ure of his face. He had the
happy consciousness that there were none like them in the United States.

"There is only one more question you can answer, Mr. Secretary," said
Inspector Byrnes, with a deferential look. "The watchman on the first
floor said he recognized your team. Will you please find out whether
your coupe was in or not between twelve and two? Coachmen have queer
tricks at times."

The coachman was immediately sent for. Meanwhile the Secretary stated
that he had come in at twelve from a late call on a personal friend.

"May I ask your friend's name?" interrupted the national sleuth-hound,
swiftly and politely.

"The Patagonian Ambassador," replied the Secretary with hauteur. He
added that he had sent his carriage instructing John, the family
coachman, to be on hand at eleven that morning. The carriage was
evidently not there, and in the excitement of the news the Secretary had
foregone his morning's Department business.

After half an hour of waiting, during which the two police officers had
sent out several messages, the coachman was ushered in among the
impatient quintet. Instead of the prim and stately master of the horse,
who was the despair of even his co-peer the Jehu of the English
Ambassador, and the admiration of the Washington gamin, there skulked in
a battered, bandaged, hastily-dressed man, who shuffled out incoherent
excuses, and burst into moist apologies.

"It wasn't my fault. The divil was in it. The hosses are safe. The
kerridge is well. I woke up in the gutter, the blood sputterin' down me
backbone. They were picked up this morning. Don't discharge me! I've
served you fifteen years and only trained twicst. What'll become of me?
Lord have mercy!" The coachman of the Secretary had a stock of
irreproachable syntax, which had been utterly scattered during the
experience of the last night. At this spontaneous moment his native
grammar got the best of him.

The coachman's testimony amounted to this: The driver was walking his
horses to the stable in the fog when he saw a man beckon him from the
sidewalk. Not a soul was on the street. Beyond was a dark, private lane.
He stopped, and, to his surprise, saw, as he thought, his master
standing and motioning him to come to a halt and get down. The
Secretary's face was turned toward the dark. The voice sounded muffled.
When the coachman alighted his master produced a silver flask and told
him to take a drink as it was so damp. He dared not dis