Important papers of vital interest to the Russian government—and of still more vital interest to the ambassador himself, so far as his reputation was concerned—had been mysteriously taken from the place where he had concealed them. He did not believe that they would prove of any immediate value to that government which he disguised under the name of Siamese, because, as he assured the detective, it would be impossible to read even the half that had been stolen without the presence of the remaining half, which was still in his possession. One word as to how the papers had been hidden away by the ambassador. In the first place it must be understood that all the writing was upon exceedingly thin paper, such as is used by diplomatic agents the world over, because it has so little bulk that much of it can be put away within a very small space. There were twenty-two of those thin sheets of paper in the stolen lot, and they had been rolled together tightly as one would roll a scroll or map. Then they had been put inside a tin cylinder that was less than an inch in diameter, and the cylinder itself, with the contents—now, where do you suppose a practical man like the ambassador would hide such an affair as that? In his safe? Not at all. Would he deposit them in a box at a safe-deposit institution? That would seem at first to be the logical place; but safe-deposit vaults have been opened before now, through subterfuge, and in other ways. Moreover, it was necessary to hide them where they could be reached quickly, in case he should want them. Well, the ambassador had selected a place most simple, after all. Remember that the very set of papers of which the stolen ones formed one-half, had been a long time in preparation when the ambassador first came to the United States, and that the necessity for concealing them had already arisen. One day at about that time, the ambassador, in riding through the country, across the river in Virginia, had passed, in his automobile, a place where an auction of household furniture was in progress. He had stopped and turned back. While he looked on at the scene, more in amusement than with interest, an old-fashioned bedstead had been offered for sale. It was a big four-poster, with canopy top and all; it was a handsome old thing, of the best mahogany—and the ambassador purchased it, suddenly possessed with an idea. That idea he had carried into execution before the bed was delivered at the embassy; and it consisted in having a hollow receptacle bored into each of the legs of the bedstead. Now stop a moment and consider just what this meant.