<h3> THE LANGUAGE OF THE FAN </h3>
<p> </p>
<p>Mr. Grimm was chatting idly with
Señorita 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.</p>
<p>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 Señorita
Rodriguez, in token of recognition.</p>
<p>"Aren't they wonderful?" asked Señorita
Rodriguez with the quick, bubbling enthusiasm
of her race.</p>
<p>"What?" asked Mr. Grimm.</p>
<p>"Her eyes," was the reply. "Every person
has one dominant feature—with Miss Thorne it
is her eyes."</p>
<p>"Miss Thorne?" Mr. Grimm repeated.</p>
<p>"Haven't you met her?" the señorita 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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!"
said the fan.</p>
<p>Mr. Grimm twisted around in his seat and regaled
his listless eyes with a long stare into the
señorita's pretty face. Behind the careless ease
of repose he was mechanically isolating the faint
clatter of the fan.</p>
<p>"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!"</p>
<p>"Did any one ever accuse you of staring, Mr.
Grimm?" demanded the señorita banteringly.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I beg your pardon," he apologized contritely.
There was a pause. "The minister
from Turkey looks like a barn on fire, doesn't
he?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!
Dot-dash-dot!"</p>
<p>"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!"</p>
<p>"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!"</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"F—F—F," the fan was calling insistently.</p>
<p>And then the answer came. It took the unexpectedly
prosaic form of a violent sneeze, a
vociferous outburst on a bench directly behind
Mr. Grimm. Señorita Rodriguez jumped, then
laughed nervously.</p>
<p>"It startled me," she explained.</p>
<p>"I think there must be a draft from the
conservatory," said a man's voice apologetically.
"Do you ladies feel it? No? Well, if
you'll excuse me—?"</p>
<p>Mr. Grimm glanced back languidly. The
speaker was Charles Winthrop Rankin, a brilliant
young American lawyer who was attached
to the German embassy in an advisory capacity.
Among other things he was a Heidelberg man,
having spent some dozen years of his life in
Germany, where he established influential connections.
Mr. Grimm knew him only by sight.</p>
<p>And now the rhythmical tapping of Miss
Thorne's fan underwent a change. There was
a flutter of gaiety in her voice the while the
ivory fan tapped steadily.</p>
<p>"Dot-dot-dot! Dash! Dash-dash-dash! Dot-dot-dash!
Dash!"</p>
<p>"S—t—5—u—t," Mr. Grimm read in Morse.
He laughed pleasantly at some remark of his
companion.</p>
<p>"Dash-dash! Dot-dash! Dash-dot!" said the
fan.</p>
<p>"M—a—n," Mr. Grimm spelled it out, the
while his listless eyes roved aimlessly over the
throng. "S—t—5—u—t m—a—n!" Was it
meant for "stout man?" Mr. Grimm wondered.</p>
<p>"Dot-dash-dot! Dot! Dash-dot-dot!"</p>
<p>"F—e—d," that was.</p>
<p>"Dot-dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash! Dash-dot-dash-dot!
Dot!"</p>
<p>"Q—a—j—e!" Mr. Grimm was puzzled a
little now, but there was not a wrinkle, nor the
tiniest indication of perplexity in his face. Instead
he began talking of Raphael's cherubs, the
remark being called into life by the high complexion
of a young man who was passing. Miss
Thorne glanced at him once keenly, her splendid
eyes fairly aglow, and the fan rattled on in the
code.</p>
<p>"Dash-dot! Dot! Dot-dash! Dot-dash-dot!"</p>
<p>"N—e—a—f." Mr. Grimm was still spelling
it out.</p>
<p>Then came a perfect jumble. Mr. Grimm
followed it with difficulty, a difficulty utterly
belied by the quizzical lines about his mouth.
As he caught it, it was like this: " J—5—n—s—e—f—v—a—t—5—f,"
followed by an arbitrary
signal which is not in the Morse code:
"Dash-dot-dash-dash!"</p>
<p>Mr. Grimm carefully stored that jumble
away in some recess of his brain, along with the
unknown signal.</p>
<p>"D—5—5—f," he read, and then, on to the
end: "B—f—i—n—g 5—v—e—f w—h—e—n
g g—5—e—s."</p>
<p>That was all, apparently. The soft clatter
of the fan against the arm of the chair ran on
meaninglessly after that.</p>
<p>"May I bring you an ice?" Mr. Grimm asked
at last.</p>
<p>"If you will, please," responded the señorita,
"and when you come back I'll reward you by
presenting you to Miss Thorne. You'll find her
charming; and Mr. Cadwallader has monopolized
her long enough."</p>
<p>Mr. Grimm bowed and left her. He had
barely disappeared when Mr. Rankin lounged
along in front of Miss Thorne. He glanced
at her, paused and greeted her effusively.</p>
<p>"Why, Miss Thorne!" he exclaimed. "I'm
delighted to see you here. I understood you
would not be present, and—"</p>
<p>Their hands met in a friendly clasp as she
rose and moved away, with a nod of excuse to
Mr. Cadwallader. A thin slip of paper, thrice
folded, passed from Mr. Rankin to her. She
tugged at her glove, and thrust the little paper,
still folded, inside the palm.</p>
<p>"Is it yes, or no?" Miss Thorne asked in a
low tone.</p>
<p>"Frankly, I can't say," was the reply.</p>
<p>"He read the message," she explained hastily,
"and now he has gone to decipher it."</p>
<p>She gathered up her trailing skirts over one
arm, and together they glided away through the
crowd to the strains of a Strauss waltz.</p>
<p>"I'm going to faint in a moment," she said
quite calmly to Mr. Rankin. "Please have me
sent to the ladies' dressing-room."</p>
<p>"I understand," he replied quietly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<SPAN name="CH4"><!-- CHAPTER 4 --></SPAN>
<h3> IV </h3>
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