The next instant the boy was there,
a letter on the extended salver--then he faded away.
Harleston put aside the letter until he had finished his soup; then he
picked it up and turned it over. It was a hotel envelope, and addressed
simply: "Mr. Harleston," in a woman's handwriting--full and free, and,
unusual to relate, quite legible. He ran his knife under the flap and
drew out the letter. It was in the same hand that wrote the address.
"DEAR MR. HARLESTON:
"I've just seen someone whom I wish to avoid, so won't you be good
enough to dine with me in my apartment. It's No. 972, and cosy and
quiet--and please come at once. I'm waiting for you--with an explanation
for my disappearance.
"EDITH CLEPHANE."
"Hum!" said Harleston, and drummed thoughtfully on the table. Then he
arose, said a word to Philippe as he passed, and went out to the
elevator.
He got off at the ninth floor and walked down the corridor to No. 972.
It was a corner and overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth
Street. He tapped lightly on the door; almost immediately it was opened
by a maid--a very pretty maid, he noticed--who, without waiting for him
to speak, addressed him as Monsieur Harleston and told him that Madame
was expecting him.
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