Some days after the recovery of the houseboat, Average Jones sat at breakfast, according to his custom, in the café of the Hotel Palatia. Several matters were troubling his normally serene mind. First of these was the loss of the trail which should have led to Harvey Craig. Second, as a minor issue, the Oriental papers found in the deserted Bellair Street apartment had been proved, by translation, to consist mainly of revolutionary sound and fury, signifying, to the person most concerned, nothing. As for the issue of the Washington daily, culled from the houseboat, there was, amidst the usual mélange of social, diplomatic, political and city news, no marked passage to show any reason for its having been in the possession of “Smith.” Average Jones had studied and restudied the columns, both reading matter and advertising, until he knew them almost by heart. During the period of waiting for his order to be brought he was brooding over the problem, when he felt a hand-pressure on his shoulder and turned to confront Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, solemn of countenance and groomed with a supernal modesty of elegance, as befitted a rising young diplomat, already Fifth Assistant Secretary of State of the United States of America. “Hello, Tommy,” said the breakfaster. “What’ll you have to drink? An _entente cordiale?_” “Don’t joke,” said the other. “I’m in a pale pink funk. I’m afraid to look into the morning papers.” “Hello! What have you been up to that’s scandalous?” “It isn’t me,” replied the diplomat ungrammatically. “It’s Telfik Bey.” “Telfik Bey? Wait a minute. Let me think.” The name had struck a response from some thought wire within Average Jones’ perturbed brain. Presently it came to him as visualized print in small head-lines, reproduced to the mind’s eye from the Washington newspaper which he had so exhaustively studied. THIS TURK A QUICK JUMPER Telfik Bey, Guest of Turkish Embassy, Barely Escapes a Speeding Motor-Car No arrest, it appeared, had been made. The “story,” indeed, was brief, and of no intrinsic importance other than as a social note. But to Average Jones it began to glow luminously. “Who is Telfik Bey?” he inquired. “He isn’t. Up to yesterday he was a guest of this hotel.” “Indeed! Skipped without paying his bill?” “Yes—ah. Skipped—that is, left suddenly without paying his bill, if you choose to put it that way.” The tone was significant. Average Jones’ good natured face became grave. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Tommy. Was he a friend of yours?” “No. He was, in a sense, a ward of the Department, over here on invitation. This is what has almost driven me crazy.” Fumbling nervously in the pocket of his creaseless white waistcoat he brought forth a death notice. “From the _Dial_,” he said, handing it to Average Jones. The clipping looked conventional enough. DIED—July 21, suddenly at the Hotel Palatia: Telfik Bey of Stamboul, Turkey. Funeral services from the Turkish Embassy, Washington, on Tues. Ana Alhari.