He rose suddenly and walked over to the window, where he stood for a moment, staring out with unseeing eyes.
“Given a yard of canvas, Mr. Grimm,” he went on finally, “a Spanish boy will waste it, a French boy will paint a picture on it, an English boy will built a sail-boat, and an American boy will erect a tent. That fully illustrates the difference in the races.”
He abandoned the didactic tone, and returned to the material matter in hand. Mr. Grimm passed him the despatch and he sat down again.
“‘Will soon sign compact in Washington,’” he read musingly. “Now I don’t know that the signing of that compact can be prevented, but the signing of it on United States soil can be prevented. You will see to that, Mr. Grimm.”
“Very well,” the young man agreed carelessly. The magnitude of such a task made, apparently, not the slightest impression on him. He languidly drew on his gloves.
“And meanwhile I shall take steps to ascertain the attitude of Russian and Japanese representatives in this city.”
Mr. Grimm nodded.
“And now, for Prince Benedetto d’Abruzzi,” Mr. Campbell went on slowly. “Officially he is not in Washington, nor the United States, for that matter. Naturally, on such a mission, he would not come as a publicly accredited agent, therefore, I imagine, he is to be sought under another name.”
“Of course,” Mr. Grimm acquiesced.
“And he would avoid the big hotels.”
“Certainly.”
Mr. Campbell permitted his guileless blue eyes to linger inquiringly upon those of the young man for half a minute. He caught himself wondering, sometimes, at the perfection of the deliberate indifference with which Mr. Grimm masked his emotions. In his admiration of this quality he quite overlooked the remarkable mask of benevolence behind which he himself hid.
“And the name, D’Abruzzi,” he remarked, after a time. “What does it mean to you, Mr. Grimm?”
“It means that I am to deal with a prince of the royal blood of Italy,” was the unhesitating response. Mr. Grimm picked up the Almanac de Gotha and glanced at the open page. “Of course, the first thing to do is to find him; the rest will be simple enough.” He perused the page carelessly. “I will begin work at once.”
III
THE LANGUAGE OF THE FAN
Mr. Grimm was chatting idly with Senorita Rodriguez, daughter of the minister from Venezuela, the while he permitted his listless eyes to wander aimlessly about the spacious ball-room of the German embassy, ablaze with festooned lights, and brilliant with a multi-colored chaos of uniforms. Gleaming pearl-white, translucent in the mass, were the bare shoulders of women; and from far off came the plaintive whine of an orchestra, a pulsing sense rather than a living sound, of music, pointed here and there by the staccato cry of a flute. A zephyr, perfumed with the clean, fresh odor of lilacs, stirred the draperies of the archway which led into the conservatory and rustled the bending branches of palms and ferns.
For a scant instant Mr. Grimm’s eyes rested on a young woman who sat a dozen feet away, talking, in playful animation, with an undersecretary of the British embassy—a young woman severely gowned in some glistening stuff which fell away sheerly from her splendid bare shoulders. She glanced up, as if in acknowledgment of his look, and her eyes met his. Frank, blue-gray eyes they were, stirred to their depths now by amusement. She smiled at Senorita Rodriguez, in token of recognition.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” asked Senorita Rodriguez with the quick, bubbling enthusiasm of her race.
“What?” asked Mr. Grimm.
“Her eyes,” was the reply. “Every person has one dominant feature—with Miss Thorne it is her eyes.”
“Miss Thorne?” Mr. Grimm repeated.
“Haven’t you met her?” the senorita 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 senorita’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 senorita 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 minister from Turkey looks like a barn on fire, doesn’t he?”
Senorita 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?
