Miss Kiametia Grey waited until the sound of Whitney's, Miller's and the detective's footsteps had died away down the hall before addressing Senator Foster.

"Suppose we sit over there," she suggested, indicating a large leather sofa, and not waiting for his assent, walked over to it and seated herself.

The sofa stood with its back to one of the windows, and from its broad seat its occupants would have a complete view of the attractive library with its massive furniture, huge old-fashioned chimney, and bookcase-lined walls. Foster, following Miss Kiametia, was startled by a glimpse of her face as she stepped into the sunlight whose merciless rays betrayed the new lines about her closely compressed lips. A touch of rouge enhanced her pallor. Suddenly conscious of his intent regard she seated herself, turning her back squarely to the light.

"Sit there," she exclaimed pettishly, pointing to a Morris chair which stood close to the sofa. "I prefer to have the person I'm talking to face me." Without remark Foster made himself comfortable, first, however, pulling down the shade to protect his eyes from the glare of sunlight.

"We can't be overheard," began Miss Kiametia. "At least I don't think we can," and her sharp glance roved inquiringly about the room. "What was Sinclair Spencer doing in that elevator?"

"Going downstairs," hazarded the Senator, "or up."

"Or waiting."

"Eh?" Foster shot a quick look at her. "Waiting? What for?"

"That is what we have to discover," and Miss Kiametia sat back and folded her hands.

"Yours is hardly a reasonable supposition. People do not usually wait in elevators, Kiametia."

"There's no law against it," was her tart reply. "I have very good reason to believe Spencer was not going out of the house."

"May I ask what that reason is?"

"He wore no shoes," and for an instant a smile hovered on her lips as she caught his startled expression. She was woman enough to enjoy creating a sensation, and it was not often that she surprised the Senator.

"Is that so!" he exclaimed thoughtfully. "That puts a somewhat different complexion on the matter."

"It does. Why was Sinclair Spencer gallivanting about this house in his stocking feet?"

Foster played with his watch chain. "Upon my word, I don't know," he replied at last.

"Well, you might hazard a guess." But Foster's only answer was a negative shake of his head. "Pshaw! use your imagination—suppose Spencer was unduly inquisitive about Winslow's invention—"

"Stop, Kiametia!" Foster held up a warning hand. "You are treading on dangerous ground. Be sure of your facts before suggesting that a man of Winslow's known integrity is involved in—murder."

"How you men do jump at conclusions," grumbled Miss Kiametia. "I believe Julie, the maid, killed Spencer because she found him snooping around where he had no business to be."

"Why should the maid play watchdog?"

"Because she's French, stupid; and I believe, firmly believe, Sinclair
Spencer was in the pay of Germany. Both he and the maid were after
Winslow's invention, one to steal, the other to protect."

"You have astonishing theories." Foster leaned back and regarded her in silence, then resumed, "Suppose you give me an exact account of what transpired this morning."

He listened with rapt attention to the spinster's graphic description of the finding of Kathleen and Sinclair Spencer in the elevator.

"Strange, very strange," he muttered, as she brought the recital to an end. "How did Kathleen come to enter the elevator without seeing its occupant?"

"You take it for granted that Spencer was dead at that time?" asked the spinster.

A look of horror crept into Foster's eyes. "Kiametia, what do you mean to insinuate? Your question implies—"

"Nothing," hastily. "I only want you, with your sane common sense, to kill an intolerable doubt. Kathleen cannot—cannot know anything of this crime."

"If you doubt, why not ask Kathleen how and when she came to be in the elevator with Spencer's dead body?"

"Kathleen is still under the effects of the opiate, and you heard what Winslow said a few minutes ago about her behavior before the physician's arrival."

"Don't worry." Foster laid a soothing hand on hers. "Kathleen's condition is not surprising under the circumstances; the shock of finding Spencer's dead body was quite enough to produce hysteria and irrational conduct. When herself, her explanations will clear up the mystery. Therefore, why harbor a doubt of her innocence?"

"If you had seen the expression of her eyes," exclaimed Miss Kiametia. "It betrayed more than shock and horror. If ever I saw mental anguish depicted, a naked soul in torment, I saw it then. God help the child!" She paused and stared at Foster. "Why should Kathleen betray such emotion? Sinclair Spencer was less than nothing to her."

"He was very attentive," said Foster slowly. "I have even heard it reported last fall that they were engaged."

"Engaged? Fiddlesticks!" Miss Kiametia's head went up in a style indicative of battle. "Imagine Kathleen caring for a man who openly boasted he had held the best blood of America in his arms—she isn't that kind of girl!"

"Come, Spencer wasn't so unattractive," protested Foster. "I hold no brief for him; in fact, some of his business transactions were shady; but upon my word, he was exceedingly good-looking, and if I remember rightly, you encouraged him to come to your apartment."

"I've done some remarkably stupid things occasionally," said Miss
Kiametia composedly. "That was one of them."

"Kiametia!" called a voice in the hallway, and the next moment the portiÈres parted and Mrs. Whitney walked into the library. "Oh, there you are, my dear; I feared you had gone. I am so glad to see you, Senator," clasping Foster's extended hand warmly. "Winslow and I both hoped you could come to us. We want your advice."

"I am entirely at your disposal." As he spoke, Foster dragged forward a comfortable chair. "Sit here, Mrs. Whitney; you look quite done up," and his sympathetic tone and manner brought tears to her hot, tired eyes.

"It is such a comfort to see two such dear friends," she said, looking gratefully at them. "And to talk to you openly, away from those dreadful detectives. I haven't had an opportunity to speak privately to Winslow. Detective Mitchell is his shadow."

"A little brief authority," Foster shrugged his shoulders. "How is
Kathleen?"

"Sleeping, thank God!" Mrs. Whitney lowered her voice. "I really feared for her reason before the doctor came. I could not soothe her, or quiet her wild weeping." She stopped to glance hastily over her shoulder. "Vincent said something about Captain Miller having called—is the Captain here?"

"He has gone upstairs with your husband and Detective Mitchell," answered Foster. "Tell me, Mrs. Whitney, was Sinclair Spencer visiting you for any length of time?"

"Oh, no; his stopping here last night was quite unexpected; in fact so unexpected to me that I accidentally put Kiametia in the same room with him."

"I didn't stay there," hastily ejaculated the spinster, crimsoning. "The moment I saw him in bed, I fled."

"Was he asleep?" questioned Foster; Miss Kiametia had not told him these details in her description of events at the Whitney residence.

"I presume so; his eyes were closed—thank goodness!" she added under her breath, and quickly changed the subject "Any news of Julie's whereabouts, Minna?"

"Apparently not; I telephoned to Police Headquarters half an hour ago, and the desk sergeant said they had found no trace of her."

"Where is your maid's bedroom, Mrs. Whitney?" asked Foster.

"She rooms with the cook on the third floor."

"What does the cook say about Julie's disappearance?"

"She is as mystified as the rest of us; declares Julie went to bed at the same time she did, and that when she awoke this morning, the covers on Julie's bed were thrown back. Thinking Julie had preceded her downstairs, she dressed and attended to her usual duties. It was not until I rang for Julie that the other servants realized that none of them had seen her this morning. Not one, apparently, has the faintest idea as to when she disappeared, and where."

"So!" ejaculated Foster unbelievingly. "I imagine the police will jog their memories."

"Let us hope they will succeed in finding Julie," snapped Miss Kiametia. "I confess the situation is getting on my nerves. If she committed the murder, she should suffer for it. If not, she should come forward and prove her innocence."

"It is essential that Julie be found," agreed Foster. "For my part, I…."

"Beg pardon, sir," and Vincent approached. "This note has just come for you," presenting his silver salver to the Senator. "There's no answer, sir. The clerk at the Portland sent the messenger here with it, as it was marked 'Immediate.'"

With a word of apology to his companions, Foster tore open the envelope and hastily scanned the written lines.

"I must leave at once," he announced, carefully placing the note in his leather wallet. "I had forgotten entirely that I had an important business engagement. Please tell Winslow, Mrs. Whitney, that I will come back this evening; and you must both count on me if there is anything I can do for you."

"Won't you wait for Captain Miller?" asked Miss Kiametia, concealing her disappointment at the abrupt termination of the interview.

"Miller? I'm afraid not. Please tell him I was called away and that I leave my touring car at his service."

"If you plan to do that, may I get your chauffeur to take me home?" asked
Miss Kiametia quickly.

"Why, of course; I only wish that I could accompany you." Foster wavered, he desired most ardently to see the spinster alone, but the note was urgent, and considering the source, could not be ignored. "Good-bye." Shaking hands warmly with Mrs. Whitney and Miss Kiametia, he hastily departed.

Foster's appointment consumed over an hour, and on leaving the government building where it had taken place, he walked aimlessly through the city streets, so deep in thought that he gave no heed to the direction he was taking. His absorption blinded him to the appearance of an inconspicuously dressed, heavily veiled woman who, at sight of him, shrank back under cover of the archway leading to a movie theater, until he had passed safely up the street. She was about to step out on the sidewalk again when the sight of a man walking rapidly down the street in the direction Foster had disappeared, caused her to remain in partial concealment. The woman peered at the last man irresolutely, while pretending to examine a gaudy, flaring poster of the movie, one hand pressed to her rapidly beating heart. Coming to a sudden decision, she hastened after him, and nearing an intersecting street, overtook him.

"Captain Miller," she called timidly, and at sound of his name, Miller turned toward her.

"Yes?" his hand raised toward his hat at sight of a woman. "You called me?"

"Yes, Captain." She drew nearer. "You do not recognize me, but"—sinking her voice—"I am Julie."

"Julie?" he echoed.

"Oui, monsieur," in rapid French. "Mademoiselle Kathleen's maid. Ah, monsieur, for the love you bear her, advise me now. It is for her sake, not for mine."

The Captain eyed her intently. "I don't catch your meaning," he said, in her native tongue.

"You have surely heard, Captain, of the death of that devil,
Spencer"—Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman's eyes sparkled with rage.
"Well, Captain, his death was—justified."

"I have no doubt of it," agreed her companion. "But, in the eyes of the law, it will be termed…."

"Murder." Her white lips barely formed the word, and she glanced fearfully behind her. Her half-conscious action recalled the Captain to their surroundings, and he, too, glanced up the street. Apparently they had it to themselves; in that unfrequented part of the city there were few passers-by. The Captain's eyes narrowed; he preferred never to be conspicuous; a crowded street was more to his liking.

"Suppose we move on," he suggested, but the Frenchwoman held back.

"I have spent all the morning at the moving pictures," she said. "There it is dark. Let us find another."

"Very well; we can talk as we go," and the Captain suited his step to hers. "And suppose also that we confine our remarks to English."

"As monsieur pleases." She half repented her impulsive act. She had intrusted her secret to another. Would that other prove loyal? A faint shiver crept down her spine, and she pressed one mitted hand over the other. "I seek seclusion, monsieur, because—I know too much."

"'A little knowledge'"—the Captain did not finish the quotation. "Let us turn down here," and not waiting for her consent, he piloted her up a side street. "You do not, then, wish to make a confidant of the police?"

"Non, non, monsieur," lapsing again into rapid French. "I think only of Mademoiselle."

A sudden gleam lighted the Captain's eyes. "Kathleen," his voice lingered on her name. "You think she is in danger?"

"I do, monsieur, in great danger. Did I not see"—she paused in her hasty speech and bit her tongue; one indiscretion was leading to another. "It matters not what I saw, monsieur—I am sometimes nearsighted."

"In that case, your eyes will be examined if testifying in a trial for murder," and he smiled covertly as he saw the fear tugging at her heart-strings. "Enough, Julie; I will respect your confidences. You know—how, I do not inquire—of my deep affection for Mademoiselle Kathleen…."

"Who would not love her?" broke in Julie passionately. "So generous, so fearless and loyal! Ah! she will be faithful to France—she will guard her father's secret—aye, even to the bitter end."

"Hush! not so loud," admonished the Captain, laying a steadying hand on her arm. "Let me think a moment." Totally unconscious of the tears which fell one by one on her white cheeks, the excited Frenchwoman kept step with him in silence for three blocks; then the Captain roused himself. "You are willing to shield Mademoiselle Kathleen at all costs?" he asked.

"Oui, monsieur."

"And you think you can best accomplish that result by avoiding the police?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Have you money?"

"A little, monsieur." She turned her troubled countenance toward him. "I cannot travel far."

"It is wiser not to travel at all." The Captain slackened his walk before an unpretentious red brick residence. "The landlady of this house takes paying guests and asks no questions. Here you can remain perdue," with emphasis, "and no one inside will trouble you; but be cautious, Julie, how you venture on the street day or night."

"But, monsieur"—Julie drew back—"I do not fear for myself, only for mademoiselle, and I like not to be indoors all day. The police, they will only trouble me with questions should I return to the Whitneys."

"If you do not return to the Whitneys, Julie, the police will think you guilty."

"Me, monsieur?"

"Yes."

"But—but—" stammered the Frenchwoman, overwhelmed. "I have committed no crime. I but left because I could not bear to tell what I know."

"Your departure is construed as a confession of guilt." The Captain bent his handsome face nearer hers. "It is only a question, Julie, of the depth of your affection for Mademoiselle Kathleen. Are you willing to shield her at all costs?"

The Frenchwoman faltered for a second, then drew herself proudly erect. "Oui, monsieur. Mademoiselle was kind to me when I lost all—my lover, my brothers died for France. There is no one who cares for me now but mademoiselle. I shall not betray her."

"Good!" The Captain wrung her hand. "Come," and he led the way into the house.