“You can’t have it unless you will promise not to reveal its contents to this impostor.”

“Can’t I?” said the consul, coolly.  “Hand me the cablegram.”

The operator and the assistant manager drew back.  The consul stood for an instant regarding them angrily.

“One, two, three!” he said.  “At the word three, pass it over!”

“Goot sphort, dot feller!” whispered Hans.

During the dead silence which followed Ned watched the face of the consul for some sign of weakening, but found none.  He knew that he had come upon an official who would stand by his guns, no matter what took place.

There was a little crowd in front of the office, and half a dozen faces were pressed against the windows and the glass panel of the door.  Ned thought he saw a face there he had last seen in the old house at Taku where he had been captured.  The fellow carried a long cicatrice on his left cheek.

“What do you mean by coming in here and giving orders?” demanded the detective.  “I’ll put you out if the manager says the word.”

Ned, standing close to Hans, felt the muscles of the German’s great arm swell under the sleeve.  Hans was evidently anticipating trouble.

“Will you deliver the cablegram?” asked the consul.

“I will not.”

As the assistant manager spoke the detective reached his hand up to the electric light switch.  Ned saw in an instant what his intention was.  If the room should be suddenly thrown into darkness, the operator might escape with the cablegram.

The consul, too, saw what was meditated and sprang forward.  The detective struck at him, but before his blow reached its intended mark, Hans struck and the detective went down as suddenly as if he had been hit with an ax.  Then, from unseen places, from beneath counters and out of closets, came a horde of Chinamen.  The room was full of them.

“Soak um!” cried Hans.

The German was about to adopt his own suggestion by passing a blow out to the nearest Chinaman when the consul stepped before him.  For an instant the threatening natives stepped back.  The attacking of the American consul was a thing to be seriously considered.

“Once more!” warned the consul.  “Give me the cablegram.”

At a motion from the assistant manager the brown men closed threateningly about the American again.  There was malice in their eyes as they pressed closer and closer.

“This looks like another Boxer uprising!” exclaimed the consul.  “Mr. Nestor,” he added, “if you will assemble yourself at my back, and our German friend will stand by, we’ll give ’em a run for their white alley.  Hit hard and often.”

There is no knowing what might have happened then had not an interruption fell.  Ned saw the crowd at the door vanish, and the next instant the friendly popping of motorcycles rang a chorus in the air.

Then came the rattle of guns and sabers, and a line of bluecoats stood before the door.  At their head stood Jimmie, wrinkling his freckled nose as if for dear life.