e minister?"

Orme almost sprang from his hiding-place. The voice was the voice of the
girl!

CHAPTER XI

THE WAY OUT

The sound of the girl's voice brought the men in the room to life. Her
words were shaded to a tone of fearless scorn which must have bitten
deep, for Alcatrante and the Japanese minister looked like school-boys
caught in wrong-doing. The South American gnawed at his lip; the Japanese
looked at the floor, and Orme now realized that the manner which had
seemed so indicative of a masterful personality was the manner which
springs from power--the manner that is built upon the assurance of a
tremendous backing.

The tension was broken by Poritol. The little man's dismay suddenly gave
way to an eager and voluble excitement, and he rushed across the room,
exclaiming: "Oh, my dear miss----"

"No names," commanded Alcatrante harshly, turning on his subordinate.

"My dear young lady," continued Poritol breathlessly, "I am the victim of
your misunderstanding. You will permit me to explain."

She answered with an even, cutting edge in her voice: "You cannot
explain, Mr. Poritol."

"But----" he began, blind to her meaning.

"I do not care to hear you," she said; and Poritol slunk back to his
former position. From his face it was clear that he had no desire except
to get away.

Meantime Alcatrante aroused himself. "My friend here"--he indicated the
Japanese--"and myself are here on business which concerns our two
nations. Your appearance, I presume, is due to a desire to engage the
professional services of Mr. Arima. Or perhaps you were trying to find
the fortune-teller upstairs." He barely repressed his sneer.

The girl did not answer. She had remained by the door, and but for the
attitudes of the others, Orme would not have known but that she had gone.
As it was, he could read in their bearing the disconcerting effects of
her continued disdain.

The Japanese spoke. "Will you enter, miss, or shall we direct you on your
way? Arima will come out and talk with you, if you so wish."

Still no answer. To Orme, in his hiding, there was something uncanny in
her failure to respond. But he could picture her--Truth, calm in the
presence of subterfuge.

"Will you not state your desire?" Again the Japanese. He was smiling now,
with the false politeness of his race.

And then she spoke: "That envelope on the floor was stolen from my
father's home. It bears my father's name."

Before Alcatrante coul