and Mr. Grimm hastily scribbled
something on a sheet of paper and handed it to his chief.

"There is a reading, in the Morse code, of a message that seems to be
unintelligible," Mr. Grimm explained. "I have reason to believe it is
in the Continental code. You know the Continental--I don't."

Mr. Campbell read this:

"St5ut man fed qaje neaf j5nsefvat5f," and then came the unknown,
dash-dot-dash-dash. "That," he explained, "is Y in the Continental
code." It went on: "d55f bfing 5vef when g g5es."

The chief read it off glibly:

"Stout man, red face, near conservatory door. Bring over when G goes."

"Very well!" commented Mr. Grimm ambiguously.

With no word of explanation, he rose and went out, pausing at the door
to take the ice which the servant was bringing in. The seat where he had
left Senorita Rodriguez was vacant; so was the chair where Miss Thorne
had been. He glanced about inquiringly, and a servant who stood stolidly
near the conservatory door approached him.

"Pardon, sir, but the lady who was sitting here," and he indicated the
chair where Miss Thorne had been sitting, "fainted while dancing, and
the lady who was with you went along when she was removed to the ladies'
dressing-room, sir."

Mr. Grimm's teeth closed with a little snap.

"Did you happen to notice any time this evening a stout gentleman, with
red face, near the conservatory door?" he asked.

The servant pondered a moment, then shook his head.

"No, sir."

"Thank you."

Mr. Grimm was just turning away, when there came the sharp, vibrant
cra-a-sh! of a revolver, somewhere off to his left. The president! That
was his first thought. One glance across the room to where the chief
executive stood, in conversation with two other gentlemen, reassured
him. The choleric blue eyes of the president had opened a little at the
sound, then he calmly resumed the conversation. Mr. Grimm impulsively
started toward the little group, but already a cordon was being drawn
there--a cordon of quiet-faced, keen-eyed men, unobstrusively forcing
their way through the crowd. There was Johnson, and Hastings, and Blair,
and half a dozen others.

The room had been struck dumb. The dancers stopped, with tense,
inquiring looks, and the plaintive whine of the orchestra, far away,
faltered, then ceased. There was one brief instant of utter silence in
which white-faced women clung to the arms of their escorts, and the
brilliant galaxy of colors halted. Then, afte