the ambassador. “You are in love!”
Van Ingen flushed at the thrust. “I am in earnest,” he said simply.
The ambassador studied his fingertips. “I might say,” he observed gravely, “that such a course as you outline — minus the £500 — had already occurred to me. Certain financial — er — adventures in which Grayson was engaged, with others, have come before my attention, and it appeared advisable to throw a searchlight upon the somewhat shadowy obscurity of his death. But my attitude in the investigation differs slightly from yours.” His eyes, suddenly upraised, were slightly quizzical.
Van Ingen leaned forward breathlessly. He appeared to hang on his companion’s words. “Go on! Go on, sir!” he urged.
The older man continued: “I do not ask, then, as you, where is Mr. Grayson? I ask, where is Mr. Grayson’s money? The gentleman may be in heaven, or — ah! — elsewhere; presumably the latter. But, in either case, his money is not with him. Where is it, then? These, and several other interesting queries, I am waiting to put to Mr. Smith, who “ — he took out his watch—” is due here in precisely ten minutes.”
He smiled blandly at the young man, who seized his hand and wrung it fervently.
“And you will let me work under him, for you?”
“That was my intention before this interview. But, since your revelation, I doubt its wisdom. Coolness, impartiality of judgment—”
“Oh, come, sir!” protested Van Ingen, reddening. “I think I’ve had enough!”
The ambassador laughed. “Perhaps you have,” he conceded. “Especially as the young lady has not yet struck her colours — eh?”
“Nor shows the slightest signs of doing so,” replied Van Ingen ruefully. “There’s another fellow making the running — that foreign beggar, Poltavo.”
The ambassador looked up swiftly. “Not Count Poltavo, distantly related to the Czar?”
“Related to the devil!” muttered Van Ingen gloomily. “The way he gets around Doris—”
His guardian looked a little disturbed. “I am sorry for you, my boy. Poltavo is a strong man. I fancy he will give you quite a fight.” There was a discreet knock at the door, and, at the ambassador’s call, Jamieson entered. He bore a card, which he laid upon the table.
“I told him that you were engaged, Mr. Bierce, but he said he came in answer to your note.”
“Quite right!” replied the ambassador briskly.
“Show him in at once.” As the secretary vanished, the older man held up the bit of engraved pasteboard before the astonished eyes of his young friend. “Apropos!” he murmured.
Van Ingen reached for his hat. “I must be going,” he said hurriedly.
“Not so fast!” The ambassador waved him back to his chair. “Sit still. The investigation has begun!”
The door opened, and Count Poltavo entered the room.
The ambassador received him cordially. “It was good of you to come so promptly,” he said.
“I daresay my note puzzled you.”
“I shall not deny it,” smiled the count. He bowed politely to Van Ingen. “As you see, I have come directly on the heels of it, to hear the question.”
“I shall not keep you in suspense, Count Poltavo,” replied the ambassador gravely, “but come at once to the point. Briefly, some data which lie before me “ — he tapped a typewritten report upon the table—” connect you, somewhat vaguely, with a certain recent event. For reasons, I propose to investigate that event, and a truthful statement on your part—”
The count elevated his eyebrows slightly.
“Pardon me! I withdraw the unnecessary adjective.”
The count bowed. “And a statement on my part— “he murmured.
“Would be of great value to me at the present moment. And so I have ventured to write to you, as one gentleman to another, to beg your assistance.”
“And the question?” The count’s voice was like velvet. He outlined a pattern of the carpet with his cane.
The ambassador regarded him somewhat sternly. “How did you spend the evening of the eighteenth of thisfmonth?”
The count’s composure did not fail him. Not a muscle of his face moved under the sharp scrutiny of his questioner, but he hesitated a perceptible moment.
“The eighteenth?” He wrinkled his brows, in an effort at recollection. “Pardon me!” He took out a small, black, leather-bound book. “I sometimes scribble in it my random thoughts,” he explained. “It may contain something which will aid my memory of that particular night. Ah!” His face beamed. “Here it is! The night of the eighteenth, I was at the opera with Lady Dinsmore and her charming niece. Afterwards, I had a most interesting conversation with Mr. Van Ingen, in which he confided to me — ah! — his age.” He looked up brightly.
“Is that helpful?”
The ambassador smiled grimly. “And then?”
“Then we parted. I strolled for perhaps ten minutes, and took a taxicab home.” He appeared to reflect a moment. “I went directly to my study, and wrote for some time — several hours, perhaps. Later, I read.” He paused, and then added: “I am not, at any time, an insatiable sleeper. Four, or five hours at best, are all that I can manage. That morning it was dawn when I retired, and a faint, ghostly light was filtering through the shutters. I remember flinging them wide to look out, and wondering what the new day would bring to the world. It brought,” he concluded quietly, “great grief to my dear friends.”
He rose as he finished. “And now I regret that another engagement — with Lady Dinsmore, in truth — cuts short my time. I am glad if I have been able to aid you. And you will let me know if I can be of further service to you in this lamentable business.” He held out his hand. The ambassador sat still in his chair, smiling.
“One moment, my dear count, and, if Lady Dinsmore complains, refer her to me.”
The count looked at him amiably. “There is still another question?” he murmured.
“A small part of the same one,” the ambassador emended smoothly. “Where were you in the early part of the evening — before the opera?”
Poltavo laughed softly. “That is true,” he admitted. “For the moment I had completely forgotten. I dined at an unconscionably early hour with a business associate — I regret that I cannot give you his name—”
The ambassador glanced down at his report.
“Baggin?” he suggested.
The count turned a little white, but he answered composedly. “It is true. I dined with Mr. Baggin.”
“And did not Mr. Grayson call you up over the telephone during dinner?”
“Some one called Mr. Baggin,” responded the count indifferently. “I remember, because the fish grew cold and had to be sent away.”
“And then?”
“Then — we discussed — business. I have a little money lying idle which I desired Mr. Baggin to invest for me. Unfortunately, the sum was too small for his purpose.”
“And when did you join Mr. Grayson?”
The count stared. “Not at all!” He glanced down at the typewritten sheets, and an ironical smile touched his lips. “Your report appears to be — ah! — defective.
“It is,” agreed the ambassador. “I had hoped to supplement it by your information. May I ask you again — Did you not see Mr.