Elusive Isabel, by Jacques Futrelle by Unknown (interesting books to read for teens .txt) 📕

The British ambassador, you will observe, is clothed sanely and modestly, as befits the representative of a great nation; but coming on down by way of Spain and Italy, they get more gorgeous. However, I dare say as stout a heart beats beneath a sky-blue sash as behind the unembellished black of evening dress.”

“F—F—F,” the fan was calling insistently.

And then the answer came. It took the unexpectedly prosaic form of a violent sneeze, a vociferous outburst on a bench directly behind Mr. Grimm. Senorita Rodriguez jumped, then laughed nervously.

“It startled me,” she explained.

“I think there must be a draft from the conservatory,” said a man’s voice apologetically. “Do you ladies feel it? No? Well, if you’ll excuse me—?”

Mr. Grimm glanced back languidly. The speaker was Charles Winthrop Rankin, a brilliant young American lawyer who was attached to the German embassy in an advisory capacity. Among other things he was a Heidelberg man, having spent some dozen years of his life in Germany, where he established influential connections. Mr. Grimm knew him only by sight.

And now the rhythmical tapping of Miss Thorne’s fan underwent a change. There was a flutter of gaiety in her voice the while the ivory fan tapped steadily.

“Dot-dot-dot! Dash! Dash-dash-dash! Dot-dot-dash! Dash!”

“S—t—5—u—t,” Mr. Grimm read in Morse. He laughed pleasantly at some remark of his companion.

“Dash-dash! Dot-dash! Dash-dot!” said the fan.

“M—a—n,” Mr. Grimm spelled it out, the while his listless eyes roved aimlessly over the throng. “S—t—5—u—t m—a—n!” Was it meant for “stout man?” Mr. Grimm wondered.

“Dot-dash-dot! Dot! Dash-dot-dot!”

“F—e—d,” that was.

“Dot-dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash! Dash-dot-dash-dot! Dot!”

“Q—a—j—e!” Mr. Grimm was puzzled a little now, but there was not a wrinkle, nor the tiniest indication of perplexity in his face. Instead he began talking of Raphael’s cherubs, the remark being called into life by the high complexion of a young man who was passing. Miss Thorne glanced at him once keenly, her splendid eyes fairly aglow, and the fan rattled on in the code.

“Dash-dot! Dot! Dot-dash! Dot-dash-dot!”

“N—e—a—f.” Mr. Grimm was still spelling it out.

Then came a perfect jumble. Mr. Grimm followed it with difficulty, a difficulty utterly belied by the quizzical lines about his mouth. As he caught it, it was like this: “J—5—n—s—e—f—v—a—t—5—f,” followed by an arbitrary signal which is not in the Morse code: “Dash-dot-dash-dash!”

Mr. Grimm carefully stored that jumble away in some recess of his brain, along with the unknown signal.

“D—5—5—f,” he read, and then, on to the end: “B—f—i—n—g 5—v—e—f w—h—e—n g g—5—e—s.”

That was all, apparently. The soft clatter of the fan against the arm of the chair ran on meaninglessly after that.

“May I bring you an ice?” Mr. Grimm asked at last.

“If you will, please,” responded the senorita, “and when you come back I’ll reward you by presenting you to Miss Thorne. You’ll find her charming; and Mr. Cadwallader has monopolized her long enough.”

Mr. Grimm bowed and left her. He had barely disappeared when Mr. Rankin lounged along in front of Miss Thorne. He glanced at her, paused and greeted her effusively.

“Why, Miss Thorne!” he exclaimed. “I’m delighted to see you here. I understood you would not be present, and—”

Their hands met in a friendly clasp as she rose and moved away, with a nod of excuse to Mr. Cadwallader. A thin slip of paper, thrice folded, passed from Mr. Rankin to her. She tugged at her glove, and thrust the little paper, still folded, inside the palm.

“Is it yes, or no?” Miss Thorne asked in a low tone.

“Frankly, I can’t say,” was the reply.

“He read the message,” she explained hastily, “and now he has gone to decipher it.”

She gathered up her trailing skirts over one arm, and together they glided away through the crowd to the strains of a Strauss waltz.

“I’m going to faint in a moment,” she said quite calmly to Mr. Rankin. “Please have me sent to the ladies’ dressing-room.”

“I understand,” he replied quietly.

IV

THE FLEEING WOMAN

Mr. Grimm went straight to a quiet nook of the smoking-room and there, after a moment, Mr. Campbell joined him. The bland benevolence of the chief’s face was disturbed by the slightest questioning uplift of his brows as he dropped into a seat opposite Mr. Grimm, and lighted a cigar. Mr. Grimm raised his hand, and a servant who stood near, approached them.

“An ice—here,” Mr. Grimm directed tersely.

The servant bowed and disappeared, and Mr. Grimm hastily scribbled something on a sheet of paper and handed it to his chief.

“There is a reading, in the Morse code, of a message that seems to be unintelligible,” Mr. Grimm explained. “I have reason to believe it is in the Continental code. You know the Continental—I don’t.”

Mr. Campbell read this:

“St5ut man fed qaje neaf j5nsefvat5f,” and then came the unknown, dash-dot-dash-dash. “That,” he explained, “is Y in the Continental code.” It went on: “d55f bfing 5vef when g g5es.”

The chief read it off glibly:

“Stout man, red face, near conservatory door. Bring over when G goes.”

“Very well!” commented Mr. Grimm ambiguously.

With no word of explanation, he rose and went out, pausing at the door to take the ice which the servant was bringing in. The seat where he had left Senorita Rodriguez was vacant; so was the chair where Miss Thorne had been. He glanced about inquiringly, and a servant who stood stolidly near the conservatory door approached him.

“Pardon, sir, but the lady who was sitting here,” and he indicated the chair where Miss Thorne had been sitting, “fainted while dancing, and the lady who was with you went along when she was removed to the ladies’ dressing-room, sir.”

Mr. Grimm’s teeth closed with a little snap.

“Did you happen to notice any time this evening a stout gentleman, with red face, near the conservatory door?” he asked.

The servant pondered a moment, then shook his head.

“No, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Grimm was just turning away, when there came the sharp, vibrant cra-a-sh! of a revolver, somewhere off to his left. The president! That was his first thought. One glance across the room to where the chief executive stood, in conversation with two other gentlemen, reassured him. The