Directly the assistant manager entered the room, frowning and red of face.  Ned saw that something, perhaps something of importance to himself, was in progress on the outside.

“The American consul is out there,” he exclaimed, storming about the little room.

“That’s fine!” cried Ned.  “I presume I can see him?”

The detective glared at the boy and shook his head.

“No, you can’t,” he declared.  “You’ll stay here.”

“And in the meantime you’ll tell him that I have gone away?”

“We’ll tell him what we choose.”

Ned made a quick dash for the door, tipped the assistant manager over a broken-backed chair which stood in the way, and passed into the outer office.  The detective grabbed at him as he sped past, but the boy eluded the ham-like hands which were thrust forward.

There were three persons in the office, when Ned bolted into it.  These were the operator, the American consul, and Hans!  The German grinned in an apologetic way as Ned hastily greeted him.

The American consul was a pleasant-faced gentleman of middle age.  He was dressed in rather sporty clothes, and there was just a hint of a swagger of importance in his walk and manner as he extended his hand to Ned.  Dressler-Archibald Hewitt Dressler, to be exact—­was a pretty fair sample of the keen, open-hearted corn-belt politician rewarded with a foreign appointment for rounding up the right crowd at the right time.

Ned was glad to see that the consul recognized him as the lad in whose interest he had been pulled out of bed.  He took the official’s outstretched hand and shook it warmly.

“I never was so glad to see any person in my life!” Ned exclaimed, while Hans stood by with that bland German smile on his face.

“Oh, we’ll have this mess straightened out in no time,” the consul said.  “These people,” with a gesture toward the operator, the assistant manager, and the detective, “are all right.  They mean to do the fair and honorable thing, but they have troubles of their own.  We’ll have this all ironed out in no time.”

“This kid is an impostor!” shouted the detective.

“No hard names, please,” said the consul.  “Let us get at the facts of the case.  You claim to be Ned Nestor?” turning to the boy.

“That is my name, sir.”

“And you claim a cablegram which is here?  A cablegram in cipher—­the cipher code of the Secret Service of the United States government?”

“Yes, it would naturally be in cipher.”

“You have the key to the code?”

“Certainly.”

“Be careful, young man,” laughed the consul, “for I was in the Secret Service department before I came here, and know the code.”

“I’m glad you do,” replied Ned.

“Hand me the cablegram,” ordered the consul, turning to the assistant manager.

The detective stepped forward with a frown on his face.  He glared at the consul and at Ned for a moment, and then broke out: