Harleston faced about and surveyed the entire room. Then not content with surveying, he deliberately walked through it, and satisfied himself that Mrs. Clephane was not there--nor Madeline Spencer, nor her bald-headed companion.

He took a turn up and down the corridor, and up and down again. They were not there.

He even walked through the dining-rooms.

Nothing!

"Hum!" said he, at length--and returned to the red-room, and to his chair. It was quite possible that Mrs. Clephane would be back in a moment--yet somehow he doubted.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, and she did not come. He made another tour of Peac.o.c.k Alley, the lobby, the dining-rooms, and back to the red-room.

Nothing!

He looked at his watch--it was half-after-seven o'clock. He would wait fifteen minutes longer. Then, if she had not come, he would go about his business--which, at present, was to dine.

He sat with his watch in his hand, looking down the room and at those who entered.

The fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. He put up his watch and arose; the wait was ended.

He crossed the corridor to the dining-room.

"The table in yonder corner, Philippe," he said, to the bowing head-waiter.

"One, Monsieur Harleston?" the man replied; and himself escorted him over and placed him, and took his order for dinner. From which facts it can be inferred that Harleston was something of a personage at the big caravansary.

The clams had just been placed before him, and he was dipping the first one in the c.o.c.ktail, when Madeline Spencer and the bald-headed man entered and pa.s.sed to a table--reserved for them--at the far side of the room. Harleston knew that she saw him, though apparently she had not glanced his way. Here was another move in the game; but what the game, and what the immediate object?

His waiter whisked away the clam c.o.c.ktail and put down the clear turtle.

As Harleston took up his spoon, a page spoke a word to Philippe, who motioned him to Harleston's corner. The next instant the boy was there, a letter on the extended salver--then he faded away.

Harleston put aside the letter until he had finished his soup; then he picked it up and turned it over. It was a hotel envelope, and addressed simply: "Mr. Harleston," in a woman's handwriting--full and free, and, unusual to relate, quite legible. He ran his knife under the flap and drew out the letter. It was in the same hand that wrote the address.

"DEAR MR. HARLESTON:

"I've just seen someone whom I wish to avoid, so won't you be good enough to dine with me in my apartment. It's No. 972, and cosy and quiet--and please come at once. I'm waiting for you--with an explanation for my disappearance.

"EDITH CLEPHANE."

"Hum!" said Harleston, and drummed thoughtfully on the table. Then he arose, said a word to Philippe as he pa.s.sed, and went out to the elevator.

He got off at the ninth floor and walked down the corridor to No. 972.

It was a corner and overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street. He tapped lightly on the door; almost immediately it was opened by a maid--a very pretty maid, he noticed--who, without waiting for him to speak, addressed him as Monsieur Harleston and told him that Madame was expecting him.

Harleston handed the maid his hat, stick, and gloves, and crossed the private hall into the drawing-room.

As he pa.s.sed the doorway, a heavy silk handkerchief was flung around his neck from behind, and instantly tightened over his larynx; at the same time his arms were pinioned to his side. He could neither make a sound nor raise a hand. He was being garroted. At his first struggle the garrote was twisted; it was be quiet or be strangled. And, queer as it may seem, his first thought was of the garroters of India and the instant helplessness of their victims. In fact, so immediate was his helplessness, that it sapped all will to be otherwise than quiescent.

"Two can play at this game, Mr. Harleston," said a familiar voice, and Crenshaw stepped out in front. "I'm in a better humour now, and more my natural self; I was somewhat peeved in the Collingwood--due to late hours, I think. By the way, it isn't an especially pleasant game for the fellow who is it, Mr. Harleston? I'll take your answer for granted--or we'll let my distinguished colleague answer for you--you know Mr.

Sparrow, sir?" as the man with the garrote put his head over Harleston's shoulder. "Answer for Mr. Harleston will you, Sparrow?"

"No, it is not, Mr. Crenshaw," said Sparrow.

"I neglected to ask if you're not surprised to see me, Mr. Harleston?"

"I am indeed," said Sparrow.

"I regret that it was inconvenient for me to remain longer in your apartment, Mr. Harleston--and so I exchanged places with your detective," Crenshaw explained.

"I'm quite content, Mr. Crenshaw," Sparrow replied.

"Yes, certainly, and thank you, Mr. Harleston," Crenshaw smiled. "And now, with your permission, sir, we shall inspect the contents of your pockets, to the end that we may find a certain letter that you wot of--also ourselves."

After the first warning twist, the garrote had been relaxed just enough to permit Harleston breath sufficient for life, yet not sufficient for an outcry; moreover, he knew that at the first murmur of a yell the wrist behind him would turn and he would be throttled into unconsciousness.

There was nothing to do but be quiet and as complaisant as his captors wished, and await developments. And the irony of such a situation--happening in the most crowded and most popular hotel in the Capital, with hundreds of guests at hand, and scores of servants poised to obey one's slightest nod--struck him with all the force of its supreme absurdity. It was but another proof of the proposition that one is never so alone as in the midst of a throng.

He smiled--somewhat chillily, it must be admitted--and whispered, his speaking voice being shut off by the garrote.

"The quicker you look, the sooner I shall, I hope, be released from this rather uncomfortable position."

"Good eye!" said Crenshaw. "You're a reasonable man, Mr. Harleston, it's a pleasure to do business with you."

"Proceed!" Harleston whispered. "I haven't the letter with me, as you should know. Do I look so much like a novice? Furthermore, if I am not mistaken, I told you that I was going direct to the State Department to deliver the letter for translation so how could I have it now?"

"We're not debating, we're searching," Crenshaw sneered; "though it may occur to you that a copy is as easy of translation as the original.

However, we will proceed with the inspection--the proof of the caviare is in the roe of the sturgeon."

"Then I pray you open the fish at once," said Harleston. "I can't a.s.sist you in my present att.i.tude, so get along, Mr. Crenshaw, if you please.

You interrupted my dinner--I was just at the soup; and you may believe me when I say that I'm a bit hungry."

"With your permission," Crenshaw replied, proceeding to go through Harleston's pockets, and finding nothing but the usual--which he replaced.

He came last to the breast-pocket of the coat; in it were the wallet and one letter--the letter that had brought Harleston here.

"It caught you!" Crenshaw smiled. "There's no bait like a pretty woman!"

Harleston raised his eyebrows and shrugged his answer.

"And a rather neat trap, wasn't it--we're very much pleased with it."

"You'll not be pleased with what it produces," Harleston smiled.

"It has produced you," the other mocked; "that's quite some production, don't you think? And now, as this letter has served its purpose, I'll take the liberty of destroying it," tearing it into bits and putting the bits in his pockets, "lest one of us be liable for forgery. Now for the pocket-book; you found something in mine, you may remember, Mr.

Harleston."

Harleston gave a faint chuckle. They would find nothing in his pocket-book but some visiting and membership cards, a couple of addresses and a few yellow-backs and silver certificates.