know he should ask for an interpreter. That the officials had
not as yet used one showed apparently an attempt to let the accused,
thus handicapped, stumble into an incriminating confession.

CHAPTER XXVIII

JIM DEMING'S FATE

The scene was now transferred to a third chamber which looked
somewhat like an august tribunal of state. It was an imposing room
divided by a long high rostrum upon which sat a terrible looking
individual of the utmost lordliness. The attendants were numerous,
and if Deming had ever heard of the trial of Warren Hastings he
would have thought this appeared an occasion of almost equal
importance and gravity. When he arrived for his ordeal before the
bench, he seemed a rather small and defenseless figure.

For he was now to be subjected to a sort of "third degree," with a
court interpreter at hand. Every word that might be significant in
his bedeviling invitation of February twenty-second was gone over
with the minatory harshness of medieval inquisitors.

"February twenty-second. Why is that day?"

Deming explained through his intermediary. His interrogators
persisted in the idea that it was a pregnant date in English history
and had some sinister meaning like Guy Fawkes day. The pages of
British annals had evidently been scanned to find the hidden clew.

"'No flowers or singing of hymns.' What is all this?"

"Just a joke, tell him, just a little innocent fun," appealed Jim to
his translator.

"You signed yourself as Secretary. That contravenes the law. You had
no authority to assume an official position without conferring."

Then there was the mighty Senate and the Roman People again on the
mystic communication with its cryptic letters as full of mystery as
runes to these Germans. It was, of course, the language of a code.

"Tell him that there is no such thing in the world as the Roman
Senate and People," explained Deming with nervous despair. "That was
just fooling. Nothing political--nothing _political_!" he exclaimed.
Everything became less convincing and therefore visibly more
satisfactory, and looks and voices grew savage in proportion.

There was also the occult CCC.

"Who is Cinderella? Is he in Dresden with you? Where is he to be
found?" The word was indicated by a big thumb. Poor Jim, whose
specific information was as limited about Cinderella as about most
subjects, entered nevertheless on a long explanation not only
concerning her but concerning the playful innoce