an's voice."

"Did they mention where they were to meet, or the name of the man?"

"No. The very vagueness of the talk made its impression on me at that
time of night. In the daytime, I would not have even listened."

"I understand," said Harleston. "Call me up, will you, if there are any
developments as to the men I've described--or the conversation.
Meanwhile, Miss Williams, not a word."

"Not a word, Mr. Harleston--and thank you."

"What for?"

"For treating me as a human being. Most persons treat me like an
automaton or a bit of dirt. You're different; most of the men are not so
bad; it's the women, Mr. Harleston, the women! Good-night, sir. I'll
call you if anything turns up."

"All of which shows," reflected Harleston, as he returned to bed, "that
the telephone people are right in asking you to smile when you say
'hello.'"

It was a very interesting condition of affairs that confronted him.

The episode of the cab of the sleeping horse was leading on to--what?

Three men in the Collingwood knew of the occurrence, yet no one had come
in or gone out, and no one had telephoned. Moreover, they also knew of
Harleston's part in the matter. The girl had not lied, he was sure;
therefore they must have gained entrance from the outside; and,
possibly, were now hiding in the Chartrand apartment--if the telephone
message to No. 401 had to do with the occupant of the deserted cab and
the lost letter. Yet how to connect things? And why bother to connect
them?

He did not care for the vanished lady of the cab--he had the letter and
the photograph; and because of them he was to have a talk with an
interesting young woman at five o'clock that afternoon. The cipher
letter, which was the much desired quantity, was safely across the hall,
waiting to be turned over to Carpenter, the expert of the State
Department, for translation. Meanwhile, what concerned Harleston was the
photograph of Madeline Spencer and her connection with the case--and to
know if the United States was concerned in the affair.

At this point he turned over and calmly went to sleep. Tomorrow was
another day.

He was aroused by a vigorous pounding on the corridor door. It was
seven-thirty o'clock. He yawned and responded to the summons--which grew
more insistent with every pound.

It was Stuart--the envelope and the flowers in his hand.

"Scarcely heard your gentle tap," Harleston remarked. "Why don't you
knock like a man?"

"Here's your damn b