"Haven't you met her?" the señorita went on. "Miss Isabel Thorne? She
only arrived a few days ago--the night of the state ball. She's my
guest at the legation. When an opportunity comes I shall present you to
her."

She ran on, about other things, with only an occasional remark from Mr.
Grimm, who was thoughtfully nursing his knee. Somewhere through the
chatter and effervescent gaiety, mingling with the sound of the pulsing
music, he had a singular impression of a rhythmical beat, an indistinct
tattoo, noticeable, perhaps, only because of its monotony. After a
moment he shot a quick glance at Miss Thorne and understood; it was the
tapping of an exquisitely wrought ivory fan against one of her tapering,
gloved fingers. She was talking and smiling.

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

Mr. Grimm twisted around in his seat and regaled his listless eyes with
a long stare into the señorita's pretty face. Behind the careless ease
of repose he was mechanically isolating the faint clatter of the fan.

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

"Did any one ever accuse you of staring, Mr. Grimm?" demanded the
señorita banteringly.

For an instant Mr. Grimm continued to stare, and then his listless eyes
swept the ball-room, pausing involuntarily at the scarlet splendor of
the minister from Turkey.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized contritely. There was a pause. "The