clue. She was not such a bungler; though that she was the
directing spirit in the entire affair he had not the least doubt. Her
photograph fixed the matter on her; and while he was quite sure she was
not aware of the photograph, yet she was aware of the letter, had made a
desperate effort to prevent its delivery, and now was making a final
effort to prevent Mrs. Clephane from advising the French Ambassador of
its loss.

As to him, Mrs. Spencer was not concerned. His possession of the letter,
under such circumstances, effectually closed his mouth; if he happened
to know for whom the letter was intended, his mouth was closed all the
tighter. It was a rule of the diplomatic game never to reveal, even to
an ally, what you know; tomorrow the ally may be the enemy. Harleston
might yield the letter to superior force or to trickery, but he would
never babble of it.

The door opened to admit Banks.

"The detective has nothing whatever as to Madame Cuthbert," he
explained. "He says she is apparently a lady, and nothing has occurred
to bring her under his notice. For the same reason, no list of her
callers has been made--though the desk thinks that they have been
comparatively few. The man with whom she dined this evening is a Mr.
Rufus Martin. He has been with her several times. He is a guest of the
hotel--room No. 410."

"Can you have her apartment and Martin's looked over without exciting
suspicion?"

"I think we can manage it," Banks responded. "Indeed, I think we can
manage to have all the rooms inspected; I have already told the
detective what we suspect, and he has put on an employee's uniform and
with a basket of electric bulbs is now testing the lights in every
occupied room. The moment he finds Mrs. Clephane, or anything that
points to her, he will advise us."

"Good!" said Harleston. "Meanwhile, I'll have another look in Peacock
Alley."

He was aware that he was acting on a pure hunch. He realized that his
theory of Mrs. Clephane's imprisonment in the house was most
inconsistent with the facts. Why did they release her last night, if
they were fearful of her communicating to the French Ambassador the loss
of the letter? And why should they take her again this evening? It was
all unreasonable; yet reason does not prevail against a hunch--even to a
reasoning man, who is also a diplomat.

He sauntered along the gay corridor bowing to those he knew. As he
faced about to return, he saw Madeline Spencer, alone, be