ash-dot!"

Mr. Grimm read it with perfect understanding; it was "F--F--F" in the
Morse code, the call of one operator to another. Was it accident? Mr.
Grimm wondered, and wondering he went on talking lazily:

"Curious, isn't it, the smaller the nation the more color it crowds into
the uniforms of its diplomatists? The British ambassador, you will
observe, is clothed sanely and modestly, as befits the representative of
a great nation; but coming on down by way of Spain and Italy, they get
more gorgeous. However, I dare say as stout a heart beats beneath a
sky-blue sash as behind the unembellished black of evening dress."

"F--F--F," the fan was calling insistently.

And then the answer came. It took the unexpectedly prosaic form of a
violent sneeze, a vociferous outburst on a bench directly behind Mr.
Grimm. Senorita Rodriguez jumped, then laughed nervously.

"It startled me," she explained.

"I think there must be a draft from the conservatory," said a man's
voice apologetically. "Do you ladies feel it? No? Well, if you'll excuse
me--?"

Mr. Grimm glanced back languidly. The speaker was Charles Winthrop
Rankin, a brilliant young American lawyer who was attached to the German
embassy in an advisory capacity. Among other things he was a Heidelberg
man, having spent some dozen years of his life in Germany, where he
established influential connections. Mr. Grimm knew him only by sight.

And now the rhythmical tapping of Miss Thorne's fan underwent a change.
There was a flutter of gaiety in her voice the while the ivory fan
tapped steadily.

"Dot-dot-dot! Dash! Dash-dash-dash! Dot-dot-dash! Dash!"

"S--t--5--u--t," Mr. Grimm read in Morse. He laughed pleasantly at some
remark of his companion.

"Dash-dash! Dot-dash! Dash-dot!" said the fan.

"M--a--n," Mr. Grimm spelled it out, the while his listless eyes roved
aimlessly over the throng. "S--t--5--u--t m--a--n!" Was it meant for
"stout man?" Mr. Grimm wondered.

"Dot-dash-dot! Dot! Dash-dot-dot!"

"F--e--d," that was.

"Dot-dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash! Dash-dot-dash-dot! Dot!"

"Q--a--j--e!" Mr. Grimm was puzzled a little now, but there was not a
wrinkle, nor the tiniest indication of perplexity in his face. Instead
he began talking of Raphael's cherubs, the remark being called into life
by the high complexion of a young man who was passing. Miss Thorne
glanced at him once keenly, her splendid eyes fairly aglow, and the fan
rattled on in the code.

"Dash-dot