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  He was wholly unprepared for the chilling reception which was awaiting him. Steel Jeffers and his sinister pal were seated together. As Adams stepped up to the desk and gave the customary Roman salute, both men looked up, transfixing him with narrowed eyes.

  Then Dougherty smiled an evil twisted smile. His rat eyes glittered. “Where had you been, Lieutenant,” he demanded, “just before you burst in on us and took charge of this case?”

  Chapter IV

  From the doorway behind Adams came a smooth cold voice, “I can answer that question, Mr. Secretary.”

  Adams wheeled, and saw the cleancut inscrutable features of Captain Silva of the Intelligence Service. Chilling as was the sight of this notorious ace of inquisitors, yet it came as a welcome diversion. For Dougherty would have had the admission out of Adams in another moment.

  Silva continued, “Lieutenant Adams was buying peanuts at the corner in front of the White House.”

  Secretary Dougherty growled, and Steel Jeffers laughed a brief cold laugh.

  Captain Silva, twirling one of his pointed black mustaches, went on, “Naturally my first step when assigned to this investigation was to check up on Mr. Adams.” Then, as Adams bristled, “No offense, Lieutenant. One should always suspect the man who calls the police. The doorman saw you distinctly. You walked briskly to old Giuseppe’s stand, bought a bag of peanuts without even stopping to chat with the Italian, as I am informed you usually do; and then returned, munching your purchase. You met no one either coming or going.”

  Adams, smiling confidently now, reached inside his blouse toward his left shoulder.

  “Stop him!” shrieked the Secretary.

  Captain Silva leaped forward. But, before he could reach Adams, the latter had brought out a half-empty paper bag, and held it toward the Secretary, “Have a peanut, Mr. Dougherty,” he invited.

  “Bah!” spat the Secretary, knocking the bag aside with one claw-like hand. “Peanuts! Bah!”

  Steel Jeffers sniffed contemptuously. “What did you expect? A gun? He’d have reached for his hip, not his shoulder, if he’d wanted to pot you. He’s an Army officer, not a gangster. Cut out the jitters, Jim, or you’ll have me jittery too.”

  “Can you joke, Mr. President, when the fate of the nation is at stake? Sometimes—I wonder—” He caught himself. Then suddenly his evil eyes narrowed, as he wheeled around to Captain Silva, and pointed at Adams. “Search him!” he commanded.

  As Adams held his arms above his head, he grinned with thankful recollection of having put the laboratory key back into the plant-pot where he had found it. The search over, he asked, ignoring the discomfited Secretary, “And now, Excellency, am I still in charge of the investigation?”

  Receiving the President’s nod, he swept from the room, followed by Captain Silva.

  Newsboys were crying an extra on the Avenue. Adams sent one of the White House guards to buy a paper. The headlines read: “ADMIRAL SOUTHWORTH CRASHES.” Adams hurriedly perused the item. It related that, on nosing down for a landing at the Adirondack lake where the Admiral had his lodge, his plane had grazed a tree. The Admiral had suffered a severe head injury and was unconscious, but was expected to live.

  Adam’s gray eyes flashed. It was too bad that something had to happen to the fine old sea-dog; but Southworth’s incapacity would be worthwhile, if it should disclose just what part he had been playing in the life of the President!

  Newspaper in hand, and with a synthetic expression of concern on his face, Adams rushed to the Blue Room. As he entered, Steel Jeffers was saying, “-which means a good long rest for me, Jim.”

  “Unless that scamp Adams succeeds in finding the missing test—” added Secretary Dougherty, breaking off abruptly, as he saw the Lieutenant. “Oh, it’s you? We know the news, and are already in touch with Southworth’s lodge.”

  Lieutenant Adams carefully failed to find the missing bottles. He felt a bit guilty when, later in the day, Jeffers complained of a slight attack of dizziness, and retired to his bedroom. For, in spite of Adams’ unquestioned loyalty to the revolutionary cause, he had developed a real affection and admiration for the chief whom he was supposed to be serving. Adams could not help believing that, if the evil influence of Secretary of State Dougherty were removed, the President would revert to the idealistic program of economic and social reform originally mapped out for him by his now-missing sister.

  But, whatever good the purloined bottle of “t-e-s-t—” might have done to the President, it gave very little information to the members of the conspiracy. No methods of organic chemistry of which even the expert Godfrey Cabot was capable, produced any analysis other than simple cholesterol dissolved in alcohol. The stocky young chemist was a biologist as well, and positively asserted that cholesterol could not have any bearing on Jeffers’ condition.

  “I looked it up in the Pharmacopoeia and in the dispensary,” he stated. “No mention of it at all in the former. Latter merely says it is a constituent of cod liver oil. Can be isolated by first saponifying the oil, and then exhausting the resulting soap with ether. Cholesterol in cod liver oil runs about 0 .46 to 1 .32 per cent.”

  Simeon Baldwin’s chubby face beamed with a sudden idea. “Cod liver oil!” he exclaimed. “The very thing. I’ll bet that Southworth and Vierecke have discovered what causes cod liver oil to pep people up.”

  “I doubt it,” Cabot thoughtfully replied, shaking his massive head. “I injected some into some guinea-pigs over at Public Health Service. Didn’t pep ‘em up a bit.”

  Baldwin’s face fell. Liam Lincoln shook back his black forelock, and inquired, “Did the label give you any clue, Godfrey?”

  Cabot pursed up his lips. Nothing in either book, beginning with ‘T-E-S-T’,” he said, “except, of course, the whole range of test solutions.”

  “What are those?”

  “Solutions of reagents.”

  “And what are reagents?”

  “Things used in tests.”

  “Well, couldn’t the ‘T-E-S-T’ stand for that?”

  “No,” judicially, “don’t think so. Cholesterol is not a reagent. Test solutions are usually kept in glass-stoppered bottles, not diaphragm-covered ones. Official abbreviation for ‘test solution’ is ‘T.S.,’ not ‘T-E-S-T.’ No. Sim’s hunch is best; but the guinea-pigs don’t react.”

  The conspirators seemed no closer to the solution of the mystery. Nevertheless, the destruction of Dr. Vierecke’s supply of little bottles, and the enforced absence of Admiral Southworth, had certainly in some unexplainable way contributed to the illness of Steel Jeffers! He remained shut up in his room, and refused to see anyone except Vierecke and Dougherty. Not even his aide, Jack Adams, or any of the servants.

  Adams marveled at the speed with which, all over the country, unrest came to the surface, the moment that the iron grip of Steel Jeffers was relaxed. The Liberty League and the Civil Liberties Union staged demonstrations, of course expressing complete loyalty to President Jeffers, but disapproval of the way the country was being run during his temporary incapacity; and the dread Secret Service did not pounce upon them. “Freedom of the press” appeared again. Several Governors raised their voices in opposition to Federal encroachment.

  A whispering campaign of rumors, as to the state of the President’s health and even of his mind, swept from coast to coast. One yarn had it that Jeffers had become hopelessly insane, and that the executive orders which were being issued over his signature were forgeries perpetrated by the much-hated Secretary of State, with the collusion of “that foreigner,” Franz Vierecke.

  Senator Anders of New Hampshire had the temerity to introduce a resolution declaring the Presidency vacant and calling upon Vice President Nieman to assume control.

  Meanwhile Godfrey Cabot’s guinea-pigs continued unaffected by the sample of the mysterious chemical which Adams had stolen from the White House laboratory. The conspirators, although still at a loss to explain the President’s illness, nevertheless started a rumor, which sprea
d and obtained a credence, to the effect that Steel Jeffers was afflicted with some obscure malady, with which only one physician in the whole world, the stricken Southworth, was capable of coping.

  Admiral Southworth had finally come out of his coma, but was too weak to be moved. His assistant made a rush trip to his mountain cabin, and came back very much depressed. Rumor had it that Vierecke had gone in search of certain information, but that the Admiral had refused to talk.

  At one of the secret evening meetings in the cellar of Adams’ house on P Street, he and Liam Lincoln disagreed over tactics. The latter had reached the conclusion that now was the time for their movement to come out into the open and throw its forces into the scales against the national administration. Many prominent public officials throughout America, who were in touch with this Washington group, eagerly awaited Liam Lincoln’s assurance that the time for rebellion had arrived.

  But Adams advised further delay. “Wait until we absolutely know just how dependent Steel Jeffers is on Admiral Southworth. Their simultaneous illnesses may be a mere coincidence.”

  “Adams, I doubt your loyalty.” the fanatic Lincoln declared.

  Adams leaped at him. Their pals separated them. The two apologized. But the row rankled; and it rankled especially in Liam Lincoln, for the group endorsed Adams’ Fabian policy.

  Leaving the White House the next evening, Adams happened to pass through the servants’ entrance. His foot was on the bottom step, when the door opened behind him. He turned at the sound, and the light from within momentarily illumined a feminine figure, shrouded in a hooded cape. Dainty silver slippers and the edge of a blue evening gown protruded below the bottom of the cape, but it was the brief glimpse of the girl’s face which arrested Adams’ attention. Tendrils of dark hair twined beneath the edges of her hood. Her resemblance to the President was striking; but, where Steel’s face was firm and masculine, hers was delicately rounded and feminine and alluring.

  “Helen Jeffers!” Adams declared to himself, as she passed him and dodged into the shadows.

  With sudden determination, he followed her.

  Chapter V

  The mysterious girl from the White House hurried furtively through the trees toward the Parkway, then along its winding stretches to the Hotel Washington. Never for an instant did Lieutenant Adams let her out of his sight. He entered the hotel only a few steps behind her.

  As she paused and gazed around the lobby, Adams got a better view of her face. Unquestionably, it was the face of the photograph from Sim Baldwin’s dossier. But where the photograph had showed a mere pretty girl, this face had the maturity and charm of a ravishingly beautiful woman; exactly the change that the four years since her supposed death could be expected to bring.

  Jack Adams’ heart missed several beats, and then raced madly. The girl turned full toward him. He flushed, looked away, and stepped backward stumbling over the end of a stone bench in the lobby.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed in delicious tones. “Did I bump into you, or something?”

  “Er—no,” Adams hastily replied. “I guess it’s just that I can’t stand so much sheer beauty, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” stiffening a bit. “Do I know you or something?”

  “I guess it must have been two other fellows,” laughed Adams. And the girl laughed too.

  Adams squared his broad shoulders. Here was opportunity—for the Cause, of course. He must not misplay. The twinkle in his gray eyes, and the whimsical twist of his handsome mouth, belied his fixed determination.

  “After all, I do believe that we’ve met,” he began.

  “You’re making me feel very conspicuous,” she objected, yet she did not move away.

  “I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “Let’s sit down over here.” He led her to a chair in a far corner of the lobby. As she seated herself, and glanced inquiringly up at him, Adams added, “And now that we are so well acquainted, perhaps you will tell me your name.”

  He sat down beside her, and leaned across, intently studying her perfect features. She smiled back at him—provocatively. She let her cloak fall back from her shoulders, disclosing a summer evening gown of flowered blue chiffon, gently clinging, revealing.

  “No,” she replied, but with the light of mischief in her violet eyes. “I’m a stranger here, a school-teacher on a holiday. I don’t pick up men, usually. I think I’m going to like you, but let’s not spoil this charming interlude by knowing too much about each other. Just call me ‘you’.”

  “Hey, you!” said Adams laughing, though his pulses were pounding madly because of her nearness. “Are you staying at this hotel, you?”

  “You sound like a detective from the Army Intelligence Service, or something, though your crossed guns indicate Coast Artillery. Perhaps you are one of the secret agents of the President?”

  “Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed.

  She was watching him intently. “So you don’t approve of Steel Jeffers?” she asked, innocently.

  Did she know his identity? The President’s sister ought to know by sight the President’s aide. But was she Helen Jeffers? In fact, was Helen Jeffers even still alive?

  Then suddenly a thought occurred to him. Might not her presence in Washington, rather than the theft of the missing bottles, be the cause of the slackening of Jeffers’ ruthlessness? Down tumbled all the preconceived notions of the conspiracy. For a moment Adams felt depressed, then brightened again at the thought that maybe this new explanation could be turned to some use.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” said the girl. “When I asked you just now whether you approve of Steel Jeffers, you went into a blind daze. Yet that is a question which any loyal American ought to be able to answer offhand, without study.”

  “Yes,” Adams replied, his eyes gazing intently into hers. “I am a deep admirer of the President. And I am a sincere believer in the policies which elected him.” This line ought to go good with the girl who had outlined those policies, if indeed this were she. “But I believe that he is unfortunate in the choice of some of his advisers.”

  “I’m glad you like my, er, Steel Jeffers,” the girl exclaimed. “But I am surprised that you do not approve of Secretary Dougherty.”

  “I mentioned no names,” Adams hastily interposed.

  “No?” She laughed her tingling silvery laugh.

  “Let’s not talk politics,” begged the young Lieutenant. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes.

  “Then how about a movie?”

  She nodded and smiled.

  At the theater, the newsreel dealt very guardedly with the President’s illness, exhibiting “canned” flashes of Jeffers himself; of the sinister Dougherty; and of the flea-bitten old sea doctor, whom it reported as rapidly convalescing.

  The audience greeted the picture of Jeffers with applause, at which the girl seemed to thrill. Dougherty drew hisses and some boos, at which the girl stiffened. Southworth evoked merely a rustling interest.

  After the show Adams took the girl to the Washington Roof. Several of the diners turned and stared at the distinguished-looking blond young man in black uniform and his stunning dark-haired partner in blue.

  The head-waiter greeted him effusively by name. Adams tried to silence the man by a glance, but the man kept on bowing and scraping and calling him “Lieutenant Adams.”

  “Oh, so you’re the President’s aide!” the girl announced, as the waiter seated her. “How banal of me to have asked what you thought of him! And how dangerous of you to have revealed your disapproval of Secretary Dougherty. How do you know that I am not a Secret Service agent, or something?”

  “I’d trust you anywhere,” breathed Adams.

  “So?”

  “Yes! And look here, Helen, why can’t we-?”

  “’Helen’? Why do you call me ‘Helen’?”

  Adams bit his lip. The name had come so naturally! His face took a hunted look. “Helen of Troy, ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’, you know.”r />
  Her purple eyes narrowed and her face became grave, as, ignoring the compliment, she snapped, “That’s not the truth, Adams. Why did you call me ‘Helen’?”

  Cornered he stammered, “I saw a picture once of the President’s sister. Her name was Helen. You look so like her that I’ve been thinking of her all evening.”

  “Well, of all the complimentary men!” she commented sarcastically.

  But he was not to be laughed off. “You are Helen Jeffers,” he insisted.

  She sobered suddenly. “Helen died four years ago. She was my sister.”

  Adams gasped. “I didn’t know there were two girls in the Jeffers family.”

  “There weren’t. Helen was the only one.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said Helen was my sister. So she was.” Suddenly her voice became deep and guttural and male. “I am Steel Jeffers.”

  She paused to let that information sink in, as Adams stared in horrified silence. Then the disguised President continued, in feminine tones again, “I played girl parts in Triangle Club shows at Princeton, and have not forgotten the art of make-up and impersonation. And so, in these hectic times, I disguise myself and go out among my subjects, like Haroun Al Raschid, to learn firsthand what they think of me. The results have been gratifying. And particularly gratifying, permit me to say, has been your own expression of loyalty to me—and to the principles which made me President.”

  Adams continued to stare. Finally he found his voice, and gasped out, “But, Excellency, you were reported too ill to leave your room. How is it safe for you to be out alone and unguarded like this?”

  “I am neither alone nor unguarded, thanks to you. As to whether I am safe… Secretary Dougherty does not know that I am out,” the disguised President enigmatically replied.

  Chapter VI