A thump was heard at his door. He called out _Herein!_ whereat a person in uniform strode in and stuck into Deming's hands a majestic communication from which he made out with some difficulty that he was peremptorily ordered to appear at Police Headquarters at eleven that forenoon. Fully conscious of the political innocence of his conduct, he welcomed this new diversion and, humming the latest opera bouffe air, he dressed in his best with a posy in his lapel. His gay feelings were a little dampened at the Platz where he encountered a massive solemnity and sullen looks as if he were an arch criminal of State. A ponderous minor individual, not unarmed, commanded him to be seated in front of his desk and, eying him sternly, handed over one of Jim's invitations to the George Washington party. "Do you know of this?" "Yes, sir," replied Jim, surprised that this harmless missive had turned up among the Police, and wondering what it could all be about. "Have you authorization?" "Authorization, sir?" "What _is_ this?" roared the petty functionary. "Why, nothing at all. It means dance--ball--a little dance we had." "Dance--ball." The other repeated the words with a severity that champed upon its bits. "Are you this party?" He tried to pronounce Jim's formidable name on the card. "Yes, sir." "What does this mean--Sec., CCC?" he roared again. Deming was getting upset, confused besides by his inadequate vocabulary. "I don't know in German, but in English we say Secretary of the Cinderella Cotillion Coterie." "Ah, you say _Secretary_. It is English." And an enlightened satisfaction furrowed the hardened face of the interlocutor. Then, abruptly to Deming's relief: "You may go." As Jim rose to leave he found a court flunkey at either elbow. They escorted him out with a military precision and flourish. He congratulated himself on the easy way he had got through with it. He must have somehow managed it pretty well. Two days later, in the evening, an attendant from the Intelligence Office ushered himself into Deming's room without announcement. He bore a summons for the next day. "Well, of all the damned fools!" Jim exclaimed to himself. "They don't seem to know I'm a free American citizen. I'll tell them this time. They are getting too familiar--walking into a chap's room without waiting to be invited." This time he was brought before a higher official with a more exalted mien, and manners of inextinguishable anger. He held the tell-tale notice of February twenty-second in his horny paw. Deming was this time not asked to sit down. "Who's this George?" was demanded. "Why, that's our great George," confirmed Jim, sharing with jaunty confidence this bit of universal knowledge. "George--George--the king of England," was the gratifying conclusion. "And what does this mean?" "That's Senate and the Roman People. That's just a joke." "Senate--Senate! Official."