minister from Turkey looks like a barn on fire, doesn't he?"

Señorita Rodriguez laughed, and Mr. Grimm glanced idly toward Miss
Thorne. She was still talking, her face alive with interest; and the fan
was still tapping rhythmically, steadily, now on the arm of her chair.

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

"Pretty women who don't want to be stared at should go with their faces
swathed," Mr. Grimm suggested indolently. "Haroun el Raschid there would
agree with me on that point, I have no doubt. What a shock he would get
if he should happen up at Atlantic City for a week-end in August!"

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

Mr. Grimm read it with perfect understanding; it was "F--F--F" in the
Morse code, the call of one operator to another. Was it accident? Mr.
Grimm wondered, and wondering he went on talking lazily:

"Curious, isn't it, the smaller the nation the more color it crowds into
the uniforms of its diplomatists? The British ambassador, you will
observe, is clothed sanely and modestly, as befits the representative of
a great nation; but coming on down by way of Spain and Italy, they get
more gorgeous. However, I dare say as stout a heart beats beneath a
sky-blue sash as behind the unembellished black of evening dress."

"F--F--F," the fan was calling insistently.

And then the answer came. It took the unexpectedly prosaic form of a
violent sneeze, a vociferous outburst on a bench directly behind Mr.