by Unknown
“A lady—she ran away, sir,” the girl went on, in blank surprise.
“What lady?” demanded Mr. Grimm coldly. “Where did she run from? Why did she run?” The maid stared at him with mouth agape. “Begin at the beginning.”
“I was in that room, farther down the hall, sir,” the maid explained. “The door was open. I heard the shot, and it frightened me so—I don’t know—I was afraid to look out right away, sir. Then, an instant later, a lady come running along the hall, sir—that way,” and she indicated the rear of the house. “Then I came to the door and looked out to see who it was, and what was the matter, sir. I was standing there when a man—a man came along after the lady, and banged the door in my face, sir. The door had a spring lock, and I was so—so frightened and excited I couldn’t open it right away, sir, and—and when I did I came here to see what was the matter.” She drew a deep breath and stopped.
“That all?” demanded Mr. Grimm.
“Yes, sir, except—except the lady had a pistol in her hand, sir—”
Mr. Grimm regarded her in silence for a moment.
“Who was the lady?” he asked at last.
“I forget her name, sir. She was the lady who—who fainted in the ball-room, sir, just a few minutes ago.”
Whatever emotion may have been aroused within Mr. Grimm it certainly found no expression in his face. When he spoke again his voice was quite calm.
“Miss Thorne, perhaps?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the name—Miss Thorne. I was in the ladies’ dressing-room when she was brought in, sir, and I remember some one called her name.”
Mr. Grimm took the girl, still a-quiver with excitement, and led her along the hall to where Gray stood.
“Take this girl in charge, Gray,” he directed. “Lock her up, if necessary. Don’t permit her to say one word to anybody—_anybody_ you understand, except the chief.”
Mr. Grimm left them there. He passed along the hall, glancing in each room as he went, until he came to a short flight of stairs leading toward the kitchen. He went on down silently. The lights were burning, but the place was still, deserted. All the servants who belonged there were evidently, for the moment, transferred to other posts. He passed on through the kitchen and out the back door into the street.
A little distance away, leaning against a lamp-post, a man was standing. He might have been waiting for a car. Mr. Grimm approached him.
“Beg pardon,” he said, “did you see a woman come out of the back door, there?”
“Yes, just a moment or so ago,” replied the stranger. “She got into an automobile at the corner. I imagine this is hers,” and he extended a handkerchief, a dainty, perfumed trifle of lace. “I picked it up immediately after she passed.”
Mr. Grimm took the handkerchief and examined it under the light. For a time he was thoughtful, with lowered eyes, which, finally raised, met those of the stranger with a scrutinizing stare.
“Why,” asked Mr. Grimm slowly and distinctly, “why did you slam the door in the girl’s face?”
“Why did I—what?” came the answering question.
“Why did you slam the door in the girl’s face?” Mr. Grimm repeated slowly.
The stranger stared in utter amazement—an amazement so frank, so unacted, so genuine, that Mr. Grimm was satisfied.
“Did you see a man come out the door?” Mr. Grimm pursued.
“No. Say, young fellow, I guess you’ve had a little too much to drink, haven’t you?”
But by that time Mr. Grimm was turning the corner.
V
A VISIT TO THE COUNT
The bland serenity of Mr. Campbell’s face was disturbed by thin, spidery lines of perplexity, and the guileless blue eyes were vacant as he stared at the top of his desk. Mr. Grimm was talking.
“From the moment Miss Thorne turned the corner I lost all trace of her,” he said. “Either she had an automobile in waiting, or else she was lucky enough to find one immediately she came out. She did not return to the embassy ball last night—that much is certain.” He paused reflectively. “She is a guest of Senorita Inez Rodriguez at the Venezuelan legation,” he added.
“Yes, I know,” his chief nodded.
“I didn’t attempt to see her there last night for two reasons,” Mr. Grimm continued. “First, she can have no possible knowledge of the fact that she is suspected, unless perhaps the man who slammed the door—” He paused. “Anyway, she will not attempt to leave Washington; I am confident of that. Again, it didn’t seem wise to me to employ the ordinary crude police methods in the case—that is, go to the Venezuelan legation and kick up a row.”
For a long time Campbell was silent; the perplexed lines still furrowed his benevolent forehead.
“The president is very anxious that we get to facts in this reported Latin alliance as soon as possible,” he said at last, irrelevantly. “He mentioned the matter last night, and he has been keeping in constant communication with Gault, in Lisbon, who, however, has not been able to add materially to the original despatch. Under all the circumstances don’t you think it would be best for me to relieve you of the investigation of this shooting affair so that you can concentrate on this greater and more important thing?”
“Will Senor Alvarez die?” asked Mr. Grimm in turn.
“His condition is serious, although the wound is not necessarily fatal,” was the reply.
Mr. Grimm arose, stretched his long legs and stood for a little while gazing out the window. Finally he turned to his chief:
“What do we know, here in the bureau, about Miss Thorne?”
“Thus far the reports on her are of the usual perfunctory nature,” Mr. Campbell explained. He drew a card from a pigeonhole of his desk and glanced at it. “She arrived in Washington two weeks and two days ago from New York, off the Lusitania, from Liverpool. She brought some sort of an introduction to Count di Rosini, the Italian ambassador, and he obtained for her a special invitation to the state ball, which was held that night. Until four days ago she was a guest at the Italian embassy, but now, as you know, is a guest at the Venezuelan legation. Since her arrival here she has been prominently pushed forward into society; she has gone everywhere, and been received everywhere in the diplomatic set. We have no knowledge of her beyond this.”
There was a question in Mr. Grimm’s listless eyes as they met those of his chief. The same line of thought was running in both their minds, born, perhaps, of the association of ideas—Italy as one of three great nations known to be in the Latin compact; Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi, of Italy, the secret envoy of three countries; the sudden appearance of Miss Thorne at the Italian embassy. And in the mind of the younger man there was more than this—a definite knowledge of a message cunningly transmitted to Mr. Rankin, of the German embassy, by Miss Thorne there in the ball-room.
“Can you imagine—” he asked slowly, “can you imagine a person who would be of more value to the Latin governments in Washington right at this stage of the negotiations than a brilliant woman agent?”
“I most certainly can not,” was the chief’s unhesitating response.
“In that case I don’t think it would be wise to transfer the investigation of the shooting affair to another man,” said Mr. Grimm emphatically, reverting to his chief’s question. “I think, on the contrary, we should find out more about Miss Thorne.”
“Precisely,” Campbell agreed.
“Ask all the great capitals about her—Madrid, Paris and Rome, particularly; then, perhaps, London and Berlin and St. Petersburg.”
Mr. Campbell thoughtfully scribbled the names of the cities on a slip of paper.
“Do you intend to arrest Miss Thorne for the shooting?” he queried.
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimm frankly. “I don’t know,” he repeated musingly. “If I do arrest her immediately I may cut off a clue which will lead to the other affair. I don’t know,” he concluded.
“Use your own judgment, and bear in mind that a man—_a man_ slammed
the door in the maid’s face.”
“I shall not forget him,” Mr. Grimm answered. “Now I’m going over to talk to Count di Rosini for a while.”
The young man went out, thoughtfully tugging at his gloves. The Italian ambassador received him with an inquiring uplift of his dark brows.
“I came to make some inquiries in regard to Miss Thorne—Miss Isabel Thorne,” Mr. Grimm informed him frankly.
The count was surprised, but it didn’t appear in his face.
“As I understand it,” the young man pursued, “you are sponsor for her in Washington?”
The count, evasively diplomatic, born and bred in a school of caution, considered the question from every standpoint.
“It may be that I am so regarded,” he admitted at last.
“May I inquire if the sponsorship is official, personal, social, or all three?” Mr. Grimm continued.
There was silence for a long time.
“I don’t see the trend of your questioning,” said the ambassador finally. “Miss Thorne is worthy of my protection in every way.”
“Let’s suppose a case,” suggested Mr. Grimm blandly. “Suppose Miss Thorne had—had, let us say, shot a man, and he was about to die, would you feel justified in withdrawing that—that protection, as you call it?”
“Such a thing is preposterous!” exclaimed the ambassador. “The utter absurdity of such a charge would impel me to offer her every assistance.”
Mr. Grimm nodded.
“And if it were proved to your satisfaction that she did shoot him?” he went on evenly.
The count’s lips were drawn together in a straight line.
“Whom, may I ask,” he inquired frigidly, “are we supposing that Miss Thorne shot?”
“No one, particularly,” Mr. Grimm assured him easily. “Just suppose that she had shot anybody—me, say, or Senor Alvarez?”
“I can’t answer a question so ridiculous as that.”
“And suppose we go a little further,” Mr. Grimm insisted pleasantly, “and assume that you knew she had shot some one, say Senor Alvarez, and you could protect her from the consequences, would you?”
“I decline to suppose anything so utterly absurd,” was the rejoinder.
Mr. Grimm sat with his elbows on his knees, idly twisting a seal ring on his little finger. The searching eyes of the ambassador found his face blankly inscrutable.
“Diplomatic representatives in Washington have certain obligations to this government,” the young man reminded him. “We—that is, the government of the United States—undertake to guarantee the personal safety of every accredited representative; in return for that protection we must insist upon the name and identity of a dangerous person who may be known to any foreign representative. Understand, please, I’m not asserting that Miss Thorne is a dangerous person. You are sponsor for her here. Is she, in every way, worthy of your protection?”
“Yes,” said the ambassador flatly.
“I can take it, then, that the introduction she brought to you is from a person whose position is high enough to insure Miss Thorne’s position?”
“That is correct.”
“Very well!”
And Mr. Grimm went away.
VI
REVELATIONS
Some vague, indefinable shadow darkened Miss Thorne’s clear, blue-gray eyes, in sharp contrast to the glow of radiant health in her cheeks, as she stepped from an automobile in front of the Venezuelan legation, and ran lightly up the steps. A liveried servant opened the door.
“A gentleman is waiting for you, Madam,” he announced. “His card is here on the—”
“I was expecting him,” she interrupted.
“Which room, please?”
“The blue room, Madam.”
Miss Thorne passed along the hallway which led to a suite of small drawing-rooms opening on a garden in the rear, pushed aside the portieres, and entered.
“I’m sorry I’ve kept you—” she began, and then, in a tone of surprise: “I beg your pardon.”
A gentleman rose and bowed gravely.
“I am Mr. Grimm of the Secret Service,” he informed her with frank courtesy. “I am afraid you were expecting some one else; I handed my card to the footman.”
For an instant the blue-gray eyes opened wide in astonishment, and then some quick, subtle change swept over Miss Thorne’s face. She smiled graciously and motioned him to a seat.
“This is quite a different meeting from the one Senorita Rodriguez had planned, isn’t it?” she asked.
There was a taunting curve on her scarlet lips; the shadow passed from her eyes; her slim, white hands lay idle in her lap. Mr. Grimm regarded her reflectively. There was a determination of steel back of this charming exterior; there was an indomitable will, a keen brain, and all of a woman’s intuition to reckon with. She was silent, with a questioning upward slant of her arched brows.
“I am not mistaken in assuming that you are a secret agent of the Italian government, am I?” he queried finally.
“No,” she responded readily.
“In that event I may speak with perfect frankness?” he went on. “It would be as useless as it would be absurd to approach the matter in any other manner?” It was a question.
Miss Thorne was still smiling, but again the vague, indefinable shadow, momentarily lifted, darkened her eyes.
“You may be frank, of course,” she said pleasantly. “Please go on.”
“Senor Alvarez was shot at the German Embassy Ball last night,” Mr. Grimm told her.
Miss Thorne nodded, as if in wonder.
“Did you, or did you not, shoot him?”
It was quite casual. She received the question without change of countenance, but involuntarily she caught her breath. It might have been a sigh of relief.
“Why do you come to me with such a query?” she asked in turn.
“I beg your pardon,” interposed Mr. Grimm steadily. “Did you, or did you not, shoot him?”
“No, of course I didn’t shoot him,” was the reply. If there was any emotion in the tone it was merely impatience. “Why do you come to me?” she repeated.
“Why do I come to you?” Mr. Grimm echoed the question, while his listless eyes rested on her face. “I will be absolutely frank, as I feel sure you would be under the same circumstances.” He paused a moment; she nodded. “Well, immediately after the shooting you ran along the hallway with a revolver in your hand; you ran down the steps into the kitchen, and out through the back door, where you entered an automobile. That is not conjecture; it is susceptible of proof by eye witnesses.”
Miss Thorne rose suddenly with a queer, helpless little gesture of her arms, and walked to the window. She stood there for a long time with her hands clasped behind her back.
“That brings us to another question,” Mr. Grimm continued mercilessly. “If you did not shoot Senor Alvarez, do you know who did?”
There was another long pause.
“I want to believe you, Miss Thorne,” he supplemented.
She turned quickly with something of defiance in her attitude.
“Yes, I know,” she said slowly. “It were useless to deny it.”
“Who was it?”
“I won’t tell you.”
Mr. Grimm leaned forward in his chair, and spoke earnestly.
“Understand, please, that by that answer you assume equal guilt with the person who actually did the shooting,” he explained. “If you adhere to it you compel me to regard you as an accomplice.” His questioning took a different line.
“Will you explain how the revolver came into your possession?”
“Oh, I—I picked it up in the hallway there,” she replied vaguely.
“I want to believe you, Miss Thorne,” Mr. Grimm said again.
“You may. I picked it up in the hallway,” she repeated. “I saw it lying there and picked it up.”
“Why that, instead of giving an alarm?”
“No alarm was necessary. The shot itsel
f was an alarm.”
“Then why,” Mr. Grimm persisted coldly, “did you run along the hallway and escape by way of the kitchen? If you did not do the shooting, why the necessity of escape, carrying the revolver?”
There was that in the blue-gray eyes which brought Mr. Grimm to his feet. His hands gripped each other cruelly; his tone was calm as always.
“Why did you take the revolver?” he asked.
Miss Thorne’s head drooped forward a little, and she was silent.
“There are only two possibilities, of course,” he went on. “First, that you, in spite of your denial, did the shooting.”
“I did not!” The words fairly burst from her tightly closed lips.
“Or that you knew the revolver, and took it to save the person, man or woman, who fired the shot. I will assume, for the moment, that this is correct. Where is the revolver?”
From the adjoining room there came a slight noise, a faint breath of sound; or it might have been only an echo of silence. Their eyes were fixed each upon the others unwaveringly, with not a flicker to indicate that either had heard. After a moment Miss Thorne returned to her chair and sat down.
“It’s rather a singular situation, isn’t it, Mr. Grimm?” she inquired irrelevantly. “You, Mr. Grimm of the Secret Service of the United States; I, Isabel Thorne, a secret agent of Italy together here, one accusing the other of a crime, and perhaps with good reason.”
“Where is the revolver?” Mr. Grimm insisted.
“If you were any one else but you! I could not afford to be frank with you and—”
“If you had been any one else but you I should have placed you under arrest when I entered the room.”
She smiled, and inclined her head.
“I understand,” she said pleasantly. “For the reason that you are Mr. Grimm of the Secret Service I shall tell you the truth. I did take the revolver because I knew who had fired the shot. Believe me when I tell you that that person did not act with my knowledge or consent. You do believe that? You do?” She was pleading, eager to convince him.
After a while Mr. Grimm nodded.
“The revolver is beyond your reach and shall remain so,” she resumed. “According to your laws I suppose I am an accomplice. That is my misfortune. It will in no way alter my determination to keep silent. If I am arrested I can’t help it.” She studied his face with hopeful eyes. “Am I to be arrested?”