must have been the hand of a magician with fingers of steel."

Penelope shivered again. Her face showed signs of distress.

"I do not think," she said, "that I am a nervous person, but I cannot
bear to think of it even now."

"Naturally," Mr. Harvey answered. "We were all fond of Dicky, and such a
thing has never happened, so far as I am aware, in any European country.
My own private secretary murdered in broad daylight and with apparent
impunity!"

"Murdered--and robbed!" she whispered, looking up at him with a white
face.

The frown on the Ambassador's forehead darkened.

"Not only that," he declared, "but the secrets of which he was robbed
have gone to the one country interested in the knowledge of them."

"You are sure of that?" she asked hoarsely.

"I am sure of it," Mr. Harvey answered.

Penelope drew a little breath between her teeth. Her thoughts flashed
back to a recent dinner party. The Prince was once more at her side.
Almost she could hear his voice--low, clear, and yet with that note of
inexpressible, convincing finality. She heard him speak of his country
reverently, almost prayerfully; of the sacrifices which true patriotism
must always demand. What had been in his mind, she wondered, at the back
of his inscrutable eyes, gazing, even at that moment, past the banks
of flowers, across the crowded room with all its splendor of light and
color, through the walls,--whither! She brushed the thought away. It was
absurd, incredible! She was allowing herself to be led away by her old
distrust of this man.

"I remarked just now," Mr. Harvey continued, "that such a thing had
never happened, so far as I was aware, in any European country. My own
words seem to suggest something to me. These methods are not European.
They savor more of the East."

"I think you had better go on," she said quietly. "There is something in
your mind. I can see that. You have told me so much that you had better
tell me the rest."

"The contents of those despatches," Mr. Harvey continued, "intrusted
in duplicate, as you have doubtless surmised, to Fynes and to Coulson,
contained an assurance that the sending of our fleet to the Pacific
was in fact, as well as in appearance, an errand of peace. It was a
demonstration, pure and simple. Behind it there may have lain, indeed,
a masterful purpose, the determination of a great country to affirm
her strenuous existence in a manner most likely to impress the nations
unused to seeing h