"No one can ever know how it grieves me to leave America!" he was saying. "No one can ever know the aching that is in my heart that this unpleasantness has arisen between two great countries. It was my dream that we should have remained friends--and it shall always be my desire never to see war come between America and Germany. Ah, America--how I hate to leave you!" And in a large measure, Ambassador Bernstorff was telling the truth. For had not America furnished him a most amusing sequence of entertainment? Had not one "performance" after another been staged for him by his hard working spies, ranging from the killing of women and children to the mere destruction of factories, shipping and warehouses, filled with bandages and surcease of pain for the wounded--the stores of the Red Cross? Had he not gained amusement every day in his statements of neutrality and friendliness, as he met the correspondents in the Embassy? Yes, it was more than painful for him to leave America. There would be no mass of spy code messages for him to read each morning. There would be no morning copy of the newspaper to gloat over--as its columns told of the destruction wrought by the bomb-planters of the German spy system. "Ah, America," he whined again, "how it grieves me to say goodby!" Then he turned at the sight of Albert. "Well?" he asked. "Everything is arranged, your Excellency." "Good!" Then Bernstorff turned and masked his smile with a blinking of his crocodile-tear smeared eyes, as a new shower of flowers was tossed at him from pro-Germans on every side. Suddenly he stared. Harrison Grant of the Criminology Club was facing him, and holding forth a small package. "Since everyone is making presents, Your Excellency," said the detective with the slightest tinge of sarcasm, "I thought it only right that I should make one also." He handed the package to the Ambassador. Wonderingly, Bernstorff unfastened the string, and took the paper from the package. Then he stared. "Checkers!" he said wryly. "Yes, Your Excellency," answered the president of the Criminology Club, with a laugh, "it's your move, you know." And before the Ambassador could reply, Harrison Grant was gone, to reach the deck of the ship and make his way to the dock. There he saw the hurrying form of Dixie Mason--and rushed to her. "What's wrong?" "A great deal. There's a plot against the harbor. Where are your men?" "Scattered about the dock. I can gather them all up in five minutes." "Hurry! There is no time to lose!" A rush by Harrison Grant. A hasty summoning of members of the Criminology Club. Then, as the _Frederik VIII_ moved down the harbor of New York, Harrison Grant, Sisson, Cavanaugh, Stewart, Dixie Mason and other members of the Secret Service, leaped into automobiles, to be rushed far into the outskirts of town. In the mangy room of the bomb-maker, the captain was giving his final instructions. "Has everyone a bomb?" "Yes."