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

“It seems, Miss Thorne,” he said at length, casually, quite casually, “that our paths of duty are inextricably tangled. Twice previously we have met under circumstances that were more than strange, and now—this! Whatever injustice I may have done you in the past by my suspicions has, I hope, been forgiven; and in each instance we were able to work side by side toward a conclusion. I am wondering now if this singular affair will take a similar course.”

He paused. Miss Thorne started to speak, but he silenced her with a slight gesture of his hand.

“It is only fair to you to say that we—that is, the Secret Service—have learned many things about you,” he resumed in the same casual tone. “We have, through our foreign agents, traced you step by step from Rome to Washington. We know that you are, in a way, a representative of a sovereign of Europe; we know that you were on a secret mission to the Spanish court, perhaps for this sovereign, and remained in Madrid for a month; we know that from there you went to Paris, also on a secret mission—perhaps the same—and remained there for three weeks; we know that you met diplomatic agents of those governments later in London. We know all this; we know the manner of your coming to this country; of your coming to Washington. But we don’t know why you are here.”

Again she started to speak, and again he stopped her.

“We don’t know your name, but that is of no consequence. We do know that in Spain you were Senora Cassavant, in Paris Mademoiselle d’Aubinon, in London Miss Jane Kellog, and here Miss Isabel Thorne. We realize that exigencies arise in your calling, and mine, which make changes of name desirable, necessary even, and there is no criticism of that. Now as the representative of your government—rather a government—you have a right to be here, although unaccredited; you have a right to remain here as long as your acts are consistent with our laws; you have a right to your secrets as long as they do not, directly or indirectly, threaten the welfare of this country. Now, why are you here?”

He received no answer; he expected none. After a moment he went on:

“Admitting that you are a secret agent of Italy, admitting everything that you claim to be, you haven’t convinced me that you are not the person who came here for the letters and cigarettes. You have said nothing to prove to my satisfaction that you are not the individual I was waiting for to-night.”

“You don’t mean that you suspect—?” she began in a tone of amazement.

“I don’t mean that I suspect anything,” he interposed. “I mean merely that you haven’t convinced me. There’s nothing inconsistent in the fact that you are what you say you are, and that in spite of that, you came to-night for—”

He was interrupted by a laugh, a throaty, silvery note that he remembered well. His idle hands closed spasmodically, only to be instantly relaxed.

“Suppose, Mr. Grimm, I should tell you that immediately after Madame Boissegur placed the matter in my hands this afternoon I went straight to your office to show this letter to you and to ask your assistance?” she inquired. “Suppose that I left my card for you with a clerk there on being informed that you were out—remember I knew you were on the case from Madame Boissegur—would that indicate anything except that I wanted to put the matter squarely before you, and work with you?”

“We will suppose that much,” Mr. Grimm agreed.

“That is a statement of fact,” Miss Thorne added. “My card, which you will find at your office, will show that. And when I left your office I went to the hotel where you live, with the same purpose. You were not there, and I left a card for you. And that is a statement of fact. It was not difficult, owing to the extraordinary circumstances, to imagine that you would be here to-night—just as you are—and I came here. My purpose, still, was to inform you of what I knew, and work with you. Does that convince you?”

“And how did you enter the embassy?” Mr. Grimm persisted.

“Not with a latch-key, as you did,” she replied. “Madame Boissegur, at my suggestion, left the French window in the hall there unfastened, and I came in that way—the way, I may add, that Monsieur l’Ambassadeur went out when he disappeared.”

“Very well!” commented Mr. Grimm, and finally: “I think, perhaps, I owe you an apology, Miss Thorne—another one. The circumstances now, as they were at our previous meetings, are so unusual that—is it necessary to go on?” There was a certain growing deference in his tone. “I wonder if you account for Monsieur Boissegur’s disappearance as I do?” he inquired.

“I dare say,” and Miss Thorne leaned toward him with sudden eagerness in her manner and voice. “Your theory is—?” she questioned.

“If we believe the servants we know that Monsieur Boissegur did not go out either by the front door or rear,” Mr. Grimm explained. “That being true the French window by which you entered seems to have been the way.”

“Yes, yes,” Miss Thorne interpolated. “And the circumstances attending the disappearance? How do you account for the fact that he went, evidently of his own will?”

“Precisely as you must account for it if you have studied the situation here as I have,” responded Mr. Grimm. “For instance, sitting at his desk there”—and he turned to indicate it—“he could readily see out the windows overlooking the street. There is only a narrow strip of lawn between the house and the sidewalk. Now, if some one on the sidewalk, or—or—”

“In a carriage?” promptly suggested Miss Thorne.

“Or in a carriage,” Mr. Grimm supplemented, “had attracted his attention—some one he knew—it is not at all unlikely that he rose, for no apparent reason, as he did do, passed along the hall—”

“And through the French window, across