“Then go alone.”

“I will.  It is the right thing to do.  Yesterday I was thinking that you had the letter and could return it to me.  I waited.  Today I can appreciate your reason for withholding it—­likewise the necessity for me to go to the Ambassador with my story.  And I shall tell him the whole story; he may believe it or not as he is inclined.  I’m only a volunteer in this affair, and I’ve decided that for me the course of discretion and frank honesty is much wiser than silently fighting back.  Furthermore, it does not estop me from fighting the Spencer gang.”

“You have made a wise decision,” Harleston commented.  “Tell the Ambassador, and be quit of the affair—­and don’t fight the Spencer gang, Mrs. Clephane; it is not worth while.”

She arose, and he went with her down the corridor and up the steps to the entrance.

“Every action is suspected and distrusted in diplomacy,” he said, “therefore I may not accompany you.  Someone would be sure to see us and report to the Embassy that I had brought you—­the natural effect of which would be to make the Marquis disbelieve your tale.  For you see, until we have translated the letter, we cannot assume that America is not concerned.”

“And you will not think ill of me for disclosing your part in the affair?” she asked.

“Quite the contrary,” he smiled.  “Moreover, it is the course for you to pursue; to hold back a single thing as to me will result only in distrust.  Indeed, implicating me will help substantiate your story.”

“You’re very good and very thoughtful,” she murmured—­and once more suffered him to look deep into her eyes.

“I am very willing for you to think me both,” he replied.  “Now I’m going to call a taxi at the Fourteenth Street exit, and follow yours up Sixteenth Street until I see you at the French Embassy.  Tell your chauffeur to drive down to Twelfth Street, up to H and then out to Sixteenth.  My taxi will be loitering on Sixteenth and will pick up yours as it passes and follow it to the Embassy.  Once there you’re out of danger of the Spencer gang.  And let me impress you with this fact:  tell the story to someone of the staff.  If you fail to get to the Ambassador, get a Secretary or an Attache.”

“I’ll try to find someone who will listen!” she laughed.

“And I rather fancy you will be successful,” he smiled.  “It would be a most unusual sort of man who won’t both listen and look.”

“Careful, Mr. Harleston!” she reminded.

He put her in the taxi; bowed and turned back into the hotel—­wondering why he had ever fancied Madeline Spencer.

Mrs. Clephane gave her orders to the chauffeur, ending with the injunction to drive slowly.

As they swung into Sixteenth Street, a taxi standing before St. John’s Episcopal Church followed them; and Mrs. Clephane recognized Harleston as its occupant.

At the French Embassy she descended and rang the bell, and was instantly admitted by a liveried footman.