of the cab, and of my connection with it.

"(f) Who is Mrs. Winton of the Burlingame apartments?

"(g) Why was she in Peacock Alley, wearing black and red roses, at five
o'clock this afternoon?"

Harleston read over the list, folded it, and put it in his pocket-book;
then he went to bed. There was plenty for him to seek, in regard to the
affair of the cab of the sleeping horse, but nothing more for the
Spencer gang to inspect in his apartment. Crenshaw had made a thorough
job of his investigation.

In the morning he took out the list and went over it again. They all
were dependent on the translation of the letter; if it did not show that
the United States was concerned in the matter, the rest became merely of
academic interest--and Harleston had little inclination and no time for
things academic. The difficulty was, that until the key to the cipher
was found nothing was academic which appeared to have any bearing on the
affair.

So he sent for the manager of the Collingwood, and asked as to the
Chartrands. The manager's information, which was definite if not
extensive, was to the effect that the Chartrands were people of means
from Denver, with excellent social position there, and with connections
in Washington. They had been tenants of the Collingwood less than a
week, having sublet the Dryand apartment. It was a large apartment. Mr.
Chartrand was possibly forty-five, his wife thirty-eight or forty and
exceedingly good-looking. There was, of course, no record kept of their
visitors, nor did the house know who they were entertaining the previous
evening. He was entirely sure, however, that the Chartrands were above
suspicion. Mrs. Chartrand was a blonde, petite and slender; Chartrand
was tall and rather stout, with red hair, and a scar across his
forehead. As for the tall, slender woman who left the Collingwood at
three in the morning, he did not recognize her from the description; he
would, however, investigate at once.

That it might be Madeline Spencer, now that her presence in Washington
was declared, Harleston thought possible. "Slender, twenty-eight, walks
as though the ground were hers," the telephone operator had said. He
would get the photograph from Carpenter and let Miss Williams see it. If
she recognized it as Spencer, much would be explained.

He stopped a moment at the Club, then went on to the State Department.
As he turned the corner near the Secretary's private elevator, the
Secretary himself wa