“If the newspapers ever discover—” The young diplomat stopped short before the enormity of the hypothesis. “It looks straight enough to me as a death notice, except for the tail. What does ‘Ana Alhari’ mean? Sort of a _requiescat?_” “Yes; like a mice!” said young Mr. McIntyre bitterly. “It means ‘Hurrah!’ That’s the sort of _requiescat_ it is!” “Ah! Then they got him the second time.” “What do you mean by ‘second time?’” “The Washington incident, of course, was the first; the attempted murder—that is, the narrow escape of Telfik Bey.” Young Mr. McIntyre looked baffled. “I’m blessed if I know what you’re up to, Jones,” he said. “But if you do know anything of this case I need your help. In Washington, where they failed, we fooled the newspapers. Here, where they’ve succeeded—“ “Who are ‘they?’” interrupted Jones. “That’s what I’m here to get at. The murderers of Telfik Bey, of course. My instructions are to find out secretly, if at all. For if it does get into the newspapers there’ll be the very deuce to pay. It isn’t desirable that even Telfik Bey’s presence here should have been known for reasons which—ah—(here Average Jones remarked the resumption of his friend’s official bearing)—which, not being for the public, I need not detail to you.” “You need not, in point of fact, tell me anything about it at all,” observed Average Jones equably. Pomposity fell away from Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre, leaving him palpably shivering. “But I need your help. Need it very much. You know something about handling the newspapers, don’t you?” “I know how to get things in; not how to keep them out.” The other groaned. “It may already be too late. What newspapers have you there?” “All of ’em. Want me to look?” Mr. McIntyre braced himself. “Turk dies at Palatia,” read Average Jones. “Mm—heart disease... wealthy Stamboul merchant... studying American methods... Turkish minister notified.” “Is that all?” “Practically.” “And the other reports?” Average Jones ran them swiftly over. “About the same. Hold on! Here’s a little something extra in the _Universal_.” “Found on the floor... bell-boy who discovered the tragedy collapses... condition serious... Supposedly shock—” “What’s that?” interrupted young Mr. McIntyre, half rising. “Shot?” “You’re nervous, Tommy. I didn’t say ‘shot.’ Said ‘shock’.” “Oh, of course. Shock—the bell-boy, it means.” “See here; first thing you know you’ll be getting me interested. Hadn’t you better open up or shut up?” Mr. McIntyre took a long breath and a resolution simultaneously. “At any rate I can trust you,” he said. “Telfik Bey is not a merchant. He is a secret, confidential agent of the Turkish government. He came over to New York from Washington in spite of warnings that he would be killed.” “You’re certain he was killed?” “I only wish I could believe anything else.” “Shot?” “The coroner and a physician whom I sent can find no trace of a wound.” “What do they say?” “Apoplexy.”