-and political
usefulness to our friends of Wilhelm-strasse. In fact, I understand that
she has more than made good professionally, as well as fascinated at
least half a dozen Cabinet Ministers besides.

"Wilhelm-strasse?" Clarke queried.

Harleston nodded. "She is in the German Secret Service."

"They trust her?" Clarke marvelled.

"That is the most remarkable thing about her," said Harleston, "so far
as I know, she has never been false to the hand that paid her."

"Which, in her position, is the cleverest thing of all!" Clarke
remarked.

They passed the English Legation, a bulging, three-storied, red brick,
dormer-roofed atrocity, standing a few feet in from the sidewalk; ugly
as original sin, externally as repellent as the sidewalk and the narrow
little drive under the _porte-cochere_ are dirty.

"It's a pity," said Clarke, "that the British Legation cannot afford a
man-servant to clean its front."

"No one is presumed to arrive or leave except in carriages or motor
cars," Harleston explained. "_They_ can push through the dirt to the
entrance."

"Why, would you believe it," Clarke added, "the deep snow of last
February lay on the walks untouched until well into the following day.
The blooming Englishmen just then began to appreciate that it had snowed
the previous night. Are they so slow on the secret-service end?"

"They have quite enough speed on that end," Harleston responded. "They
are on the job always and ever--also the Germans."

"You've bumped into them?"

"Frequently."

"Ever encounter the clever lady, with the assortment of husbands?"

"Once or twice. Moreover, having known her as a little girl, and her
family before her, I've been interested to watch her travelling--her
remarkable career. And it has been a career, Clarke; believe me, it's
been a career. For pure cleverness, and the appreciation of
opportunities with the ability to grasp them, the devil himself can't
show anything more picturesque. My hat's off to her!"

"I should like to meet her," Clarke said.

"Come to Paris, sometime when I'm there, and I'll be delighted to
present you to her."

"Doesn't she ever come to America?"

"I think not. She says the Continent, and Paris in particular, is good
enough for her."

Harleston left Clarke at Dupont Circle and turned down Massachusetts
Avenue.

The broad thoroughfare was deserted, yet at the intersection of
Eighteenth Street he came upon a most singular sight.

A cab was by