Stoneham returned from a lecturing tour in the West, dispirited, and with a frank confession of failure. He presented himself at Grant’s rooms just as the latter was finishing breakfast.
“I’ve bad news, old chap,” he declared at once. “I’ve done my best, and I guess I’ve made about as much impression upon my audiences as if Pussyfoot Johnson had come back to life and were preaching prohibition once more. They won’t have it at any price.”
Grant pushed a box of cigars across the table and rang for a waiter to remove his tray.
“‘America outside’ still their motto, eh?” he observed, as he drew a chair up to the open window.
“You see,” Stoneham went on, “they’ve never forgotten what a triumph it was for American diplomacy that our people, in those days, refused all invitations to join the Genoa Conference. We scored immensely all round by remaining outside, and you know what a general muddle that affair ended in. The fact of it is,” he continued, selecting and lighting his cigar, “our people over here have never regained their faith in British diplomacy since those days. They can’t see that they stand to be hurt in any way by remaining outside, and they can see that they might be drawn into a lot of trouble if they got involved in some of these economic disputes. We make our own rules now and play our own game, and we’re the richest country in the world. It’s a pretty hard situation to shake. Grant.”
Grant was less perturbed than his companion had imagined possible.
“I’ve talked with Cornelius Blunn, since you’ve been away,” he announced, “I’ve heard the same story from him. I believe he’s right. I believe you’re right. I believe that if the matter were to be decided upon to-day, the invitation to join the Pact would be rejected by an overwhelming majority. Fortunately, the meeting of the Limitation of Armaments is to come first.”
“Sure, but what difference does that make?” Stoneham enquired.
“It’s going to make all the difference,” Grant assured him. “I’m on the track of things already, and the Conference doesn’t take place for another month.”
“Am I to be wise to this?”
“You are. But we’ve got to move warily. Blunn can afford to be good-natured about our fight against him so far as it has gone. He knows very well that his propaganda department is in perfect order. He can practically count his votes. He knows that on a fight as things are at present, we haven’t a chance. The moment he realises that we are getting round his flanks, though, he’ll be dangerous. Dan, you remember my telling you about Cleo, the little dancing girl, who used to go about with Count Itash?”
“Quite well.”
“Well, Itash has brought the other girl over here. Cleo has followed, and Cleo paid me a visit the day before yesterday. She gave me a hint and I verified it. She is coming here again this morning.”
“Do you trust her?” Stoneham asked doubtfully. “Do you think it really likely that a man like Itash would have told her secrets.”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Grant agreed. “But this is the point. Itash has a habit of which he is ignorant. He talks in his sleep. Cleo admits that she thought nothing of it, at first;—that she did not even listen. Then some of the things he said struck her as being strange. Finally she understood. He was worrying over a failure of his to keep secret two great contracts for steel given last year and the year before. I followed this up. It happened to be rather in my line. What about this for a bombshell, Dan? Japan bought steel plates enough in Germany during the last two years to build every scrap of naval armament to which she was entitled. She also bought from different firms in America, some in the name of China, and some in her own name, three times the same quantity of steel, all of which was shipped.”
“But, say, how could she get away with a thing like that?” Stoneham asked incredulously.
“Largely bluff. The steel plates from Germany she declared faulty and announced her intention of using them for factory construction. Germany, with unusual complacency, actually admitted at the last meeting of the Limitation of Armaments that the plates were unfit for battleships, and, nominally, received a large compensation. This is the first little hint Mademoiselle Cleo has given me, Dan, and by the time I get my despatches in from Japan—I have a good man out there, thank God—I think I shall be able to give the Limitation of Armaments Conference a shock. Cleo has a few other little matters to tell me about, too.”
“Say, this is great!” Stoneham exclaimed. “Pity you couldn’t have got her to make a complete disclosure while she was about it.”
“I did my best,” Grant assured him. “I offered her everything in the world except my hand and fortune, and I don’t think she’d have accepted those. She’s simply crazy over this fellow Itash. She’s going slowly in case he relents.”
Stoneham, with a start, sat upright in his chair. A sudden recollection had flashed into his brain.
“My God!” he cried. “Whatever have I been thinking about? What did you say her name was?”
“I’ve never heard her called anything but Mademoiselle Cleo. What about her? Don’t tell me anything’s happened already.”
Stoneham caught up one of the newspapers from the table and pointed to a paragraph on the first page.
“Haven’t you read that, man?” he demanded.
“Haven’t looked at a paper,” was the feverish reply. “I hadn’t finished my mail when you came in.”
Grant read the paragraph eagerly. It occupied only a short space but the headlines were thick and prominent.
ATTEMPTED MURDER ON BROADWAY
Famous French Danseuse Shot by a Rival
At a few minutes before two o’clock this morning, what seems to have been a deliberate attempt at murder took place on the corner of Broadway and Thirty-seventh Street. It appears that Count Itash, who is here on an official mission to the Embassy of his country at Washington, was leaving Mason’s Restaurant with Mademoiselle Yvonne, a well-known French dancer, when two shots were fired from amongst the crowd of passers-by. Mademoiselle Yvonne was slightly wounded but was able to return home in a taxicab. The assailant was distinctly seen by several of the passers-by, but managed to temporarily escape during the confusion. Her identity is known, however, and her arrest is momentarily expected.
Later:
Count Itash, on being interviewed, declared himself wholly unable to account in any way for the incident. He was not aware that the young lady by whom he was accompanied had any enemies in New York or any acquaintances at all. He was inclined to believe that the shot might have been intended for himself. Mademoiselle Yvonne, who is in a state of nervous prostration, declines to be interviewed at present. Her wound is apparently very slight but she is suffering from shock. Mademoiselle Yvonne was premiere danseuse last season in the Cafe de Paris in Monte Carlo, and has many friends both in Paris and over here. Her photograph appears on another page.
Later:
Mademoiselle Yvonne has denounced Mademoiselle Cleo, of Monaco, a rival danseuse, as her attempted murderess.
“Fool!” Grant exclaimed. “We are done, Dan. The police will have her, and if I know anything of Mr. Cornelius Blunn, she won’t see daylight again until it’s too late.”
His companion was thoughtful for a moment.
“I’m not sure,” he reflected, “that the best thing in the world for us won’t be to have her safely under arrest. Blunn’s gang can’t get at her in prison anyhow. And she can be seen there.”
“Blunn has a terrific pull with the police,” Grant reminded him.
Stoneham moved towards the telephone.
“I’ll ring up Police Headquarters and see if she’s been arrested,” he announced. “I know a man there who’ll look after this for us.”
His hand was already upon the telephone when there was an imperative knock at the door. He glanced around. Grant rose to his feet. Before either of them could say a word, the door was thrown open and closed again. Cleo stood there, with her back to it, holding tightly to the handle, panting for breath.
“They’re after me,” she cried. “There’s scarcely a minute. Ring up Itash. Quick! 1817 Plaza.”
Stoneham asked at once for the number.
“What do you want to say to Itash?” Grant demanded. “Tell me the rest quickly. You’re French. Itash is in league with the Germans.”
“Bah!” she sobbed. “He could be in league with the devil if he would come back to me. Listen. I ask him. He shall hear what I know. Then he shall choose. He shall take me and my silence and leave her for ever, or I will kill her and I will tell you his secrets.”
“Is that 1817 Plaza?” Stoneham enquired.
“It is Count Itash who speaks,” was the slow rejoinder.
“Mademoiselle Cleo is here in 940, Hotel Great Central, the apartment of Mr. Grant Slattery. She desires you to come.”
Cleo sprang across the room. She snatched the receiver in her own hand. She broke into a stream of incoherent French, rocking herself back and forth all the time, as though distracted with pain.
“I heard you speak those things,” she cried. “I know the great secrets. I know what they would give me the price of a kingdom to have me tell. Very well, then, very well. Come here, then, before the police can touch me. Come to me here. Give up Yvonne for ever, and there shall be a seal on my lips as though the finger of the Virgin rested there. I have never deceived you, I am always faithful. I am always true. I am racked with pain and jealousy, Itash. Take me back. I have spoken the word. It shall be as though Her finger rested upon my lip.”
She threw down the receiver. She turned towards them with a smile of triumph upon her lips.
“He comes,” she announced. “Now we shall see!”