Chapter 1

Cyril Gordon had been seated at his desk but ten minutes and was deep
in the morning’s mail when there came an urgent message from his chief,
summoning him to an immediate audience in the inner office.

The chief had keen blue eyes and shaggy eyebrows. He never wasted
words; yet those words when spoken had more weight than those of most
other men in Washington.

There was the briefest of good-morning gleams in his nod and glance,
but he only said:

“Gordon, can you take the Pennsylvania train for New York that leaves
the station in thirty-two minutes?”

The young man was used to abrupt questions from his chief, but he
caught his breath, mentally surveying his day as it had been planned:

“Why, sir, I suppose I could--if it is necessary----” He hesitated.

“It is necessary,” said the chief curtly, as if that settled the
matter.

“But--half an hour!” ejaculated Gordon in dismay. “I could hardly get
to my rooms and back to the station. I don’t see how---- Isn’t there a
train a little later?”

“Later train won’t do. Call up your man on the ’phone. Tell him to pack
your bag and meet you at the station in twenty minutes. You’ll need
evening clothes. Can you depend on your man to get your things quickly
without fail?”

There was that in the tone of the chief that caused Gordon to make no
further demur.

“Sure!” he responded with his usual business-like tone, as he strode to
the ’phone. His daze was passing off. “Evening clothes?” he questioned
curiously, as if he might not have heard aright.

“Yes, evening clothes,” was the curt answer, “and everything you’ll
need for daytime for a respectable gentleman of leisure--a tourist, you
understand.”

Gordon perceived that he was being given a mission of trust and
importance, not unmixed with mystery perhaps. He was new in the secret
service, and it had been his ambition to rise in his chief’s good
graces. He rang the telephone bell furiously and called up the number
of his own apartments, giving his man orders in a breezy, decisive tone
that caused a look of satisfaction to settle about the fine wrinkles
of the chief’s eyes.

Gordon’s watch was out and he was telling his man on just what car he
must leave the apartments for the station. The chief noted it was two
cars ahead of what would have been necessary. His gray head gave an
almost imperceptible nod of commendation, and his eyes showed that he
was content with his selection of a man.

“Now, sir,” said Gordon, as he hung up the receiver, “I’m ready for
orders.”

“Well, you are to go to New York, and take a cab for the Cosmopolis
Hotel--your room there is already secured by wire. Your name is John
Burnham. The name of the hotel and the number of your room are on
this memorandum. You will find awaiting you an invitation to dine
this evening with a Mr. Holman, who knows of you as an expert in
code-reading. Our men met him on the train an hour ago and arranged
that he should invite you. He didn’t know whom they represented, of
course. He has already tried to ’phone you at the hotel about coming to
dinner to-night. He knows you are expected there before evening. Here
is a letter of introduction to him from a man he knows. Our men got
that also. It is genuine, of course.

“Last night a message of national importance, written in cipher, was
stolen from one of our men before it had been read. This is now in the
hands of Holman, who is hoping to have you decipher it for him and a
few guests who will also be present at dinner. They wish to use it for
their own purposes. Your commission is to get hold of the message and
bring it to us as soon as possible. Another message of very different
import, written upon the same kind of paper, is in this envelope,
with a translation for you to use in case you have to substitute a
message. You will have to use your own wits and judgment. The main
thing is, _get the paper_, and _get back with it_, with as little
delay as possible. Undoubtedly your life will be in danger should it
be discovered that you have made off with it. Spare no care to protect
yourself _and the message_, at all hazards. Remember, I said, _and the
message_, young man! It means much to the country.

“In this envelope is money--all you will probably need. Telegraph or
’phone to this address if you are in trouble. Draw on us for more, if
necessary, also through this same address. Here is the code you can
use in case you find it necessary to telegraph. Your ticket is already
bought. I have sent Clarkson to the station for it, and he will meet
you at the train. You can give him instructions in case you find you
have forgotten anything. Take your mail with you, and telegraph back
orders to your stenographer. I think that is all. Oh, yes, to-night,
while you are at dinner, you will be called to the ’phone by one of
our men. If you are in trouble, this may give you opportunity to
get away, and put us wise. You will find a motor at the door now,
waiting to take you to the station. If your man doesn’t get there
with your things, take the train, anyway, and buy some more when you
get to New York. Don’t turn aside from your commission for anything.
Don’t let _anything_ hinder you! Make it a matter of life and death!
Good-morning, and good luck!”

The chief held out a big, hairy hand that was surprisingly warm and
soft considering the hardness of his face and voice, and the young man
grasped it, feeling as if he were suddenly being plunged into waves of
an unknown depth and he would fain hold on to this strong hand.

He went out of the office quietly enough, and the keen old eyes watched
him knowingly, understanding the beating of the heart under Gordon’s
well-fitting business coat, the mingled elation and dread over the
commission. But there had been no hesitancy, no question of acceptance,
when the nature of the commission was made known. The young man was
“game.” He would do. Not even an eyelash had flickered at the hint
of danger. The chief felt he would be faithful even in the face of
possible death.

Gordon’s man came rushing into the station just after he reached there
himself. Clarkson was already there with the ticket. Gordon had time to
scribble a message to Julia Bentley, whose perfumed scrawl he had read
on the way down. Julia had bidden him to her presence that evening. He
could not tell whether he was relieved or sorry to tell her he could
not come. It began to look to him a good deal as if he would ask Julia
Bentley to marry him some day, when she got tired of playing all the
others off against him, and he could make up his mind to surrender his
freedom to any woman.

He bought a paper and settled himself comfortably in the parlor-car,
but his interest was not in the paper. His strange commission engaged
all his thoughts. He took out the envelope containing instructions and
went over the matter, looking curiously at the cipher message and its
translation, which, however, told him nothing. It was the old chief’s
way to keep the business to himself until such time as he chose to
explain. Doubtless it was safer for both message and messenger that he
did not know the full import of what he was undertaking.

Gordon carefully noted down everything that his chief had told him,
comparing it with the written instructions in the envelope; arranged
in his mind just how he would proceed when he reached New York; tried
to think out a good plan for recovering the stolen message, but could
not; and so decided to trust to the inspiration of the moment. Then it
occurred to him to clear his overcoat pockets of any letters or other
tell-tale articles and stow them in his suit-case. He might have to
leave his overcoat behind him. So it would be well to have no clues for
anyone to follow.

Having arranged these matters, and prepared a few letters with notes
for his stenographer, to be mailed back to her from Philadelphia, he
reread Julia Bentley’s note. When every angular line of her tall script
was imprinted on his memory, he tore the perfumed note into tiny pieces
and dropped them from the car window.

The question was, did he or did he not want to ask Julia Bentley to
become his wife? He had no doubt as to what her answer would be. Julia
had made it pretty plain to him that she would rather have him than any
of her other admirers; though she did like to keep them all attendant
upon her. Well, that was her right so long as she was unmarried. He had
no fault to find with her. She was a fine girl, and everybody liked
her. Also, she was of a good family, and with a modest fortune in her
own right. Everybody was taking it for granted that they liked each
other. It was time he was married and had a real home, he supposed,
whatever that was--that seemed to have so great a charm for all his
friends. To his eyes, it had as yet taken on no alluring mirage effect.
He had never known a real home, more than his quiet bachelor apartments
were to him now, where his man ordered everything as he was told,
and the meals were sent up when wanted. He had money enough from his
inheritance to make things more than comfortable, and he was deeply
interested in the profession he had chosen.

Still, if he was ever going to marry, it was high time, of course. But
did he want Julia? He could not quite make it seem pleasant to think of
her in his rooms when he came home at night tired; she would always be
wanting to go to her endless theatre parties and receptions and dances;
always be demanding his attention. She was bright and handsome and well
dressed, but he had never made love to her. He could not quite imagine
himself doing so. How did men make love, anyway? Could one call it love
when it was “made” love? These questions followed one another idly
through his brain as the landscape whirled past him. If he had stayed
at home, he would have spent the evening with Julia, as she requested
in her note, and there would probably have been a quiet half-hour after
other callers had gone when he would have stayed as he had been doing
of late, and tried to find out whether he really cared for her or not.

Suppose, for instance, they were married, and she sat beside him now.
Would any glad thrill fill his heart as he looked at her beautiful face
and realized that she was his? He tried to look over toward the next
chair and imagine that the tired, fat old lady with the double chin and
the youthful purple hat was Julia, but that would not work. He whirled
his chair about and tried it on an empty chair. That went better; but
still no thrill of joy lifted him out of his sordid self. He could not
help thinking about little trying details. The way Julia looked when
she was vexed. Did one mind that in the woman one loved? The way she
ordered her coachman about. Would she ever speak so to her husband? She
had a charming smile, but her frown was--well--unbecoming to say the
least.

He tried to keep up the fallacy of her presence. He bought a magazine
that he knew she liked, and read a story to her (in imagination). He
could easily tell how her black eyes would snap at certain phrases she
disliked. He knew just what her comment would be upon the heroine’s
conduct. It was an old disputed point between them. He knew how she
would criticize the hero, and somehow he felt himself in the hero’s
place every time she did it. The story had not been a success, and he
felt a weariness as he laid the magazine aside at the call for dinner
from the dining-car.

Before he had finished his luncheon he had begun to feel that though
Julia might think now that she would like to marry him, the truth
about it was that she would not enjoy the actual life together any
better than he would. Were all marriages like that? Did people lose
the glamour and just settle down to endure each other’s faults and
make the most of each other’s pleasant side, and not have anything
more? Or was he getting cynical? Had he lived alone too long, as his
friends sometimes told him, and so was losing the ability really to
love anybody but himself? He knit his brows, and got up whistling to go
out and see why the train had stopped so long in this little country
settlement.

It was just beyond Princeton, and they were not far now from New York.
It would be most annoying to be delayed so near to his destination. He
was anxious to get things in train for his evening of hard work. It
was necessary to find out how the land lay as soon as possible.

It appeared that there was a wrecked freight ahead of them, and there
would be delay. No one knew just how long; it would depend on how soon
the wrecking train arrived to help.

Gordon walked nervously up and down the grass at the side of the track,
looking anxiously each way for sign of the wrecking train. The thought
of Julia did occur to him, but he put it impatiently away, for he knew
just how poorly Julia would bear a delay on a journey even in his
company. He had been with her once when the engine got off the track
on a short trip down to a Virginia house-party, and she was the most
impatient creature alive, although it mattered not one whit to any of
the rest of the party whether they made merry on the train or at their
friend’s house. And yet, if Julia were anything at all to him, would
not he like the thought of her companionship now?

A great white dog hobbled up to him and fawned upon him as he turned
to go back to the train, and he laid his hand kindly upon the animal’s
head, and noted the wistful eyes upon his face. He was a noble dog, and
Gordon stood for a moment fondling him. Then he turned impatiently and
tramped back to his car again. But when he reached the steps he found
that the dog had followed him.

Gordon frowned, half in annoyance, half in amusement, and sitting down
on a log by the wayside he took the dog’s pink nozzle into his hands,
caressing the white fur above it gently.

The dog whined happily, and Gordon meditated. How long would the train
wait? Would he miss getting to New York in time for the dinner? Would
he miss the chance to rise in his chief’s good graces? The chief would
expect him to get to New York some other way if the train were delayed.
How long ought he to wait on possibilities?

All at once he saw the conductor and trainmen coming back hurriedly.
Evidently the train was about to start. With a final kindly stroke of
the white head, he called a workman nearby, handed him half a dollar to
hold the dog, and sprang on board.

He had scarcely settled himself into his chair, however, before the
dog came rushing up the aisle from the other end of the car, and
precipitated himself muddily and noisily upon him.

With haste and perturbation Gordon hurried the dog to the door and
tried to fling him off, but the poor creature pulled back and clung to
the platform yelping piteously.

Just then the conductor came from the other car and looked at him
curiously.

“No dogs allowed in these cars,” he said gruffly.

“Well, if you know how to enforce that rule I wish you would,” said
Gordon. “I’m sure I don’t know what to do with him.”

“Where has he been since you left Washington?” asked the grim conductor
with suspicion in his eyes.

“I certainly haven’t had him secreted about me, a dog of that size,”
remarked the young man dryly. “Besides, he isn’t my dog. I never saw
him before till he followed me at the station. I’m as anxious to be rid
of him as he is to stay.”

The conductor eyed the young man keenly, and then allowed a grim sense
of humor to appear in one corner of his mouth.

“Got a chain or a rope for him?” he asked more sympathetically.

“Well, no,” remarked the unhappy attaché of the dog. “Not having had an
appointment with the dog I didn’t provide myself with a leash for him.”

“Take him into the baggage-car,” said the conductor briefly, and
slammed his way into the next car.

There seemed nothing else to be done, but it was most annoying to
be thus forced on the notice of his fellow-travellers, when his
commission required that he be as inconspicuous as possible.

At Jersey City he hoped to escape and leave the dog to the tender
mercies of the baggage man, but that official was craftily waiting
for him and handed the animal over to his unwilling master with a
satisfaction ill-proportioned to the fee he had received for caring for
him.

Then began a series of misfortunes. Disappointment and suspicion
stalked beside him, and behind him a voice continually whispered his
chief’s last injunction: “Don’t let anything hinder you!”

Frantically he tried first one place and then another, but all to no
effect. Nobody apparently wanted to care for a stray white dog, and
his very haste aroused suspicion. Once he came near being arrested as
a dog thief. He could not get rid of that dog! Yet he must not let him
follow him! Would he have to have the animal sent home to Washington as
the only solution of the problem? Then a queer fancy seized him that
just in some such way had Miss Julia Bentley been shadowing his days
for nearly three years now; and he had actually this very day been
considering calmly whether he might not have to marry her, just because
she was so persistent in her taking possession of him. Not that she was
unladylike, of course; no, indeed! She was stately and beautiful, and
had never offended. But she had always quietly, persistently, taken it
for granted that he would be her attendant whenever she chose; and she
always chose whenever he was in the least inclined to enjoy any other
woman’s company.

He frowned at himself. Was there something weak about his character
that a woman or a dog could so easily master him? Would any other
employee in the office, once trusted with his great commission, have
allowed it to be hindered by a dog?

Gordon could not afford to waste any more time. He must get rid of him
at once!

The express office would not take a dog without a collar and chain
unless he was crated; and the delays and exasperating hindrances seemed
to be interminable. But at last, following the advice of a kindly
officer, he took the dog to an institution in New York where, he was
told, dogs were boarded and cared for, and where he finally disposed
of him, having first paid ten dollars for the privilege. As he settled
back in a taxicab with his watch in his hand, he congratulated himself
that he had still ample time to reach his hotel and get into evening
dress before he must present himself for his work.

Within three blocks of the hotel the cab came to such a sudden
standstill that Gordon was thrown to his knees.