and in the heavy
silence the spy's labored breathing was distinct.

"The game is up," he admitted slowly. "I wish I hadn't done that,"
nodding to the silent figure. "She didn't deserve to be shot by me. She
was faithful to Germany ..."

"Do you mean to insinuate that Minna Whitney was a German spy?" asked
Miss Kiametia, shocked into speech.

"Well, yes, you might call it that," taunted Heinrich. "I term it
loyalty to the Fatherland, where she was born and brought up. Her mother
was a German."

"She would never have aided you but for your devilish wiles," broke in
Miller hotly.

"The fact that she was deeply in debt did influence her," admitted
Heinrich insolently. "Money was her god. I had to pay handsomely before
she would engage my services as chauffeur, and let me make use of this
nice little box."

"Did you construct this tunnel under the pavement"--pointing to where the
telegraph wires entered the chamber--"and install this outfit by
yourself?" asked Chief Connor, breaking his long silence.

Heinrich smiled. "You will never learn that from me--and you should
remember that your conduits are laid only seven inches below the surface
of the street; it was hardly a man-sized job." He smiled again, and
continued. "Neither Mrs. Whitney nor I wished to take anyone wholly into
our confidence. She was a perfect assistant; she knew the antecedents of
nearly everyone in society here, and she invariably found out, or got
others to find out, the motives which inspired strangers to come to
Washington. Her husband never interfered with our plans, as he spent most
of his time, both day and night, in his studio. The servants never came
down in this sub-cellar, and with Mrs. Whitney's connivance, I frequently
managed to keep the limousine in the repair shop--and my time was my own.
My surroundings were ideal, even the location of this house favored my
plans ..."

"Until you grew too ambitious," added Connor softly.

"Perhaps." Heinrich gnawed at his underlip as he shot a glance full of
venom at Kathleen who stood with head averted, drinking in all that was
said. To hurt her, to lower her pride appealed to Heinrich; his silence
would not benefit the dead woman, while speech would cruelly hurt and
mortify both Kathleen and her father. "My government was anxious to
secure Mr. Whitney's inventions; he would not sell to them, although
Baron--" he stopped and scowled at Miller--"offered him a large sum.
Whitney stuck to it that none but his own country could have the
inventions. Then I suggested to Mrs. Whitney that she get the drawings
and specifications for me; and again I paid her a large sum of money. But
it was as difficult for Mrs. Whitney to get into the studio as for me,
and the danger to herself was not small. Her husband was very suspicious,
and he never permitted her to remain in the room alone.

"However, because she was not aware I had perfected, as I thought,
another plan to secure the invention, and tempted by the sum of money I
held before her to succeed, she made another attempt last night. She
cried out with disappointment when, after entering, she found only blank
paper, and Whitney heard her." He stared at the horrified faces about
him, and clearing his voice, added, "The shock finished Whitney."

"You are the devil incarnate!" exclaimed Miss Kiametia, wrathfully.

"I'm not, but he is." Heinrich raised his manacled hands menacingly
toward Miller. "I never fully trusted you, von Mueller; although I never
found any evidence of your double dealing in your room. But while
outwardly appearing to confide in you, I took the precaution to
incriminate you should my plans miscarry. I observed the peculiar scar on
your finger, and conceived the idea of copying your finger tips in wax.
With Mrs. Whitney's help, I secured an impression of your finger prints
and had it copied in wax. The workman, another German sympathizer,
achieved a wonderful copy of the original, and by my advice Mrs. Whitney
wore the wax finger tips whenever she had work to do."

"An ingenious plan, very," ejaculated Mitchell, "and one new to me."

"Mrs. Whitney was wearing them on the night that Sinclair Spencer took it
into his besotted brain to investigate this house," went on Heinrich.
"Mrs. Whitney told me afterwards that she was on the way here to see me,
when she spied Spencer crouching in the elevator, the door of which was
open. She was afraid of being discovered if she went upstairs again, and
to stay was equally dangerous.

"She had with her a hypodermic syringe which I had given her to use in an
emergency." Kathleen straightened up, and for the first time stared full
at the spy. "The syringe was filled with a solution of cyanide of
potassium," continued Henry. "Adjusting the needle, Mrs. Whitney entered
the elevator, and before Spencer could move, thrust it into his neck.
Spencer gave one convulsive start, attempted to get up, and his heavy
body lurched full against her. She held a knife in her left hand, and as
he half arose from his knees, the force of contact against the worn edges
of the knife gashed his throat. I had asked Mrs. Whitney to bring me one
of the knives which her daughter had for modeling, as I wanted to use
some putty down here.

"With great presence of mind," continued Heinrich, after a brief pause
which no one cared to break, "Mrs. Whitney ran the elevator to the
attic, and before leaving dipped her wax finger tip in the blood flowing
from Spencer's throat, and made a distinct impression of von Mueller's
finger print on Spencer's white shirt front. Mrs. Whitney left the
elevator at the attic, but Detective Mitchell arrived before she missed
the syringe. On discovering Miss Grey had it, she made various attempts
to get it back.

"I found the hypodermic syringe," confessed Miss Kiametia. "It was lying
inside the elevator, and I picked it up just after Kathleen was carried
from the elevator. The syringe was marked 'K.W.,' and some impulse made
me keep it, and after the inquest, when I learned cyanide of potassium
had killed Spencer, I hardly let it out of my sight"--Kathleen turned
bewildered, grateful eyes on the spinster--she was not a drug-fiend, but
the most loyal of friends. Her hand tightened on the spinster's, and her
pressure was returned twofold. "Did Kathleen's unnatural mother
deliberately have that syringe marked with her daughter's initials?"

"Put it down to coincidence," sneered Heinrich. "Or say I had it marked
'K.W.' for--Kaiser Wilhelm."

"I doubt it; malice alone governed your actions to all in my house."
Kathleen faced the spy proudly. "Miss Kiametia, you do Mrs. Whitney one
injustice. She was not an unnatural mother--as she was no blood kin of
mine, but my father's second wife. She never told anyone that I was not
her child. I don't know why she kept the matter a secret, but I only
learned it accidentally a year ago, and respecting her wishes, never said
anything about it."

"Mrs. Whitney was secretive by nature," said Heinrich. "And that instinct
made her a willing pawn."



Pausing only long enough to say a parting word to Coroner Penfield and
Chief Connor, Miller hastened up the back stairs and entered the library.
Kathleen and Miss Kiametia Grey, utterly unmindful of the hour, sat on
the sofa, and near them stood Julie, a neat bandage wound about her cheek
and head, while Senator Foster paced agitatedly up and down the room. He
stopped on seeing Miller.

"Will you kindly inform us who you are?" he demanded peremptorily. "The
Secretary of State showed me a letter tonight from Vincent stating that
you were a German spy ..."

"Oh, that Vincent!" exclaimed Julie. "I talked too much to him."

"I came here at once," went on Foster, paying no attention to Julie,
"hoping to elicit some facts about you from Miss Grey and Miss Kathleen.
Tell us at once who you are."

"Charles Miller Trent," was the calm reply.

"Then why"--Kathleen sprang to her feet--"why were you masquerading as
Karl von Mueller when I knew you in Germany?"

"I beg your pardon, you did not know me in Germany." Kathleen
crimsoned at the direct contradiction. "But you did know my cousin,
Karl von Mueller."

Too dazed for utterance, Kathleen stared at him, studying his face as
never before, and gradually her incredulity gave place to belief. Feature
for feature, coloring matching coloring, the man before her resembled
Karl as she remembered him, but the honesty and steadfast purpose to be
read in Miller's square jaw and fine eyes had been lacking in his cousin.

"The likeness is extraordinary," she stammered.

"Yes," agreed Miller. "But I do not think you would have been so
thoroughly certain of my identity if I had not copied my cousin's
mannerisms as well as his handwriting."

"Then you were brought up together?" asked Foster.

"In a way, yes. I was never in Germany, but my aunt, Frau von Mueller,
spent many winters at my father's home in Rio Janeiro...."

"What, are you the son of the coffee importer, Charles M. Trent,"
demanded Foster, again interrupting him.

"Yes. As boys Karl and I were perpetually changing identities and
confusing our playmates, as well as our parents. To that end I was a
willing German scholar, and Karl also became proficient in his
English studies."

"Were you entirely educated in South America?" asked Miss Kiametia.

"Oh, no; I spent a great deal of time in Santa Barbara, my mother's home,
and later attended Stanford University. But I have seldom been in the
East, and have few friends here. Last fall I overcame my mother's
objection (she unfortunately sympathized with Germany), and went to
England to enlist in the British army," continued Miller, after a brief
pause. "The night of my arrival in London I was arrested, charged with
being a spy. I had great difficulty, even with my passport and letters to
my bankers, in proving I was not a spy. Finally, I was told that a man
resembling me had been arrested, tried at once, and executed that day."

"They keep such things quiet over there," commented Foster.

"To cut a long story short, I was taken to see the dead spy, and found
he was my cousin, Karl von Mueller"--He hesitated and glanced sorrowfully
at Kathleen who sat with head averted. How would she take the news he was
imparting--how deep was her affection for the dead spy? Sighing, he
continued his statement. "The indorsement of my father's influential
friends, whom I had called upon to establish my identity, evidently
carried weight, for on my release it was suggested to me by one high in
authority that, instead of enlisting in the army, I use my cousin's
identity and spy upon the Germans. There was a spice of deviltry in the
scheme and--I accepted.

"They gave me his papers, clothes, money, and I slipped straight into his
place. None of his companions had heard of his arrest and death. Those
whom I saw I told I had been out of London on a special mission, and they
believed the statement without question. By aid of such papers as my
cousin had kept concealed on his person, I learned something of his
methods, and contact with his companions in London taught me assurance.
No one doubted my identity. Karl had assumed the name of Charles Miller
and it was easy for me to drop my surname. Finally I was sent to a
certain town in the warring countries, and there I received instructions
to come to the United States."

"Did the Germans accept your identity without question?" asked Foster.

"Apparently so; but I was not in Germany twenty-four hours, and the Herr
Chief of the Secret Service was familiar with my cousin's appearance and
never doubted he was talking to Karl," answered Miller. "On my arrival
here I communicated at once with Chief Connor, giving him the credentials
I had brought from the London office. By his advice I followed out the
instructions given me by the Herr Chief of the German Secret Service, and
to all intents and purposes was a German spy. But as I grew to know Baron
von Fincke better, I became convinced that another and cleverer man was
responsible for the leak in the carefully guarded offices of this
government. I suspected everyone," Miller smiled suddenly, "even you,
Senator Foster--your peace propaganda fooled me...."

"Wait," broke in Miss Kiametia. "Randall shan't be blamed for that;
Minna Whitney insinuated that he would not make a peace speech even for
me, so I--I...."

"Proved her wrong," Foster laughed ruefully. "Mrs. Whitney was a keen
student of human nature; but continue, Miller--er--Trent--I won't
interrupt again."

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