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Read Ebook: The Cab of the Sleeping Horse by Scott John Reed Van Dresser William Illustrator
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Ebook has 2289 lines and 62201 words, and 46 pages
THE PHOTOGRAPH
"A beautiful woman is never especially clever," Rochester remarked.
Harleston blew a smoke ring at the big drop-light on the table and watched it swirl under the cardinal shade.
"The cleverest woman I know is also the most beautiful," he replied. "Yes, I can name her offhand. She has all the finesse of her sex, together with the reasoning mind; she is surpassingly good to look at, and knows how to use her looks to obtain her end; as the occasion demands, she can be as cold as steel or warm as a summer's night; she--"
"How are her morals?" Rochester interrupted.
"Morals or the want of them do not, I take it, enter into the question," Harleston responded. "Cleverness is quite apart from morals."
"You have not named the wonderful one," Clarke reminded him.
"And I won't now. Rochester's impertinent question forbids introducing her to this company. Moreover," as he drew out his watch, "it is half-after-twelve of a fine spring night, and, unless we wish to be turned out of the Club, we would better be going homeward or elsewhere. Who's for a walk up the avenue?"
"I am--as far as Dupont Circle," said Clarke.
"All hands?" Harleston inquired.
"It's too late for exercise," Rochester declined; "and our way lies athwart your path."
"I don't think you make good company, anyway, with your questions and your athwarts," Harleston retorted amiably, as Clarke and he moved off.
"Who is your clever woman?" asked Clarke.
"Curious?" Harleston smiled.
"Naturally--it's not in you to give praise undeserved."
"I'm not sure it is praise, Clarke; it depends on one's point of view. However, the lady in question bears several names which she uses as expediency or her notion suits her. Her maiden name was Madeline Cuthbert. She married a Colonel Spencer of Ours; he divorced her, after she had eloped with a rich young lieutenant of his regiment. She didn't marry the lieutenant; she simply plucked him clean and he shot himself. I've never understood why he didn't first shoot her."
"Doubtless it shows her cleverness?" Clarke remarked.
"Doubtless it does," replied Harleston, neatly spitting a leaf on the pavement with his stick. "Afterward she had various adventures with various wealthy men, and always won. Her particularly spectacular adventure was posing, at the instigation of the Duke of Lotzen, as the wife of the Archduke Armand of Valeria; and she stirred up a mess of turmoil until the matter was cleared up."
"I remember something of it!" Clarke exclaimed.
"Again showing her astonishing cleverness."
"Just so--and, cleverer still, she held him until his death five years later. Which death, despite the authorized report, was not natural: the King of Valeria killed him in a sword duel in Ferida Palace on the principal street of Dornlitz. The lady then betook herself to Paris and took up her present life of extreme respectability--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.
"It's a pity," said Clarke, "that the British Legation cannot afford a man-servant to clean its front."
"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 the curb, its horse lying prostrate on the asphalt, its box vacant of driver.
Harleston stopped. What had he here! Then he looked about for a policeman. Of course, none was in sight. Policemen never are in sight on Massachusetts Avenue.
As a general rule, Harleston was not inquisitive as to things that did not concern him--especially at one o'clock in the morning; but the waiting cab, the deserted box, the recumbent horse in the shafts excited his curiosity.
The cab, probably, was from the stand in Dupont Circle; and the cabby likely was asleep inside the cab, with a bit too much rum aboard. Nevertheless, the matter was worth a step into Eighteenth Street and a few seconds' time. It might yield only a drunken driver's mutterings at being disturbed; it might yield much of profit. And the longer Harleston looked the more he was impelled to investigate. Finally curiosity prevailed.
The door of the cab was closed and he looked inside.
The cab was empty.
As he opened the door, the sleeping horse came suddenly to life; with a snort it struggled to its feet, then looked around apologetically at Harleston, as though begging to be excused for having been caught in a most reprehensible act for a cab horse.
"That's all right, old boy," Harleston smiled. "You doubtless are in need of all the sleep you can get. Now, if you'll be good enough to stand still, we'll have a look at the interior of your appendix."
The light from the street lamps penetrated but faintly inside the cab, so Harleston, being averse to lighting a match save for an instant at the end of the search, was forced to grope in semi-darkness.
On the cushion of the seat was a light lap spread, part of the equipment of the cab. The pockets on the doors yielded nothing. He turned up the cushion and felt under it: nothing. On the floor, however, was a woman's handkerchief, filmy and small, and without the least odour clinging to it.
"Strange!" Harleston muttered. "They are always covered with perfume."
Moreover, while a very expensive handkerchief, it was without initial--which also was most unusual.
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