"Everything is arranged, your Excellency."
"Good!" Then Bernstorff turned and masked his smile with a blinking of his crocodile-tear smeared eyes, as a new shower of flowers was tossed at him from pro-Germans on every side. Suddenly he stared. Harrison Grant of the Criminology Club was facing him, and holding forth a small package.
"Since everyone is making presents, Your Excellency," said the detective with the slightest tinge of sarcasm, "I thought it only right that I should make one also."
He handed the package to the Ambassador. Wonderingly, Bernstorff unfastened the string, and took the paper from the package. Then he stared.
"Checkers!" he said wryly.
"Yes, Your Excellency," answered the president of the Criminology Club, with a laugh, "it's your move, you know."
And before the Ambassador could reply, Harrison Grant was gone, to reach the deck of the ship and make his way to the dock. There he saw the hurrying form of Dixie Mason—and rushed to her.
"What's wrong?"
"A great deal. There's a plot against the harbor. Where are your men?"
"Scattered about the dock. I can gather them all up in five minutes."