Ford had been sprawling in a soft leather chair in front of the open fire. With the privilege of an old school-fellow and college classmate, he had been jabbing the soft coal with his walking-stick, causing it to burst into tiny flames. His cigarette drooped from his lips, his hat was cocked over one eye; he was a picture of indifference, merging upon boredom. But at the words of the boy his attitude both of mind and body underwent an instant change. It was as though he were an actor, and the words “thrown from the window” were his cue. It was as though he were a dozing fox-terrier, and the voice of his master had whispered in his ear: “Sick'em!” For a moment, with benign reproach, the Second Secretary regarded the unhappy page, and then addressed him with laborious sarcasm. “James,” he said, “people do not communicate with ambassadors in notes wrapped around half-crowns and hurled from windows. That is the way one corresponds with an organ-grinder.” Ford sprang to his feet. “And meanwhile,” he exclaimed angrily, “the man will get away.” Without seeking permission, he ran past James, and through the empty outer offices. In two minutes he returned, herding before him an individual, seedy and soiled. In appearance the man suggested that in life his place was to support a sandwich-board. Ford reluctantly relinquished his hold upon a folded paper which he laid in front of the Secretary. “This man,” he explained, “picked that out of the gutter in Sowell Street, It's not addressed to any one, so you read it!” “I thought it was for the Ambassador!” said the Secretary. The soiled person coughed deprecatingly, and pointed a dirty digit at the paper. “On the inside,” he suggested. The paper was wrapped around a half-crown and folded in at each end. The diplomat opened it hesitatingly, but having read what was written, laughed. “There's nothing in THAT,” he exclaimed. He passed the note to Ford. The reporter fell upon it eagerly. The note was written in pencil on an unruled piece of white paper. The handwriting was that of a woman. What Ford read was: “I am a prisoner in the street on which this paper is found. The house faces east. I think I am on the top story. I was brought here three weeks ago. They are trying to kill me. My uncle, Charles Ralph Pearsall, is doing this to get my money. He is at Gerridge's Hotel in Craven Street, Strand. He will tell you I am insane. My name is Dosia Pearsall Dale. My home is at Dalesville, Kentucky, U. S. A. Everybody knows me there, and knows I am not insane. If you would save a life take this at once to the American Embassy, or to Scotland Yard. For God's sake, help me.” When he had read the note, Ford continue to study it. Until he was quite sure his voice would not betray his interest, he did not raise his eyes. “Why,” he asked, “did you say that there's nothing in this?” “Because,” returned the diplomat conclusively, “we got a note like that, or nearly like it, a week ago, and----”