One of the well-horsed, elegant little public victorias with which the city is so well supplied stopped at the curb, and the handsome head of Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll was thrust forth.  At almost the same moment the Unspeakable Perk appeared upon the steps.  He was wearing a pair of enormous, misfit white gloves.  He went down to the beggar, reached forth a hand, and, to the far-away spectator’s wonder-struck interpretation, seemed to thrust something, presumably a document, into the breast of the mendicant’s shirt.  Having performed this strange rite, he leaped up the steps, hesitated, rushed over to Carroll’s equipage, and laid violent hands upon the occupant, with obvious intent to draw him forth.  For a moment they seemed to struggle upon the sidewalk; then both rushed upon the unfortunate beggar and proceeded to kidnap him and thrust him bodily into the cab.

The driver turned in his seat at this point, his cue in the mad farce having been given, and opened speech with many gestures, whereupon Carroll arose and embraced him warmly.  And with this grouping, the vehicle, bearing its lunatic load, sped around the corner and disappeared, while the sole interested witness retired to obscurity, with her reeling head between her hands.

One final touch of phantasy was given to the whole affair when, two hours later, she met Carroll, soiled and grimy, coming across the plaza, smoking—­he, the addict to thirty-cent Havanas!—­an awful native cheroot, whose incense spread desolation about him.  Further and more extraordinary, when she essayed to obtain a solution of the mystery from him, he repelled her with emphatic gestures and a few half-strangled words with whose unintelligibility the cheroot fumes may have had some connection, and hurried into the hotel, where he remained in seclusion the rest of the day.

What in the name of all the wonders could it mean?  On Mr. Brewster’s return, she laid the matter before him at the dinner table.

“Touch of the sun, perhaps,” he hazarded.  “Nothing else I know of would explain it.”

“Do two Americans, a half-breed beggar, and a local coachman get sunstruck at one and the same time?” she inquired disdainfully.

“Doesn’t seem likely.  By your account, though, the crippled beggar seems to have been the little Charlie Ross of melodrama.”

“Then why didn’t he shout for help?  I listened, but didn’t hear a sound from him.”

“Movie-picture rehearsal,” grunted Mr. Brewster.  “I can’t quite see the heir of all the Virginias in the part.  Isn’t he coming down to dinner this evening?”

“His dinner was sent up to his room.  Isn’t it extraordinary?”

“Ask Sherwen about it.  He’s coming around this evening for coffee in our rooms.”

But the American representative had something else on his mind besides casual kidnapings.

“I’ve just come from a talk with the British Minister,” he remarked, setting down his cup.  “He’s officially in charge of American interests, you know.”