“What do you think it is?”
“I think it is of first importance, judging from known facts. If Carpenter can translate the cipher message, it will—”
“The Department has full faith in your diagnosis, Harleston. You’re the surgeon; you prescribe the treatment and I’ll see that it is followed. Now drive on with the story.”
“It begins with a letter, a photograph, a handkerchief, three American Beauty roses—all in the cab of the sleeping horse—”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the Secretary.
“—at one o’clock on Massachusetts Avenue and Eighteenth Street.”
“Is the horse still asleep, Harleston?”
“The horse awoke, and straightway went to his stand in Dupont Circle!” Harleston laughed and related the incidents of the night and early morning, finishing his account in the Secretary’s private office.
“Most amazing!” the latter reflected, eyes half-closed as though seeing a mental picture of it all.
Then he picked up the photograph and studied it awhile.