“To-day is the 21st of February,” said the old man. “We _must_ know by the end of the month. Vast issues depend on it. Can you do it?” “I will try.” The voice came feebly and as from far away. “I must go now, _Excellenz_--the power--the power is failing--fast. Good-bye--good-bye, Kranz--take--take care of the girl--she--she is the--only means--of--communication----” The last words came in a whisper, ceased. The girl appeared to be in normal slumber. The old man turned to Kranz, spoke out of preoccupation which otherwise ignored him. “Give me my hat and coat!” A sudden anxiety paled the sallow face. “Your Excellency remembers what Karl said,” he murmured as he assisted his chief into the heavy fur-lined garment.--“The girl is the only means of communication. I need not remind Your Excellency that the girl is my----” “You need not remind me of anything, Kranz,” interrupted the old man, harshly. “You will not be forgotten. Good-night!” Kranz accompanied him obsequiously to the door. * * * * * On that evening of the 21st of February a cheerful little party was assembled around the dinner-table of Henry Forsdyke, Chief of a certain department in the United States Administration. The large room, which had been built by a Southern magnate who led Washington society in pre-Civil War days, was illumined only by the shaded lights of the table, and beyond the dazzling shirt-fronts of the men it lapsed into a gloom that was intensified by the dark curtains over the long windows and was scarcely relieved by the glinting gilt frames of the pictures spaced on the walls hung in a dull tint. In that half-light the servants moved, scarcely real. Only the party within the illuminated oval of white napery, sparkling glass, and gleaming silver was vividly actual, plucked out of shadow. It was a fad of the host’s, this concentration of the light upon the table. He alleged that it emphasized the personalities of his guests. His daughter, who was irreverent, accused him of an atavistic tendency that craved for the candle-light of his ancestors. Within the magic oval the party exchanged light-hearted talk that effervesced every now and then into merry laughter where a young girl’s voice predominated. All were in evident good spirits. The host himself, a man of between fifty and sixty years, with shrewd gray eyes looking out of a face characterized by a pointed and neatly clipped iron-gray beard, set the tone. He smiled down the table with a contentment that seemed to spring from a secret satisfaction, the contentment of a man who has completed an anxious and difficult task and can now relax. He was in his best vein of sententious humour. The same undertone of relief could have been discerned by the acute in the gaiety of young Jimmy Lomax, Forsdyke’s private secretary, although one alone of the little glances between him and his host’s daughter, if intercepted, might have seemed sufficient reason.