generally by every nation than any other cipher."

"I thought that you might be able to work it out," said Harleston. "You
can do it if any one on earth can."

"I can do some things, Mr. Harleston," smiled Carpenter deprecatingly,
"but I'm not omniscient. For instance: What language is the
key-word--French, Italian, Spanish, English? The message is written on
French paper, enclosed in an English envelope.--However, the facts you
have may clear up that phase of the matter."

"Here are the facts, as I know them," said Harleston.

Carpenter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and listened.

* * * * *

"The message is, I should confidently say, written in English or French,
with the chances much in favour of the latter," he said, when Harleston
had concluded. "Everyone concerned is English or American; the men who
descended upon you so peculiarly and foolishly, and who showed their
inexperience in every move, were Americans, I take it, as was also the
woman who telephoned you. Moreover, she is fighting them."

"Then your idea is that the United States is not concerned in the
matter?" the Secretary asked.

"Not directly, yet it may be very much concerned in the result. We will
know more about it after Mr. Harleston has had his interview with the
lady."

"That's so!" the Secretary reflected. "We shall trust you, Harleston, to
find out something definite from her. Keep me advised if anything turns
up. It seems peculiar, and it may be only a personal matter and not an
_affaire d'etat_. At all events, you've a pleasant interview before
you."

"Maybe I have--and maybe I haven't!" Harleston laughed--and he and
Carpenter went out, passing the French Ambassador in the anteroom.

Harleston went straight to Police Headquarters. The Chief was waiting
for him.

"I had Thompson, your cab driver, here," said Ranleigh, "and he tells a
somewhat unusual but apparently straight tale; moreover, he is a very
respectable negro, well known to the guards and the officers on duty
around Dupont Circle, and they regard him as entirely trustworthy. He
says that last evening about nine o'clock, when he was jogging down
Connecticut Avenue on his way home--he owns his rig--he was hailed by a
fare in evening dress, top coat, and hat, who directed him to drive west
on Massachusetts Avenue. In the neighbourhood of Twenty-second Street,
the fare signalled to stop and ordered him to come to the door. There h