"Let me tell you something," she whispered. "This evening my uncle came into my room just before dinner. There is a little safe built in the wall for jewellery. He begged for the loan of it. His library safe, he said, was out of order. I couldn't see what he put in, but when he had closed the door he stood looking at it for a moment curiously. I made some jesting remark about its being a treasure chest, but he answered me seriously. 'You are going to sleep to-night, Pamela,' he said, 'within a few yards of a dozen or so of written words which will change the world's history.'" Lutchester was listening intently. There was a prolonged pause. "Well?" he asked, at last. She glanced at the little Yale key which hung from her bracelet. "Nothing! I was just wondering how I should be able to sleep through the night without opening the safe." "But surely your uncle didn't give you the key!" She shook her head. "I don't suppose he knows I have such a thing," she replied. "He has a master-key himself to all the safes, which he used. This is one the housekeeper gave me as soon as I arrived." Lutchester looked out into the darkness. "Tell me," he inquired, "is that your house--the next one to this?" "That's the old Hastings' house," she assented. "They are all family mansions along here." "It looks an easy place to burgle," he remarked. She laughed quietly. "I should think it would be," she admitted. "There are any quantity of downstair windows. We don't have burglaries in Washington, though --certainly not this side of the city." A little bevy of young people had found their way into the gardens. Lutchester waited until they had passed out of earshot before he spoke again. "I have reason to believe," he continued, "that in the course of their negotiations Fischer has deposited with your uncle a certain autograph letter, of which we have already spoken, making definite proposals to America if she will change her attitude on the neutrality question." "The written words," Pamela murmured. Lutchester's hand suddenly closed upon her wrist. She was surprised to find his fingers so cold, yet marvellously tenacious. "You are going to lose that key and I am going to find it," he said, quietly. "I am sorry--but you must." "I am going to do nothing of the sort," Pamela objected. His fingers remained like a cold vice upon her wrist. She made no effort to draw it away. "Listen," he said; "do you believe that the Hastings-cum-Fischer party is going to be the best thing that could happen for America?" "I certainly do not," she admitted. "Then do as I beg. Let me take that key from your bracelet. You shall have no other responsibility." "And what are you going to do with it?"