THE LIGHT IN THE DOME

From where he sat, in a tiny alcove which jutted out and encroached upon
the line of the sidewalk, Mr. Grimm looked down on Pennsylvania Avenue,
the central thread of Washington, ever changing, always brilliant,
splashed at regular intervals with light from high-flung electric arcs.
The early theater crowd was in the street, well dressed, well fed,
careless for the moment of all things save physical comfort and
amusement; automobiles, carriages, cabs, cars flowed past endlessly; and
yet Mr. Grimm saw naught of it. In the distance, at one end of the
avenue the dome of the capitol cleft the shadows of night, and a single
light sparkled at its apex; in the other direction, at the left of the
treasury building which abruptly blocks the wide thoroughfare, were the
shimmering windows of the White House.

Motionless, moody, thoughtful, Mr. Grimm sat staring, staring straight
ahead, comprehending none of these things which lay before him as in a
panorama. Instead, his memory was conjuring up a pair of subtle,
blue-gray eyes, now pleading, now coquettish, now frankly defiant; two
slim, white, wonderful hands; the echo of a pleasant, throaty laugh; a
splendid, elusive, radiant-haired phantom. Truly, a woman of mystery!
Who was this Isabel Thorne who, for months past, had been the
storm-center and directing mind of a vast international intrigue which
threatened the world with war? Who, this remarkable young woman who with
ease and assurance commanded ambassadors and played nations as pawns?

Now that she was safely out of the country Mr. Grimm had leisure to
speculate. Upon him had devolved the duty of blocking her plans, and he
had done so--merciless alike of his own feeling and of hers. Hesitation
or evasion had never occurred to him. It was a thing to be done, and he
did it. He wondered if she had understood, there at the last beside the
rail? He wondered if she knew the struggle it had cost him deliberately
to send her out of his life? Or had even surmised that her expulsion
from the country, by his direct act, was wholly lacking in the
exaltation of triumph to him; that it struck deeper than that, below the
listless, official exterior, into his personal happiness? And wondering,
he knew that she _did_ understand.

A silent shod waiter came and placed the coffee things at his elbow. He
didn't heed. The waiter poured a demi-tasse, and inquiringly lifted a
lump of sugar in the silver tongs. Still Mr.