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

over and picked it up, after which he glanced inquiringly at the other man—the ambassador’s second guard.

“And you are the gentleman, I dare say, who made the necessary trips to the ambassador’s house, probably using his latch-key?” he remarked interrogatively. “First for the letters to be signed, and again for the cigarettes?”

There was no answer and Mr. Grimm turned questioningly to Monsieur Boissegur, silent, white of face, motionless.

“Yes, Monsieur,” the ambassador burst out suddenly. His eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Miss Thorne.

“And your escape, Monsieur?” continued Mr. Grimm.

“I did escape, Monsieur, last night,” the ambassador explained, “but they knew it immediately—they pursued me into my own house, these two and another—and dragged me back here! Mon Dieu, Monsieur, c’est—!”

“That’s all that’s necessary,” remarked Mr. Grimm. “You are free to go now.”

“But there are others,” Monsieur Boissegur interposed desperately, “two more somewhere below, and they will not allow—they will attack—!”

Mr. Grimm’s listless eyes narrowed slightly and he turned to Miss Thorne. She was a little white, but he saw enough in her face to satisfy him.

“I shall escort Monsieur Boissegur to his carriage, Miss Thorne,” he said calmly. “These men will remain here until I return. Take the revolver. If either of them so much as wags his head—_shoot_! You are not—not afraid?”

“No.” She smiled faintly. “I am not afraid.”

Mr. Grimm and the ambassador went down the stairs, and out the front door. Mr. Grimm was just turning to reenter the house when from above came a muffled, venomous cra-as-ash!—a shot! He took the steps going up, two at a time. Miss Thorne was leaning against the wall as if dazed; the revolver lay at her feet. A door in a far corner of the room stood open; and the clatter of footsteps echoed through the house.

“One of them leaped at me and I fired,” she gasped in explanation. “He struck me, but I’m—I’m not hurt.”

She stooped quickly, picked up the revolver and made as if to follow the dying footsteps. Mr. Grimm stopped her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “Let them go.” And after a while, earnestly: “If I had dreamed of such a—such a thing as this I should never have consented to allow you—”

“I understand,” she interrupted, and for one instant her outstretched hand rested on his arm. “The ambassador?”

“Perfectly safe,” responded Mr. Grimm. “Two of my men are with him.”

XV

MASTER OF THE SITUATION

As the women rose and started out, leaving the gentlemen over their coffee and cigars, Miss Thorne paused at the door and the blue-gray eyes flashed some subtle message to the French ambassador who, after an instant, nodded comprehendingly, then resumed his conversation. As he left the room a few minutes later he noticed that Mr. Grimm had joined a group of automaniacs of which Mr. Cadwallader was the enthusiastic center. He spoke to his hostess, the wife of the minister from Portugal, for a moment, then went to Miss Thorne and dropped into a seat beside her. She greeted him with a smile and was still smiling as she talked.

“I believe, Monsieur,” she said in French, “you sent a code message to the cable office this afternoon?”

His eyes questioned hers quickly.

“And please bear in mind that we probably are being watched as we talk,” she went on pleasantly. “Mr. Grimm is the man to be afraid of. Smile—don’t look so serious!” She laughed outright.

“Yes, I sent a code message,” he replied.

“It was your resignation?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it wasn’t sent, of course,” she informed him, and her eyes were sparkling as if something amusing had been said. “One of my agents stopped it. I may add that it will not be sent.”

The ambassador’s eyes grew steely, then blank again.

“Mademoiselle, what am I to understand from that?” he demanded.

“You are to understand that I am absolute master of the situation in Washington at this moment,” she replied positively. The smile on her lips and the tone of her voice were strangely at variance. “From the beginning I let you understand that ultimately you would receive your instructions from Paris; now I know they will reach you by cable to-morrow. Within a week the compact will be signed. Whether you approve of it or not it will be signed for your country by a special envoy whose authority is greater than yours—his Highness, the Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi.”

“Has he reached Washington?”

“He is in Washington. He has been here for some time, incognito.” She was silent a moment. “You have been a source of danger to our plans,” she added. “If it had not been for an accident you would still have been comfortably kept out in Alexandria where Mr. Grimm and I found you. Please remember, Monsieur, that we will accomplish what we set out to do. Nothing can stop us—nothing.”

At just about the same moment the name of Prince d’Abruzzi had been used in the dining-room, but in a different connection. Mr. Cadwallader was reciting some incident of an automobile trip in Italy when he had been connected with the British embassy there.

“The prince was driving,” he said, “and one of the best I ever saw. Corking chap, the prince; democratic, you know, and all that sort of thing. He was one scion of royalty who didn’t mind soiling his hands by diving in under a car and fixing it himself. At that time he was inclined to be wild—that was eight or nine years ago—but they say now he has settled down to work, and is one of the real diplomatic powers of Italy. I haven’t seen him for a half dozen years.”

“How old a man is he?” asked Mr. Grimm carelessly.

“Thirty-five, thirty-eight, perhaps; I don’t know,” replied Mr. Cadwallader. “It’s odd, you know, the number of princes and blue-bloods and all that sort of thing one can find knocking about in Italy and Germany and Spain. One never hears of half of them. I never had heard of the Prince d’Abruzzi until I went to Italy, and I’ve heard jolly well little of him since, except indirectly.”

Mr.