half-crown and folded in at each end. The diplomat opened it
hesitatingly, but having read what was written, laughed.

"There's nothing in THAT," he exclaimed. He passed the note to Ford. The
reporter fell upon it eagerly.

The note was written in pencil on an unruled piece of white paper. The
handwriting was that of a woman. What Ford read was:

"I am a prisoner in the street on which this paper is found. The house
faces east. I think I am on the top story. I was brought here three
weeks ago. They are trying to kill me. My uncle, Charles Ralph Pearsall,
is doing this to get my money. He is at Gerridge's Hotel in Craven
Street, Strand. He will tell you I am insane. My name is Dosia Pearsall
Dale. My home is at Dalesville, Kentucky, U. S. A. Everybody knows me
there, and knows I am not insane. If you would save a life take this at
once to the American Embassy, or to Scotland Yard. For God's sake, help
me."

When he had read the note, Ford continue to study it. Until he was quite
sure his voice would not betray his interest, he did not raise his eyes.

"Why," he asked, "did you say that there's nothing in this?"

"Because," returned the diplomat conclusively, "we got a note like that,
or nearly like it, a week ago, and----"

Ford could not restrain a groan. "And you never told me!"

"There wasn't anything to tell," protested the diplomat. "We handed
it over to the police, and they reported there was nothing in it. They
couldn't find the man at that hotel, and, of course, they couldn't find
the house with no more to go on than----"

"And so," exclaimed Ford rudely, "they decided there was no man, and no
house!"

"Their theory," continued the Secretary patiently, "is that the girl is
confined in one of the numerous private sanatoriums in Sowell Street,
that she is insane, that because she's under restraint she IMAGINES
the nurses are trying to kill her and that her relatives are after
her money. Insane people are always thinking that. It's a very common
delusion."

Ford's eyes were shining with a wicked joy. "So," he asked
indifferently, "you don't intend to do anything further?"

"What do you want us to do?" cried his friend. "Ring every door-bell in
Sowell Street and ask the parlor-maid if they're murdering a lady on the
top story?"

"Can I keep the paper?" demanded Ford. "You can keep a copy of it,"
consented the Secretary. "But if you think you're on the track of a big
newspaper sensation, I can tell yo