“THERE’S a note done cum fo’ yo’, suh,” announced the elevator boy lounging in the doorway of the Albany as Douglas stepped inside the entrance of the apartment hotel. “I’ll get it,” and visions of a tip caused the mulatto to hasten his leisurely footsteps to the small office to the left of the entrance. In a few seconds he was back at the elevator shaft, where Douglas stood waiting, and handed him a square envelope stamped with the words “State Department” in the left-hand corner. “Wanter go to yer room, suh,” slipping the expected coin in his trousers’ pocket.

“Yes.” The door slammed shut, and the elevator shot upward. “Anyone been to see me or telephoned, Jonas?”

“No, suh.” The mulatto brought the cage to a standstill at the third floor, and Douglas stepped out and hastened to his tiny apartment. Throwing his hat and cane on the bed, he drew a chair to the open window, having first made sure, with a caution which had grown upon him, that the hall door was securely locked, and that the chambermaid was not loitering in the vicinity. As he opened the note an enclosure fell into his lap, and, without looking at it, he perused the few written lines. It was from the Secretary of State.

Douglas picked up the enclosed envelope with the words “The White House” stamped in small gold letters in the upper left-hand corner, and pulled out the engraved card. The gold eagle crest at the top of the invitation was almost stared out of countenance, so long and so steadily did he regard it, as he slowly weighed in his mind the events of the past three days.

If the desk file used to kill the Senator did belong to Mrs. Owen, then Brett had woven strong circumstantial evidence around Captain Lane. Was it possible that the young officer, incensed at Senator Carew’s threat to turn his niece, Cynthia, out of doors, and goaded past endurance by a possible tongue lashing at their last interview, had seized the opportunity offered by chance and killed Carew, an hereditary enemy? From time immemorial family feuds had, alas, often led to murder.

If so, what, then, became of his own theory of an international intrigue? Were Senator Carew’s interest in things Japanese, his desire to see Douglas, the information gleaned by the latter in Japan, the untimely death of the Senator, and last—the theft of the plans of the new battleships—were these simply coincidences?

Douglas roused himself and glanced at the hour mentioned in the invitation—five o’clock. Jerking out his watch he found he had but half an hour in which to change his clothes before he was due at the White House.

Shortly afterward Douglas walked through Lafayette Square on his way to the eastern entrance of the White House. A long queue of smart turnouts and motors stretched along Pennsylvania Avenue from Seventeenth Street to Executive Avenue, as the short street between the Treasury Department and the White House is called.

The policeman on special duty scrutinized his card of admission carefully before allowing him to pass down the corridor and out into the garden.

The President and his wife were receiving on the lawn under a huge blossoming chestnut tree near the south portico. As Douglas waited in line to approach the President, he glanced about him with great interest. He had been to many brilliant functions in other countries, but he decided in his own mind that he had seldom seen a more beautiful setting for an entertainment than that afforded by the stately mansion and its surrounding gardens. The lovely rolling grounds, with their natural beauty, and the towering white shaft of the Washington Monument in the background, made a picture not easily forgotten.

The full dress uniforms of the military and naval aides on duty added to the brilliancy of the scene. The Marine Band, their scarlet coats making a vivid touch of color against the huge fountain with its myriad sprays of water, were stationed on a raised platform far down the lawn. The southern breeze carried the stirring airs they were playing to Douglas’ ears and sent the hot blood dancing in his veins. Or was it the sight of Eleanor Thornton, looking radiantly beautiful, which set his heart throbbing in a most unusual manner? Some telepathy seemed to tell her of his presence, for she looked around, caught his eye, and bowed.

He had kept moving as the guests ahead of him advanced, and the next moment he was being presented to the President by the military aide stationed in attendance at the latter’s elbow. He had but time to receive a hearty handshake and a cordial word of welcome from the President and the “first lady of the land,” for the other guests were waiting impatiently to greet them, and he could not loiter.

“Douglas Hunter! as I’m a sinner!” A hearty slap on the shoulder emphasized the words, and Douglas wheeled around and found Captain Chisholm, of the British Royal Artillery, addressing him. “The idea of your being here and not letting me know, old chap,” he added reproachfully, as they shook hands.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” declared Douglas. “Thought you were still in Paris.”

“I was transferred to the embassy in Washington three months ago. Upon my word, Douglas, I took you for a ghost when I first saw you. I was under the impression that you were stationed at Tokio.”

“So I am; I am only here on leave of absence.” The Englishman’s eyebrows went up. “I had to attend to some Washington property, which has been recently left me. This is my native heath, you know.”

“I wasn’t aware of it,” dryly; “but then, Douglas, you are perpetually springing surprises, like your nation, on us benighted foreigners.”

“Anything to drink around here?” inquired Douglas. “I am as thirsty as a herring.”

“There is some excellent champagne punch, come along,” and the tall Englishman led the way to a long table placed under the trees near the tennis courts, where refreshments were being served. They corraled a colored waiter, and soon were sipping iced punch as they stood at some distance from the crowd about the table and watched the animated scene.

“I didn’t want to come to Washington,” acknowledged Chisholm, after a moment’s silence, “but now, I’d hate to leave it. The people are delightful, and I have never met with such genuine hospitality.”

“You are right; Washington people never forget you. Go away for ten years, and on your return you will be greeted just as warmly as to-day.”

“Don’t talk of going away, I’ve only just come,” laughed Chisholm. “’Pon my word, Douglas, this seems like old times. I can almost imagine myself back in Paris, the chestnut trees in blossom, which remind me of the Parc Monceau, help the illusion. And there’s another illusion”—nodding his head toward Eleanor Thornton, who stood at some distance talking to two staff officers—“or, I should say, a delusion.” He smiled gayly, but there was no answering smile on Douglas’ face. Not noticing his companion’s silence, the Englishman added, “Is she still hunting around looking up old files and records?”

Douglas started as if stung. “I don’t know,” shortly.

“A dangerous habit,” commented Chisholm calmly. “If Miss Thornton had not left Paris and gone to Berlin when she did, her interest in government affairs might have led to serious trouble—for her.”

“Now, what the devil do you mean?” demanded Douglas hotly.

Chisholm turned and regarded him steadily for a second, then his monocle slipped down and dangled from its silken cord. “There, there,” he exclaimed soothingly. “Don’t get your rag up, I was only spoofing.”

“You have very rudimentary ideas of humor,” growled Douglas, still incensed. In his heart he knew the Englishman was right; Eleanor Thornton was an enigma. Dare he penetrate the mystery, or was he afraid to face the issue?

Chisholm laughed good-naturedly. “Miss Thornton is looking at you, Douglas; don’t let me detain you. I’ll see you again before I leave here.”

Douglas hesitated. “I’ll be back soon, Chisholm,” he said and walked across the lawn to join Eleanor.

The Englishman looked after him with speculative eyes. “Still touched in that quarter,” he muttered, twirling his blond mustache in his fingers. “Too bad, Douglas is such a bully good chap, and she——” he was not allowed to indulge in more reflections, as he was seized upon by a bevy of pretty girls and forced to dance attendance upon them for the remainder of the afternoon.

Recollections of his last interview with Eleanor troubled Douglas. How would she greet him? His doubts were soon put at rest, for at his approach Eleanor put out her hand and greeted him warmly. The two staff officers, who were introduced to Douglas, saw they were de trop, and, after a few minutes, made their excuses and departed.

“Will you have an ice or sandwich?” inquired Douglas.

“Neither, thanks; I have already been helped.”

“Then suppose we stroll down to the fountain. We can’t hear the Marine Band with all this chatter,” and he glanced disgustedly at the joyous crowd about them.

Eleanor laughed. “Don’t be hard on your fellow creatures, if you are out of sorts.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You looked so cross when talking to Captain Chisholm. I am sorry you found your topic of conversation so boring.”

“What do you mean?”

“You both glanced so frequently at me that I naturally concluded I was under discussion.”

“On the contrary, we were discussing—masked batteries.” She scanned him covertly, but could get no inkling of his thoughts from his blank expression. “Captain Chisholm has a fatal habit of talking shop whenever he gets a chance. Isn’t that Colonel Thornton beckoning to us over there?”

“Why, so it is. Shall we walk over and join him?” She paused to exchange a few words of greeting with several friends, then turned back to Douglas smilingly: “Come,” and he suited his steps to hers as they started across the lawn. “How long will you remain in Washington, Mr. Hunter?”

“Until the sale of some property of mine is completed,” briefly. “I asked for you this morning, Miss Thornton, thinking you might care to go for a motor ride, but they told me that you were lying down and could not be disturbed.”

“They? Who?” swiftly. “This is the first I have heard of your call.”

“Indeed? Why, I spoke to Annette when I reached the Carew residence this morning.”

“Annette!” in growing astonishment, “Annette told you I was indisposed and could not be disturbed?”

“Yes. My cousin had loaned me his car for the morning, and I thought it just possible that a run in the fresh air might set you up after the funeral yesterday.”

“It was good of you to think of me, Mr. Hunter.” She raised her eyes in time to see the Secretary of State regarding her intently as they strolled past him. He lifted his hat courteously and returned their words of greeting, but his face was grave as he paused and watched them moving through the throng. “I am sorry about this morning,” continued Eleanor, “Annette and I will have a reckoning when we reach home.”

“Would you have gone with me?” eagerly.

“Yes.” Douglas bent to catch the monosyllable. Her foot turned on the uneven ground and he put his hand on her arm to steady her. As his fingers closed over her soft, rounded arm, he instinctively drew her closer. The warmth of her skin through her glove thrilled him.

“I hope you will ask me again,” she said.

“To-morrow—will you go with me to-morrow?” insistently.

“Yes.” She met his eyes for a second, then glanced away, while a hot blush mantled her cheeks. “Provided, of course, that Cynthia Carew does not need me.” Then in a louder tone, “Well, Uncle Dana, how are you?”

“Feeling splendidly. No need to ask about you and Douglas”—he smiled quizzically. “I am glad that you could come here to-day, Eleanor.”

“I did not wish to, but Cousin Kate Truxton insisted that I had to bring her here. She declared that she would not come otherwise, and made such a point of it that I could not refuse, particularly as Mrs. Winthrop and Cynthia would not hear of my remaining with them.”

“I have just come from there,” responded Colonel Thornton; “Cynthia came into the library while I was talking to Mrs. Winthrop, and I was shocked by her appearance. The child has wasted away.”

“Is it not pitiful?” exclaimed Eleanor. “It nearly breaks my heart to see her suffering. She neither eats nor sleeps.”

“Can’t you give her an opiate?” asked Douglas.

“She declines to take one.”

“Can’t you administer it surreptitiously?”

“I have a better plan than that,” broke in Colonel Thornton. “The child needs a change of ideas. The atmosphere of the house is enough to get on anyone’s nerves, particularly with that dipsomaniac, Philip, raising Cain at unexpected moments.”

“What’s your plan, Uncle Dana?”

“That you bring Cynthia over to my house to-morrow to spend Sunday. You come, too, Douglas. Cynthia hasn’t met you, and she won’t connect you with any of the tragic occurrences of the past week.” Then, as he saw the look of doubt on Eleanor’s face, he added, “Human nature can stand just so much of nervous strain and no more. Cynthia must have relaxation and diversion.”

“But I don’t think Mrs. Winthrop will approve of her going out so soon after the funeral,” objected Eleanor doubtfully.

“Bah! That nonsense belongs to the dark ages. What good will Cynthia’s staying in that gloomy house do poor Carew? I’ll drop in to-morrow morning and see Mrs. Winthrop; leave the matter to me, Eleanor. There is no earthly reason why she should object. I’ll ask Cousin Kate Truxton also.”

“Cousin Kate!” echoed Eleanor, her conscience smiting her. “Where has she gone?”

“I left her talking with Senator Jenkins some time ago.” The Colonel glanced behind him. “Speaking of angels, here she comes now.”

Mrs. Truxton was walking leisurely in their direction. Seeing that they had observed her, she waved her parasol and hastened her footsteps.

“Cousin Kate, I think you already know Mr. Hunter,” said Eleanor, as the older woman reached her side.

“Indeed I do,” Mrs. Truxton extended both her hands, her face beaming with smiles. “Why haven’t you been to see me, Douglas?” she added reproachfully.

“I have been extremely busy since my arrival, Mrs. Truxton,” apologized Douglas. “I was looking forward to calling upon you this Sunday.”

“Have you had a pleasant time this afternoon, Kate?” asked Thornton.

“Yes. It has been a delightful entertainment, just the right people and the right number.”

“It would be pretty hard to crowd these grounds,” laughed Eleanor.

“There isn’t any elbow room about the refreshment table,” put in Thornton; “I almost had to fight to get a plate of ice cream a few minutes ago.”

“A much needed improvement would be small chairs scattered about the lawn,” grumbled Mrs. Truxton, leaning heavily on her parasol. “It is exceedingly tiresome having to stand so long.”

“It would be prettier, too, and less formal,” agreed Eleanor. “The guests would then saunter over the lawns and not stand crowded together near the President.”

“It would also be much more brilliant if the members of the Diplomatic Corps wore their Court dress,” announced Mrs. Truxton with decision, “instead of those hideous frock coats and gray trousers.”

“What, in this weather, Kate?” exclaimed the astonished Colonel. “Do you wish to kill off the Corps bodily? They wear their Court dress only at the state receptions and the diplomatic dinners held at the White House every winter, or when Royalty is present.”

“I know that,” pettishly. “But it would improve the brilliancy of this affair.”

“Even with the objectionable frock coat,” laughed the Colonel, “this is a scene characteristic of the national capital alone. Nowhere else in this country can such a gathering of distinguished men and women be brought together.”

“You are quite right in that,” acknowledged Mrs. Truxton. “I’ve seen ten presidents come and go, and I have lived to see Washington develop in a way which would have surprised the founders. Mercy on us, look at ‘Fuss and Feathers.’” She nodded toward an overdressed, pretty little woman who was advancing in their direction.

“Mrs. Blake has certainly outdone herself,” agreed Colonel Thornton, as he and Douglas raised their hats in greeting to the pretty woman who strolled past them. “I wonder she doesn’t make you wish to break the eighth commandment, Eleanor.”

“Why?” exclaimed his niece.

“On account of her collection of magnificent rubies”—Eleanor changed color—“I thought that stone was one of your ‘fads.’”

“I like all jewelry.” The slight emphasis was lost on her companions. Eleanor fingered her parasol nervously and glanced uneasily over her shoulder to where Douglas stood beyond earshot, talking to an old friend. “But I shall spend my time in wishing—I can never hope to rival Mrs. Blake’s collection.”

“Marry a rich man and persuade him to give you rings and necklaces,” advised Thornton. Eleanor moved restlessly.

“Mrs. Blake looks like a jeweler’s window,” broke in Mrs. Truxton, in her uncompromising bass. “Such a display at a garden party is unpardonable. It is extremely bad taste for any woman to wear to the White House more jewelry than adorns the President’s wife.”

Thornton laughed outright. “Few women will agree with you, Kate. By the way, why didn’t you come to the telephone last night? I wanted to speak to you particularly. It wasn’t late when I called.”

“I gave Soto, Eleanor’s cook, his English lesson last night, and when we got to a present participle used in a future sense to indicate a present intention of a future action I was so tired I had to go to bed,” explained Mrs. Truxton, as Douglas rejoined them.

“After that I am only surprised that you ever got up again,” ejaculated the Colonel.

“Cousin Kate nearly worries herself sick teaching Soto,” laughed Eleanor. “I only wish you had heard her describing the Kingdom of Heaven to him. She introduced some new features into that Kingdom which would probably surprise the Presbyterian synod. I suppose she didn’t want to disappoint his great expectations.”

“Is Soto a Jap?” asked Douglas, curiously.

“Yes. I prefer Japanese servants, and both Soto and Fugi have been with me for some time,” said Eleanor. “Do you know, Uncle Dana, I have just discovered that Fugi has studied five years at the American school in Japan, two years at the Spencerian Business College, and is a graduate of Columbia University.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Truxton. “After this I shan’t dare to ask him to pass me the bread. What did you want to say to me on the telephone, Dana?”

“I wanted some facts about the late Governor Lane of Maryland, and, knowing you were a walking encyclopedia, I thought you might help me out.”

“Of course I can. Do you——”

“Hush!” exclaimed Eleanor anxiously. “Here comes Captain Lane.”

Douglas scanned the tall young officer approaching them with keen interest. His uniform set off his fine figure to advantage, and his face was one to inspire confidence.

“How are you, Mrs. Truxton,” he said. “Miss Eleanor, I’ve been searching the place for you. Won’t you come and see the rose garden with me? Oh, I beg pardon, Colonel, I didn’t see you at first.”

“That’s all right, Lane. Have you met Mr. Hunter?”

“No. How do you do, sir.” Lane wrung Douglas’ hand. “Glad to know you.”

“It is time for us all to go,” declared Mrs. Truxton. “We must say good-bye. Come with me, Douglas, I want to ask you some questions about your family.”

As the small group strolled toward the White House, Colonel Thornton was buttonholed by an old friend. Mrs. Truxton, with Douglas in tow, crossed the ground to where the President was standing talking to several late arrivals.

“Now’s our time,” whispered Lane in Eleanor’s ear. “The rose garden is to our right.” He said no more until they had passed the south portico and walked down the path leading to the wonderful box hedges which surround the rose garden. They had the place to themselves, and Eleanor exclaimed with pleasure at the beautiful flowers which were blossoming in profusion.

“How is Cynthia?” demanded Lane, stopping in the middle of the garden path and regarding his companion intently.

“Almost a nervous wreck.”

“My poor darling!” The soldier’s strong face betrayed deep feeling. “I wish I could comfort her.” His voice changed. “Miss Eleanor, why does she refuse to see me?” Eleanor hesitated perceptibly. “Wait, let me finish. I have called repeatedly at the Carews’, only to be told that Cynthia is confined to her room; I have written notes which I have given personally to Joshua to deliver, and have never received an answer to one of them.

“I love Cynthia with all my heart and soul,” Lane’s voice shook with feeling, “and I would have sworn, before her uncle’s death, that my affection was returned. I cannot understand her avoidance of me, and her silence cuts deep”—Lane stopped a moment and cleared his throat—“Miss Eleanor, you are Cynthia’s most intimate friend, and you are with her constantly. You must have heard of some reason for her treatment of me.”

Eleanor nodded without speaking. She heartily wished the interview was over.

“Then I implore you to tell me the reason of Cynthia’s silence.”

“Cannot you imagine that for yourself?” began Eleanor; then, as Lane shook his head, she added: “Cynthia is overwrought, every action on Monday night seems distorted——” She again hesitated and bit her lip—“You went to look for her carriage; you were gone a long time, and when she entered the carriage her uncle was sitting there—dead.”

Slowly her meaning dawned on Lane. “Good God! You don’t mean——?” he staggered back, his face gone white.

“Yes.”

“And she thinks that! Cynthia, Cynthia, had you so little faith?” Lane’s agony was pitiful.

“You must not be unjust to her,” cried Eleanor, her loyalty up in arms. “Remember, you had just told her of your fearful quarrel with her uncle; she had also seen you playing with a letter file when you were with her in the library——”

“But, great Heavens! I didn’t take that out in the street with me,” exclaimed Lane passionately. “I tell you what it is, Miss Eleanor, I must see Cynthia and explain this terrible tangle. Can you help me meet her?”

Eleanor considered for a moment. “I have already urged Cynthia to see you, but she has been so unnerved, so unstrung, that I could not make her see matters in a reasonable light. I think the best thing for you to do is to meet her when she least expects it.”

“Capital! Can you arrange such a meeting?”

“My uncle, Colonel Thornton, has asked Cynthia and me to go to his house in Georgetown to-morrow and spend Sunday. I think Mrs. Winthrop will permit Cynthia to go, and, if that is the case, you can call there to-morrow night.”

“Good.” Lane paced the walk restlessly for a minute, then returned to Eleanor’s side. “It’s pretty hard to wait so long before seeing her,” he said, wistfully.

Eleanor held out her hand. “Don’t be discouraged; Cynthia loves you devotedly.”

“God bless you for those words!” Lane caught her hand and raised her slender fingers to his lips.

“Miss Thornton,” said a cold voice back of them, “Mrs. Truxton is waiting for you,” and Eleanor flushed scarlet as she met Douglas’ eyes.