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.
Chapter XXI.
The Finger Print
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 disdainfully.
“All 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 attentions?”
“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 M
iller. 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.
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