"Major Ranleigh, this is Harleston. I'd like to have a man report to me
at the Collingwood at once.--No; one will be enough, thank you. Have him
come right up to my apartment. Good-bye!--Now if you'll excuse me for a
brief time, Mr. Crenshaw, I'll get into some clothes--while you think
over the question whether you will explain or go to prison."

"You will not dare!" Crenshaw laughed mockingly. "Your State Department
won't stand for it a moment when they hear of it--which they'll do at
ten o'clock, if I'm missing."

"Let me felicitate you on your forehandedness," Harleston called from
the next room. "It's admirably planned, but not effective for your
release."

"Hell!" snorted Crenshaw, and relapsed into silence.

Presently Harleston appeared, dressed for the morning.

"Why not spread your cards on the table, Crenshaw?" he asked. "I did
stumble on the deserted cab this morning, wholly by accident; I was on
my way here. I did find in it a letter and these roses, and I brought
them here. I don't know if you know what that letter contained--I do.
It's in cipher--and will be turned over to the State Department for
translation. What I want to know is: first--what is the message of the
letter, if you know; second--who was the woman in the cab, and the facts
of the episode; third--what governments, if any, are concerned."

"You're amazingly moderate in your demands," Crenshaw sarcasmed; "so
moderate, indeed, that I would acquiesce at once but for the fact that
I'm wholly ignorant of the contents of the letter. The name of the