Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle by Unknown (good short books .TXT) 📗

He produced it silently, crest down, and handed it to her. She struck a match, lighted the card, and it crumbled up in her gloved hand. The last tiny scrap found refuge in a silver tray, where she watched it burn to ashes, then she turned to the ambassador with a brilliant smile. He was still standing.

“The dinner isn’t over yet?” she inquired.

“No, Madam, not for another hour, perhaps.”

“Then there’s no harm done,” she went on lightly. “The dinner isn’t of any consequence, but I should like very much to attend the ball afterward. Can you arrange it for me?”

“I don’t know just how I would proceed, Madam,” the ambassador objected diffidently. “It would be rather unusual, difficult, I may say, and—”

“But surely you can arrange it some way?” she interrupted demurely. “The highest diplomatic representative of a great nation should not find it difficult to arrange so simple a matter as—as this?” She was smiling.

“Pardon me for suggesting it, Madam,” the ambassador persisted courteously, “but anything out of the usual attracts attention in Washington. I dare say, from the manner of your appearance to-night, that you would not care to attract attention to yourself.”

She regarded him with an enigmatic smile.

“I’m afraid you don’t know women, Count,” she said slowly, at last. “There’s nothing dearer to a woman’s heart than to attract attention to herself.” She laughed—a throaty, silvery note that was charming. “And if you hesitate now, then to-morrow—why, to-morrow I am going to ask that you open to me all this Washington world—this brilliant world of diplomatic society. You see what I ask now is simple.”

The ambassador was respectfully silent and deeply thoughtful for a time. There was, perhaps, something of resentment struggling within him, and certainly there was an uneasy feeling of rebellion at this attempt to thrust him forward against all precedent.

“Your requests are of so extraordinary a nature that—” he began in courteous protestation.

There was no trace of impatience in the woman’s manner; she was still smiling.

“It is necessary that I attend the ball to-night,” she explained, “you may imagine how necessary when I say I sailed from Liverpool six days ago, reaching New York at half-past three o’clock this afternoon; and at half-past four I was on my way here. I have been here less than one hour. I came from Liverpool especially that I might be present; and I even dressed on the train so there would be no delay. Now do you see the necessity of it?”

Diplomatic procedure is along well-oiled grooves, and the diplomatist who steps out of the rut for an instant happens upon strange and unexpected obstacles. Knowing this, the ambassador still hesitated. The woman apparently understood.

“I had hoped that this would not be necessary,” she remarked, and she produced a small, sealed envelope. “Please read it.”

The ambassador received the envelope with uplifted brows, opened it and read what was written on a folded sheet of paper. Some subtle working of his brain brought a sudden change in the expression of his face. There was wonder in it, and amazement, and more than these. Again he bowed low.

“I am at your service, Madam,” he repeated. “I shall take pleasure in making any arrangements that are necessary. Again, I beg your pardon.”

“And it will not be so very difficult, after all, will it?” she inquired, and she smiled tauntingly.

“It will not be at all difficult, Madam,” the ambassador assured her gravely. “I shall take steps at once to have an invitation issued to you for to-night; and to-morrow I shall be pleased to proceed as you may suggest.”

She nodded. He folded the note, replaced it in the envelope and returned it to her with another deep bow. She drew her skirts about her and sat down; he stood.

“It will be necessary for your name to appear on the invitation,” the ambassador went on to explain. “If you will give me your name I’ll have my secretary—”

“Oh, yes, my name,” she interrupted gaily. “Why, Count, you embarrass me. You know, really, I have no name. Isn’t it awkward?”

“I understand perfectly, Madam,” responded the count. “I should have said a name.”

She meditated a moment.

“Well, say—Miss Thorne—Miss Isabel Thorne,” she suggested at last. “That will do very nicely, don’t you think?”

“Very nicely, Miss Thorne,” and the ambassador bowed again. “Please excuse me a moment, and I’ll give my secretary instructions how to proceed. There will be a delay of a few minutes.”

He opened the door and went out. For a minute or more Miss Thorne sat perfectly still, gazing at the blank wooden panels, then she rose and went to the window again. In the distance, hazy in the soft night, the dome of the capitol rose mistily; over to the right was the congressional library, and out there where the lights sparkled lay Pennsylvania Avenue, a thread of commerce. Miss Thorne saw it all, and suddenly stretched out her arms with an all-enveloping gesture. She stood so for a minute, then they fell beside her, and she was motionless.

Count di Rosini entered.

“Everything is arranged, Miss Thorne,” he announced. “Will you go with me in my automobile, or do you prefer to go alone?”

“I’ll go alone, please,” she answered after a moment. “I shall be there about eleven.”

The ambassador bowed himself out.

And so Miss Isabel Thorne came to Washington!

II

MR. CAMPBELL AND THE CABLE

Just as it is one man’s business to manufacture watches, and another man’s business to peddle shoe-strings, so it was Mr. Campbell’s business to know things. He was a human card index, a governmental ready reference posted to the minute and backed by all the tremendous resources of a nation. From the little office in the Secret Service Bureau, where he sat day after day, radiating threads connected with the huge outer world, and enabled him to keep a firm hand on the diplomatic and departmental pulse of Washington. Perhaps he came nearer knowing everything that happened there than any other man living; and no man realized