or,
he says it's important."

"Tell him to leave it," said the Secretary. "Polo ponies----"

"Yes, Sir," interrupted the page. "But 'e won't leave it, not unless he
keeps the 'arf-crown."

"For Heaven's sake!" protested the Second Secretary, "then let him keep
the half-crown. When I say polo ponies, I don't mean----"

James, although alarmed at his own temerity, refused to accept the
dismissal. "But, please, Sir," he begged; "I think the 'arf-crown is for
the Ambassador."

The astonished diplomat gazed with open eyes.

"You think--WHAT!" he exclaimed.

James, upon the defensive, explained breathlessly.

"Because, Sir," he stammered, "it was INSIDE the note when it was thrown
out of the window."

Ford had been sprawling in a soft leather chair in front of the open
fire. With the privilege of an old school-fellow and college classmate,
he had been jabbing the soft coal with his walking-stick, causing it to
burst into tiny flames. His cigarette drooped from his lips, his hat
was cocked over one eye; he was a picture of indifference, merging upon
boredom. But at the words of the boy his attitude both of mind and body
underwent an instant change. It was as though he were an actor, and the
words "thrown from the window" were his cue. It was as though he were
a dozing fox-terrier, and the voice of his master had whispered in his
ear: "Sick'em!"

For a moment, with benign reproach, the Second Secretary regarded the
unhappy page, and then addressed him with laborious sarcasm.

"James," he said, "people do not communicate with ambassadors in notes
wrapped around half-crowns and hurled from windows. That is the way one
corresponds with an organ-grinder." Ford sprang to his feet.

"And meanwhile," he exclaimed angrily, "the man will get away."

Without seeking permission, he ran past James, and through the empty
outer offices. In two minutes he returned, herding before him an
individual, seedy and soiled. In appearance the man suggested that
in life his place was to support a sandwich-board. Ford reluctantly
relinquished his hold upon a folded paper which he laid in front of the
Secretary.

"This man," he explained, "picked that out of the gutter in Sowell
Street, It's not addressed to any one, so you read it!"

"I thought it was for the Ambassador!" said the Secretary.

The soiled person coughed deprecatingly, and pointed a dirty digit at
the paper. "On the inside," he suggested. The paper was wrapped around
a