She traced the figures on her gown with the tips of her fingers, and for awhile was silent—­

“It’s all so involved,” she reflected; “such wheels within wheels, I am completely mystified.  I’m lost in the maze.  I don’t know whom to believe nor whom to trust—­except,” and suddenly she smiled at him confidently, “that I trust you.”

He held her eyes with his own as he leaned forward across the table and answered very quietly: 

“I shall try, dear lady, to be worthy.”

“And now,” she laughed, “may I tell you what happened to me when you were called to the telephone?”

“You may talk to me forever,” he replied.

“And what as to the French Ambassador?” she asked.

“Bother the Marquis—­he may wait until morning.”

“Tomorrow, then, is beyond the forever?”

“Tomorrow may take care of itself!”

“Don’t be sacrilegious, sir.”

“I’ll be anything you wish,” he replied.

“Then be a good listener while I tell my tale.  It was this wise, Mr. Harleston.  Immediately after you were called away, indeed you were scarcely out of the room, a page brought a verbal message from the telephone operator that my maid had been found unconscious in the corridor of the eighth floor, and carried into 821.  I hurried to the elevator.  As I entered the door of 821, I was seized from behind and a handkerchief bound over my mouth and eyes.  I then was tied in a chair, and a man’s voice said that no further harm would come to me if I remained quiet until morning.  I did not see the faces of my assailants; there were two at least, possibly three, and one I think was a woman.  My feelings and thoughts until the electrician released me may be imagined.  It seemed days and days—­and was somewhat uncomfortable while it lasted.  When released I hurried down to look for you—­or to write you a note of explanation if I couldn’t find you.  I’m sort of becoming accustomed to being abducted and kindred innocent amusements.  I suppose the only reason they didn’t kill me is that they can’t kill me more than once; and to kill me now would be too early in the game.”

“Killing is rarely done in diplomacy,” observed Harleston, “except in large numbers; when it ceases to be diplomacy and becomes war.  In fact, only bunglers resort to killing; and if the killing be known it ends one’s career in the service.  To have to kill to gain an end is conclusive evidence of incompetency.  I mean, of course, among reputable nations.  There are some thugs among the lesser Powers, just as there are thugs among the ’oi polloi.”

“Then Mrs. Spencer is an accomplished—­diplomat,” Mrs. Clephane remarked.

“She is at the top of the profession,—­and as a directing force she is without a superior.”

“You are very generous, Mr. Harleston!”

“I believe in giving the devil his dues.  Indeed, in handling some affairs, she is in a class by herself.  Her beauty and finesse and alluringness make her simply irresistible.  It’s a cold and stony heart that she can’t get inside of and use.”