arrive. Such an array of
unpronounceables may be Russian, it assuredly isn't French or English.
Look at it!" and he handed the translation to Harleston, who read:

AGELUMTONZUCLPMUHRHUNBARGPUH
PJICLWYIAOIWFPHLUOZFRXUFJWH
WASNVDPS

"Good Lord!" said Harleston. "I pass. Did you ever see so many
consonants. I reckon my key-word isn't the key."

"Try being held up again," Carpenter advised; "you may succeed the
second time. If Madeline Spencer is the holdee, no telling what you'd
find."

"I'd find nothing," Harleston rejoined.

"You'd be holding a particularly lovely and attractive bit of skirts!"
Carpenter smiled.

"I don't want to hold that at present."

"Not even--Mrs. Clephane?"

Harleston raised his eyebrows slightly.

"What do you know about Mrs. Clephane?" he asked.

"That she's even lovelier and more attractive than Mrs. Spencer."

"You've seen her--you know her?"

"You told me," replied Carpenter.

"I told you!--I never referred to Mrs. Clephane's appearance."

"Exactly: your careful reticence told me more than if you had used tons
of words. I'm a reader of secret ciphers; you don't imagine a mere
individual presents much of a problem. I tell you there are too many
petticoats mixed up in this affair of the cab of the sleeping horse,"
Carpenter repeated. "Be careful, Harleston. Women are a menace--they
spoil about everything they touch."

"Marriage in particular?" Harleston inquired.

"Exactly!"

"A bachelor's wisdom!" Harleston laughed.

"Why are you a bachelor?" Carpenter shrugged.

"Because I never--"

"--found the woman; or have been adroit enough to avoid her wiles,"
Carpenter cut in. "And whichever it is, you've shown your wisdom. Don't
spoil it now, Harleston, don't spoil it now. Millionaires and
day-labourers are the only classes that have any business to marry; the
rest of us chaps either can't afford the luxury, or are not quite poor
enough to be forced to marry in order to get a servant."

"You would be popular with the suffragettes," Harleston remarked.

"Worldly wisdom of any sort is never popular with those against whom it
warns."

"An aphorism!" Harleston laughed.

"Aphorism be damned; it's just plain horse sense. Don't do it, old man,
don't do it!"

"Don't do what?"

"Don't fall in love with Mrs. Clephane."

"Good Lord!" Harleston exclaimed.

"Good Lord all you want, you're on the verge and preparing to leap
in--and you know it. Let some other man be the