"You think--WHAT!" he exclaimed.

James, upon the defensive, explained breathlessly.

"Because, Sir," he stammered, "it was INSIDE the note when it was
thrown out of the window."

Ford had been sprawling in a soft leather chair in front of the
open fire. With the privilege of an old school-fellow and college
classmate, he bad been jabbing the soft coal with his
walking-stick, causing it to burst into tiny flames. His cigarette
drooped from his lips, his hat was cocked over one eye; he was a
picture of indifference, merging upon boredom. But at the words of
the boy his attitude both of mind and body underwent an instant
change. It was as though he were an actor, and the words "thrown
from the window " were his cue. It was as though he were a dozing
fox-terrier, and the voice of his master had whispered in his ear:
Sick'em!"

For a moment, with benign reproach, the Second Secretary regarded
the unhappy page, and then addressed him with laborious sarcasm.

"James," he said, "people do not communicate with ambassadors in
notes wrapped around half-crowns and hurled from windows. That is
the way one corresponds with an organ-grinder." Ford sprang to his
feet.

"And meanwhile," he exclaimed angrily, "the man will get away."