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<h1>ELUSIVE ISABEL</h1>
<h2>BY JACQUES FUTRELLE </h2>
<hr/>
<SPAN name="CH1"><!-- CHAPTER 1 --></SPAN>
<h3> I </h3>
<h3> MISS ISABEL THORNE </h3>
<p>All the world rubs elbows in Washington.
Outwardly it is merely a city of evasion,
of conventionalities, sated with the commonplace
pleasures of life, listless, blasé even,
and always exquisitely, albeit frigidly, courteous;
but beneath the still, suave surface strange
currents play at cross purposes, intrigue is endless,
and the merciless war of diplomacy goes
on unceasingly. Occasionally, only occasionally,
a bubble comes to the surface, and when it bursts
the echo goes crashing around the earth. Sometimes
a dynasty is shaken, a nation trembles, a
ministry topples over; but the ripple moves and
all is placid again. No man may know all that
happens there, for then he would be diplomatic
master of the world.</p>
<p>"There is plenty of red blood in Washington,"
remarked a jesting legislative gray-beard,
once upon a time, "but it's always frozen before
they put it in circulation. Diplomatic negotiations
are conducted in the drawing-room, but
long before that the fight is fought down cellar.
The diplomatists meet at table and there isn't
any broken crockery, but you can always tell
what the player thinks of the dealer by the way
he draws three cards. Everybody is after results;
and lots of monarchs of Europe sit up
nights polishing their crowns waiting for word
from Washington."</p>
<p>So, this is Washington! And here at dinner
are the diplomatic representatives of all the nations.
That is the British ambassador, that
stolid-faced, distinguished-looking, elderly man;
and this is the French ambassador, dapper, volatile,
plus-correct; here Russia's highest representative
wags a huge, blond beard; and yonder
is the phlegmatic German ambassador. Scattered
around the table, brilliant splotches of
color, are the uniformed envoys of the Orient—the
smaller the country the more brilliant the
splotch. It is a state dinner, to be followed by
a state ball, and they are all present.</p>
<p>The Italian ambassador, Count di Rosini, was
trying to interpret a French <i>bon mot</i> into English
for the benefit of the dainty, doll-like wife
of the Chinese minister—who was educated at
Radcliffe—when a servant leaned over him and
laid a sealed envelope beside his plate. The
count glanced around at the servant, excused
himself to Mrs. Quong Li Wi, and opened the
envelope. Inside was a single sheet of embassy
note paper, and a terse line signed by his secretary:</p>
<blockquote><p>"A lady is waiting for you here. She says
she must see you immediately, on a matter of the
greatest importance."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The count read the note twice, with wrinkled
brow, then scribbled on it in pencil:</p>
<blockquote><p>"Impossible to-night. Tell her to call at the
embassy to-morrow morning at half-past ten
o'clock."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>He folded the note, handed it to the servant,
and resumed his conversation with Mrs. Wi.</p>
<p>Half an hour later the same servant placed a
second sealed envelope beside his plate. Recognizing
the superscription, the ambassador impatiently
shoved it aside, intending to disregard
it. But irritated curiosity finally triumphed,
and he opened it. A white card on which was
written this command was his reward:</p>
<blockquote><p>"It is necessary that you come to the embassy
at once."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There was no signature. The handwriting
was unmistakably that of a woman, and just as
unmistakably strange to him. He frowned a
little as he stared at it wonderingly, then idly
turned the card over. There was no name on
the reverse side—only a crest. Evidently the
count recognized this, for his impassive face reflected
surprise for an instant, and this was followed
by a keen, bewildered interest. Finally
he arose, made his apologies, and left the room.
His automobile was at the door.</p>
<SPAN name="image-1"><!-- Image 1 --></SPAN>
<p class="figure">
<SPAN href="img1.jpg">
<ANTIMG width-obs="60%" src="images/img1.jpg" alt="The Handwriting Was Unmistakably That of a Woman." /></SPAN><br/>
<b>"The Handwriting Was Unmistakably That of a Woman."</b></p>
<p>"To the embassy," he directed the chauffeur.</p>
<p>And within five minutes he was there. His
secretary met him in the hall.</p>
<p>"The lady is waiting in your office," he explained
apologetically. "I gave her your message,
but she said she must see you and would
write you a line herself. I sent it."</p>
<p>"Quite correct," commented the ambassador.
"What name did she give?"</p>
<p>"None," was the reply. "She said none was
necessary."</p>
<p>The ambassador laid aside hat and coat and
entered his office with a slightly puzzled expression
on his face. Standing before a window,
gazing idly out into the light-spangled night,
was a young woman, rather tall and severely
gowned in some rich, glistening stuff which fell
away sheerly from her splendid bare shoulders.
She turned and he found himself looking into a
pair of clear, blue-gray eyes, frank enough and
yet in their very frankness possessing an alluring,
indefinable subtlety. He would not have
called her pretty, yet her smile, slight as it was,
was singularly charming, and there radiated
from her a something—personality, perhaps—which
held his glance. He bowed low, and closed
the door.</p>
<p>"I am at your service, Madam," he said in a
tone of deep respect. "Please pardon my delay
in coming to you."</p>
<p>"It is unfortunate that I didn't write the first
note," she apologized graciously. "It would at
least have saved a little time. You have the
card?"</p>
<p>He produced it silently, crest down, and
handed it to her. She struck a match, lighted
the card, and it crumbled up in her gloved hand.
The last tiny scrap found refuge in a silver
tray, where she watched it burn to ashes, then
she turned to the ambassador with a brilliant
smile. He was still standing.</p>
<p>"The dinner isn't over yet?" she inquired.</p>
<p>"No, Madam, not for another hour, perhaps."</p>
<p>"Then there's no harm done," she went on
lightly. "The dinner isn't of any consequence,
but I should like very much to attend the ball
afterward. Can you arrange it for me?"</p>
<p>"I don't know just how I would proceed,
Madam," the ambassador objected diffidently.
"It would be rather unusual, difficult, I may
say, and—"</p>
<p>"But surely you can arrange it some way?"
she interrupted demurely. "The highest diplomatic
representative of a great nation should
not find it difficult to arrange so simple a matter
as—as this?" She was smiling.</p>
<p>"Pardon me for suggesting it, Madam," the
ambassador persisted courteously, "but anything
out of the usual attracts attention in
Washington. I dare say, from the manner of
your appearance to-night, that you would not
care to attract attention to yourself."</p>
<p>She regarded him with an enigmatic smile.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid you don't know women, Count,"
she said slowly, at last. "There's nothing dearer
to a woman's heart than to attract attention to
herself." She laughed—a throaty, silvery note
that was charming. "And if you hesitate now,
then to-morrow—why, to-morrow I am going to
ask that you open to me all this Washington
world—this brilliant world of diplomatic society.
You see what I ask now is simple."</p>
<p>The ambassador was respectfully silent and
deeply thoughtful for a time. There was, perhaps,
something of resentment struggling within
him, and certainly there was an uneasy feeling
of rebellion at this attempt to thrust him
forward against all precedent.</p>
<p>"Your requests are of so extraordinary a nature
that—" he began in courteous protestation.</p>
<p>There was no trace of impatience in the woman's
manner; she was still smiling.</p>
<p>"It is necessary that I attend the ball to-night,"
she explained, "you may imagine how
necessary when I say I sailed from Liverpool
six days ago, reaching New York at half-past
three o'clock this afternoon; and at half-past
four I was on my way here. I have been here
less than one hour. I came from Liverpool
especially that I might be present; and I even
dressed on the train so there would be no delay.
Now do you see the necessity of it?"</p>
<p>Diplomatic procedure is along well-oiled
grooves, and the diplomatist who steps out of
the rut for an instant happens upon strange
and unexpected obstacles. Knowing this, the
ambassador still hesitated. The woman apparently
understood.</p>
<p>"I had hoped that this would not be necessary,"
she remarked, and she produced a small,
sealed envelope. "Please read it."</p>
<p>The ambassador received the envelope with
uplifted brows, opened it and read what was
written on a folded sheet of paper. Some subtle
working of his brain brought a sudden change
in the expression of his face. There was wonder
in it, and amazement, and more than these.
Again he bowed low.</p>
<p>"I am at your service, Madam," he repeated.
"I shall take pleasure in making any arrangements
that are necessary. Again, I beg your
pardon."</p>
<p>"And it will not be so very difficult, after all,
will it?" she inquired, and she smiled tauntingly.</p>
<p>"It will not be at all difficult, Madam," the
ambassador assured her gravely. "I shall take
steps at once to have an invitation issued to you
for to-night; and to-morrow I shall be pleased
to proceed as you may suggest."</p>
<p>She nodded. He folded the note, replaced it
in the envelope and returned it to her with another
deep bow. She drew her skirts about her
and sat down; he stood.</p>
<p>"It will be necessary for your name to appear
on the invitation," the ambassador went on to
explain. "If you will give me your name I'll
have my secretary—"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, my name," she interrupted gaily.
"Why, Count, you embarrass me. You know,
really, I have no name. Isn't it awkward?"</p>
<p>"I understand perfectly, Madam," responded
the count. "I should have said <i>a</i> name."</p>
<p>She meditated a moment.</p>
<p>"Well, say—Miss Thorne—Miss Isabel
Thorne," she suggested at last. "That will
do very nicely, don't you think?"</p>
<p>"Very nicely, Miss Thorne," and the ambassador
bowed again. "Please excuse me a moment,
and I'll give my secretary instructions
how to proceed. There will be a delay of a few
minutes."</p>
<p>He opened the door and went out. For a
minute or more Miss Thorne sat perfectly still,
gazing at the blank wooden panels, then she
rose and went to the window again. In the
distance, hazy in the soft night, the dome of the
capitol rose mistily; over to the right was the
congressional library, and out there where the
lights sparkled lay Pennsylvania Avenue, a
thread of commerce. Miss Thorne saw it all,
and suddenly stretched out her arms with an all-enveloping
gesture. She stood so for a minute,
then they fell beside her, and she was motionless.</p>
<p>Count di Rosini entered.</p>
<p>"Everything is arranged, Miss Thorne," he
announced. "Will you go with me in my automobile,
or do you prefer to go alone?"</p>
<p>"I'll go alone, please," she answered after a
moment. "I shall be there about eleven."</p>
<p>The ambassador bowed himself out.</p>
<p>And so Miss Isabel Thorne came to Washington!</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<SPAN name="CH2"><!-- CHAPTER 2 --></SPAN>
<h3> II </h3>
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