The Embassy Murders

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IT was midnight. From the brilliance of one of Washington’s broad avenues, the lights of a large embassy building could be seen glowing upon the sidewalks of the street on which it fronted.

Parked cars lined the side street. One by one they were moving from their places, edging to the space in front of the embassy, where departing guests were ready to leave. An important social event was coming to its close.

The broad steps of the embassy were plainly lighted. Upon them appeared two men dressed in evening clothes. One was a tall, gray-haired individual; the other a stocky, square-faced man who leaned heavily upon a stout cane as he descended the steps. The two men paused as they reached the sidewalk.

“You have a car here, Mr. Rochelle?” inquired the tall man, as a uniformed attendant approached.

“No, senator,” returned the man with the cane. “It is not far to my residence. I prefer to walk. If you should care to accompany me—”

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