“Try being held up again,” Carpenter advised; “you may succeed the second time.  If Madeline Spencer is the holdee, no telling what you’d find.”

“I’d find nothing,” Harleston rejoined.

“You’d be holding a particularly lovely and attractive bit of skirts!” Carpenter smiled.

“I don’t want to hold that at present.”

“Not even—­Mrs. Clephane?”

Harleston raised his eyebrows slightly.

“What do you know about Mrs. Clephane?” he asked.

“That she’s even lovelier and more attractive than Mrs. Spencer.”

“You’ve seen her—­you know her?”

“You told me,” replied Carpenter.

“I told you!—­I never referred to Mrs. Clephane’s appearance.”

“Exactly:  your careful reticence told me more than if you had used tons of words.  I’m a reader of secret ciphers; you don’t imagine a mere individual presents much of a problem.  I tell you there are too many petticoats mixed up in this affair of the cab of the sleeping horse,” Carpenter repeated.  “Be careful, Harleston.  Women are a menace—­they spoil about everything they touch.”

“Marriage in particular?” Harleston inquired.

“Exactly!”

“A bachelor’s wisdom!” Harleston laughed.

“Why are you a bachelor?” Carpenter shrugged.

“Because I never—­”

“—­found the woman; or have been adroit enough to avoid her wiles,” Carpenter cut in.  “And whichever it is, you’ve shown your wisdom.  Don’t spoil it now, Harleston, don’t spoil it now.  Millionaires and day-labourers are the only classes that have any business to marry; the rest of us chaps either can’t afford the luxury, or are not quite poor enough to be forced to marry in order to get a servant.”

“You would be popular with the suffragettes,” Harleston remarked.

“Worldly wisdom of any sort is never popular with those against whom it warns.”

“An aphorism!” Harleston laughed.

“Aphorism be damned; it’s just plain horse sense.  Don’t do it, old man, don’t do it!”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t fall in love with Mrs. Clephane.”

“Good Lord!” Harleston exclaimed.

“Good Lord all you want, you’re on the verge and preparing to leap in—­and you know it.  Let some other man be the life-saver, Harleston.  You’re much too fine a chap to waste yourself in foolishness.”

“And all this,” Harleston expostulated with mock solemnity, “because I neglected to include a description of Mrs. Clephane.”

“Neglected with deliberation.  And with you that is more significant than if you had detailed most minutely her manifold attractions.  Look here, Harleston, do you want this translation for yourself or for Mrs. Clephane?”

“I want the translation because the Secretary of State wants it,” Harleston replied quietly.

“Oh, don’t become chilly,” Carpenter returned good-naturedly.  “If you permit, I’ll tell you something about a Mrs. Clephane—­queer name Clephane, and rather unusual—­whom I used to see in Paris,” glancing languidly at Harleston, “several years ago.  Want to hear it?”