Without seeking permission, he ran past James, and through the
empty outer offices. In two minutes he returned, herding before him
an individual, seedy and soiled. In appearance the man suggested
that in life his place was to support a sandwich-board. Ford
reluctantly relinquished his hold upon a folded paper which he laid
in front of the Secretary.

"This man," he explained, "picked that out of the gutter in Sowell
Street, It's not addressed to any one, so you read it!"

I thought it was for the Ambassador!" said the Secretary.

The soiled person coughed deprecatingly, and pointed a dirty digit
at the paper. "On the inside," he suggested. The paper was wrapped
around a half-crown and folded in at each end. The diplomat opened
it hesitatingly, but having read what was written, laughed.

"There's nothing in THAT," he exclaimed. He passed the note to
Ford. The reporter fell upon it eagerly.

The note was written in pencil on an unruled piece of white paper.
The handwriting was that of a woman. What Ford read was:

"I am a prisoner in the street on which this paper is found. The
house faces east. I think I am on the top story. I was brought here
three weeks ago. They are trying to kill me. My uncle, Charles
Ralph Pearsall, is doing this to get my money. He is at Gerridge's
Hotel in Craven Street, Strand. He will tell you I am insane. My
name is Dosia Pearsall Dale. My home is at Dalesville, Kentucky, U.
S. A. Everybody knows me there, and knows I am not insane. If you