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

Cadwallader lapsed into silence as he sat staring at a large group photograph which was framed on a wall of the dining-room.

“Isn’t that the royal family of Italy?” he asked. He rose and went over to it. “By Jove, it is, and here is the prince in the group. The picture was taken, I should say, about the time I knew him.”

Mr. Grimm strolled over idly and stood for a long time staring at the photograph.

“He can drive a motor, you know,” said Mr. Cadwallader admiringly. “And Italy is the place to drive them. They forgot to make any speed laws over there, and if a chap gets in your way and you knock him silly they arrest him for obstructing traffic, you know. Over here if a chap really starts to go any place in a hurry some bally idiot holds him up.”

“Have you ever been held up?” queried Mr. Grimm.

“No, but I expect to be every day,” was the reply. “I’ve got a new motor, you know, and I’ve never been able to see how fast it is. The other evening I ran up to Baltimore with it in an hour and thirty-seven minutes from Alexandria to Druid Hill Park, and that’s better than forty miles. I never did let the motor out, you know, because we ran in the dark most of the way.”

Mr. Grimm was still gazing at the photograph.

“Did you go alone?” he asked.

“There’s no fun motoring alone, you know. Senorita Rodriguez was with me. Charming girl, what?”

A little while later Mr. Grimm sauntered out into the drawing-room and made his way toward Miss Thorne and the French ambassador. Monsieur Boissegur rose, and offered his hand cordially.

“I hope, Monsieur,” said Mr. Grimm, “that you are no worse off for your—your unpleasant experience?”

“Not at all, thanks to you,” was the reply. “I have just thanked Miss Thorne for her part in the affair, and—”

“I’m glad to have been of service,” interrupted Mr. Grimm lightly.

The ambassador bowed ceremoniously and moved away. Mr. Grimm dropped into the seat he had just left.

“You’ve left the legation, haven’t you?” he asked.

“You drove me out,” she laughed.

“Drove you out?” he repeated. “Drove you out?”

“Why, it was not only uncomfortable, but it was rather conspicuous because of the constant espionage of your Mr. Blair and your Mr. Johnson and your Mr. Hastings,” she explained, still laughing. “So I have moved to the Hotel Hilliard.”

Mr. Grimm was twisting the seal ring on his little finger.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made it uncomfortable for you,” he apologized. “You see it’s necessary to—”

“No explanation,” Miss Thorne interrupted. “I understand.”

“I’m glad you do,” he replied seriously. “How long do you intend to remain in the city?”

“Really I don’t know—two, three, four weeks, perhaps. Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

Senorita Rodriguez came toward them.

“We’re going to play bridge,” she said, “and we need you, Isabel, to make the four. Come. I hate to take her away, Mr. Grimm.”

Mr. Grimm and Miss Thorne rose together. For an instant her slim white hand rested on Mr. Grimm’s sleeve and she stared into his eyes understandingly with a little of melancholy in her own. They left Mr. Grimm there.

XVI

LETTERS FROM JAIL

For two weeks Signor Pietro Petrozinni, known to the Secret Service as an unaccredited agent of the Italian government, and the self-confessed assailant of Senor Alvarez of the Mexican legation, had been taking his ease in a cell. He had been formally arraigned and committed without bail to await the result of the bullet wound which had been inflicted upon the diplomatist from Mexico at the German Embassy Ball, and, since then, undisturbed and apparently careless of the outcome, he had spent his time in reading and smoking. He had answered questions with only a curt yes or no when he deigned to answer them at all; and there had been no callers or inquiries for him. He had abruptly declined a suggestion of counsel.

Twice each day, morning and night, he had asked a question of the jailer who brought his simple meals.

“How is Senor Alvarez?”

“He is still in a critical condition.” The answer was always the same.

Whereupon the secret agent would return to his reading with not a shadow of uneasiness or concern on his face.

Occasionally there came a courteous little note from Miss Thorne, which he read without emotion, afterward casting them aside or tearing them up. He never answered them. And then one day there came another note which, for no apparent reason, seemed to stir him from his lethargy. Outwardly it was like all the others, but when Signor Petrozinni scanned the sheet his eyes lighted strangely, and he stood staring down at it as though to hide a sudden change of expression in his face. His gaze was concentrated on two small splotches of ink where, it seemed, the pen had scratched as Miss Thorne signed her name.

The guard stood at the barred door for a moment, then started to turn away. The prisoner stopped him with a quick gesture.

“Oh, Guard, may I have a glass of milk, please?” he asked. “No ice. I prefer it tepid.”

He thrust a small coin between the bars; the guard accepted it and passed on. Then, still standing at the door, the prisoner read the note again:

“MY DEAR FRIEND:

“I understand, from an indirect source, that there has been a marked improvement in Senor Alvarez’s condition, and I am hastening to send you the good news. There is every hope that within a short while, if he continues to improve, we can arrange a bail bond, and you will be free until the time of trial anyway.

“Might it not be well for you to consult an attorney at once? Drop me a line to let me know you received this.

“Sincerely,

“ISABEL THORNE.”

Finally the prisoner tossed the note on a tiny table in a corner of his cell, and resumed his reading. After a time the guard returned with the milk.

“Would it be against the rules for me to write an answer to this?” queried