“—­at one o’clock on Massachusetts Avenue and Eighteenth Street.”

“Is the horse still asleep, Harleston?”

“The horse awoke, and straightway went to his stand in Dupont Circle!” Harleston laughed and related the incidents of the night and early morning, finishing his account in the Secretary’s private office.

“Most amazing!” the latter reflected, eyes half-closed as though seeing a mental picture of it all.

Then he picked up the photograph and studied it awhile.

“So this is the wonderful Madeline Spencer—­who came so near to throwing our friend, the King of Valeria, out of his Archdukeship, and later from his throne.  I remember the matter most distinctly.  I was a friend of the Dalberg family of the Eastern Shore, and of Armand Dalberg himself.”  He paused, and looked again at the picture.  “H-u-m!  She is a very beautiful woman, Harleston, a very beautiful woman!  I think I have never seen her equal; certainly never her superior.  These dark-haired, classic featured ones for me, Harleston; the pale blonde type does not appeal.  The peroxides come of that class.”  Again the photograph did duty.  “I could almost wish that she were the lost lady of the cab of the sleeping horse—­so that I might see her in the flesh.  I’ve never seen her, you know.”

Harleston smoothed back a smile.  The Secretary too was getting sentimental over the lady, and he had never seen her; though he had known of her rare doings; and those doings had, it appeared, had their natural effect of enveloping her in a glamour of fascination because of what she had done.

“You’ve seen her?” the Secretary asked.

“I’ve known her since she was Madeline Cuthbert.  Since then she’s had a history.  Possibly, taken altogether she’s a pretty bad lot.  And she is not only beautiful; she’s fascinating, simply fascinating; it’s a rare man, a very rare man, who can be with her ten minutes and not succumb to her manifold attractions of mind and body.”

“You have succumbed?” the Secretary smiled.

“I have—­twenty times at least.  You’ll join the throng, if she has occasion to need you, and gives you half a chance.”

“I’m married!” said the Secretary.

“I’m quite aware of it!”

“I’m immune!”

“And yet you’re wishing to see her in the flesh!” Harleston smiled.

“I think I can safely take the risk!” smoothing his chin complacently.

“Other men have thought the same, I believe, and been burned.  However, if the lady is in Washington I’ll engage that you meet her.  Also, I’ll acquaint her of your boasted immunity from her beaux yeux.”

“The latter isn’t within the scope of your duty, sir,” the Secretary smiled.  “Now we’ll have Carpenter.”

He touched a button.