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The Apartment Next Door

by William Johnston · English · Gutenberg #11240 · 320,482 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Apartment Next Door

Author: William Johnston


        
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11240]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11240

Credits: Juliet Sutherland, Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE APARTMENT NEXT DOOR ***

The Apartment Next Door

by William Johnston


AUTHOR OF
THE HOUSE OF WHISPERS, LIMPY, ETC.

ILUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR WILLIAM BROWN


1919




TO THAT MARVELLOUS SCHEHERAZADE
CAROLYN WELLS HOUGHTON
THE AUTHOR, IN ENVIOUS ADMIRATION,
DEDICATES THIS VOLUME




CONTENTS

 CHAPTER I. THE FACE OF HATE
 CHAPTER II. THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD
 CHAPTER III. “MR. FLECK”
 CHAPTER IV. THE CLUE IN THE BOOK
 CHAPTER V. ON THE TRAIL
 CHAPTER VI. THE MISSING MESSAGE
 CHAPTER VII. THE WOMAN ON THE ROOF
 CHAPTER VIII. THE LISTENING EAR
 CHAPTER IX. THE PURSUIT
 CHAPTER X. CARTER’S DISCOVERY
 CHAPTER XI. JANE’S ADVENTURE
 CHAPTER XII. PUZZLES AND PLANS
 CHAPTER XIII. THE SEALED PACKET
 CHAPTER XIV. THE MOUNTAIN’S SECRET
 CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
 CHAPTER XVI. THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE
 CHAPTER XVII. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED
 CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT THE PACKET CONTAINED




 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 She could not bring herself to tell him, the man she loved, the thing she knew he was.
 More than likely, she alone in all the world—knew who the murderer was.
 Had he been standing there listening? How much had he heard?
 “Thank God,” he cried. “Jane, dear, tell me you are not hurt!”




THE APARTMENT NEXT DOOR




CHAPTER I
THE FACE OF HATE


It was three o’clock in the morning. Along a deserted pavement of
Riverside Drive strode briskly a young man whose square-set shoulders
and erect poise suggested a military training. His coat, thrown
carelessly open to the cold night wind, displayed an expanse of white
indicative of evening dress. As he walked his heels clicked sharply on
the concrete with the forceful firm tread of the type which does things
quickly and decisively. The intense stillness of the early morning
hours carried the sound in little staccato beats that could be heard
blocks away. A few yards behind him, moving furtively and noiselessly,
almost as if he had been shod with rubber, crept another figure, that
of a stocky, broad-shouldered man, who despite his bulk and weight
moved silently and swiftly through the night, a soft brown hat drawn
low over his eyes as if he desired to avoid recognition.

All at once the man ahead paused suddenly and stood looking out over
the river. Between the Drive and the distance-dimmed lights of the
Jersey shore there rose like great silhouettes the grim figures of
several huge steel-clad battleships, their fighting-tops lost in the
shadows of the opposite hills. Beside them, obscure, with no lights
visible, lay the great transports that in a few hours, or in a few
days—who knew—they would be convoying with their precious cargo of
fighting men across the war-perilled Atlantic.

It was on the forward deck of one of these great battleships that the
eyes of the man ahead were riveted. His shadower, evidently much
concerned in his actions, crept slowly and stealthily forward,
approaching nearer and still nearer without being observed.

A dim light became visible on the warship’s deck and then vanished.
Still the man stood there watching, a puzzled, anxious look coming into
his face. Quickly the light reappeared—two flashes, a pause, two
flashes, a pause, and then a single flash. It was such a light as might
have been made by a pocket torch, a feeble ray barely strong enough to
carry to the adjacent shore, a light that if it had been flashed from
some sheltered nook by the boat davits might not even have attracted
the attention of the officer on the bridge nor of the ship’s watchmen.
Manifestly it was a signal intended for the eyes of some one on shore.

A muttered imprecation escaped the lips of the watcher on the Drive. He
stood there, straining his eyes toward the ship as if expecting a
following signal, then he turned and gazed aloft at the windows of the
apartment houses lining the driveway to see if some answering signal
flashed back.

And in the shadow of the buildings, hardly ten feet away but half
sheltered by a doorway, stood his sinister pursuer, motionless but
alert.

For perhaps a quarter of an hour they held their positions. At last the
man who was being followed shrugged his shoulders impatiently and set
off again down the Drive, from time to time turning his head to watch
the spot from which the signal had been flashed. Behind him, as
doggedly as ever and now a little closer, crept the man with the hat
over his eyes.

Regardless of the lateness of the hour, at a third-floor window of one
of the great apartment houses lining the Drive sat a young girl in her
nightrobe, with her two great black braids flung forward over her
shoulders, about which she had placed for warmth’s sake a quilted
negligee. Jane Strong was far too excited to sleep. An hour before she
had come in from a wonderful party. The music still was playing mad
tunes in her ears. The excitement, the coffee, the spirited tilts at
arms with her many dancing partners had set her brain on fire. Sleep
seemed impossible as yet.

Looking out at the river—a favorite occupation of hers—the sight of the
warships looming up through the darkness reminded her once more that
nearly all of the men with whom she had been dancing had been in
uniform, bringing into prominence in the jumble of ideas in her
over-stimulated brain, almost as a new discovery, the fact that her
country was really engaged in war, that the men, the very men whom she
knew best, were most of them fighting, or soon going to fight in a
foreign land. Suddenly she found herself vaguely wishing that there was
something she might do, something for the war, something to help. Would
it not be splendid, she thought, to go to France as a Red Cross nurse,
to be over there in the middle of things, where something exciting was
forever going on. Life—the only life she knew about, existence as the
petted daughter of well-to-do parents in a big city—had, ever since the
war had begun, seemed strangely flat and uninteresting. Parties, to be
sure, were fun but hardly any one was giving parties this year. The
Stantons had entertained only because their lieutenant son was going
abroad soon, and they wished him to have a pleasant memory to carry
with him. Most of the interesting men she knew already were gone, and
now Jack Stanton was going. How she wished she could find some way of
getting into the war herself.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught her ear. Wondering who was
abroad at that hour of the night she pushed up the window softly and
looked out. In the distance she saw a man approaching, striding briskly
toward her. As she stood idly watching him and wondering about him,
suddenly she caught her breath. She had sighted the other figure
behind, the man creeping stealthily after him. Nearer and nearer they
came. In tense expectation she waited, sensing some unusual
development. They had reached her block now. Almost directly under her
window the man in advance paused to light a cigarette. His shadow
paused, too, but some incautious movement on his part must have
betrayed him.

Match in hand, the man in advance stood stock-still, his whole figure
taut, poised, alert, in an attitude of listening. All at once he
wheeled about, discovering the man close behind him. He sprang at once
for his pursuer. The latter took to his heels, dashing around the
corner, the man whom he had been following now hot at his heels.

All trembling with nervous excitement Jane leaned out the window to
listen and watch. She could hear the running feet of both men just
around the corner. What was happening? The running feet came to an
abrupt stop. There was a half-smothered cry, a sharp thud, like a body
striking the pavement, and then came silence. Puzzled, vaguely alarmed,
a hundred questions came pouring into her brain and lingered there
disturbingly. Why had one of these men been shadowing the other? Why
had the pursuer suddenly become the pursued? Why had the running
footsteps come to such an abrupt stop? What was the noise she had
heard? What was happening around the corner? Her fears rapidly growing,
she was on the point of arousing her family. But what excuse should she
give? What could she tell them? After all she had merely seen two men
run up the side street. More than likely they would only laugh at her,
and she did not like being laughed at. Besides, Dad was always cross
when suddenly awakened. Undecided what to do she stood at the window,
peering into the night.

Five minutes, ten minutes she stood there in tremulous perplexity. A
sense of impending tragedy seemed to have laid hold of her. A black
horror seized her and held her at the window. Something terrible,
something tragic, she was sure must have happened. Mustering up her
strength and trying to calm her fears she was about to put down the
window when she heard footsteps once more approaching. Straining her
ears to listen she discovered the sound was that of the steps of a
man—one man—approaching from around the corner. As she watched he
turned into the Drive and came on toward her. She shrank back a little,
fearful of being seen even though her room was in darkness. It was the
first man. She recognized him at once by his top-hat and his evening
clothes. He was walking even more briskly than before, almost running.
There was no sign anywhere of the shorter thick-set man who had been
following him. Something in the appearance of the figure in the street
below struck her all at once as vaguely familiar. She wondered if it
could be any one she knew.

Presently he came directly opposite the light on the other side of the
Drive so that it shone for an instant full on his face. Jane looked and
shuddered. Never in all her life had she seen any man’s countenance so
convulsed, not with pain, but with a soul-terrifying expression of
hate, of virulent, murderous hate.

Distorted though the man’s face was with such bitter frightfulness, she
recognized him, not as any one she knew, but merely as one of the
tenants in the same apartment building.

“It’s one of the people next door,” she said to herself and in
verification of her identification, as he approached the building, the
young man cast a swift glance over his shoulder, and then, as if
satisfied that he was unobserved, dashed hurriedly in at the entrance.

Jane, more than ever wrought up with fear and dread of she knew not
what, sprang hastily into bed and drew the covers about her shoulders.
As yet she did not lie down but shiveringly waited. Presently she heard
the elevator stop. She heard the key opening the door of the next
apartment. In a few minutes she heard the man moving about his bedroom,
separated from her own room by a mere six inches of plaster and paper,
or whatever it is that apartment-house walls are made of.

What could have happened? She was certain that something terrible had
occurred in which the young man next door had played a tragic, perhaps
even a criminal part. She tried in vain to conjecture what circumstance
could have been responsible for the look of hatred she had seen on his
face. She wondered what had been the fate of the man who had been
following him. Had they quarrelled and fought? What could have been the
subject of their quarrel?

She tried to summarize what she knew about the people next door, and
was amazed to discover how little she had to draw upon. As in most New
York apartment houses so in Jane’s home all the tenants were utter
strangers to each other, one family not even knowing the names of any
of the others. Occasionally, to be sure, one rather resentfully rode up
or down in the elevator with some of the other tenants but always
without noticing or speaking to them. Jane’s family had been living in
the building for five years, and of the twenty other families they knew
the names of only two, having learned them by accident rather than
intention. About the people next door Jane now discovered that she
really knew nothing at all. There was a man with a gray beard who never
took off his hat in the elevator, and there was the handsome young chap
whom she had just seen entering. But what their names were, or their
business, or how long they had lived there, or whether they were father
and son, what servants they kept, or whether either or both of them was
married—these were questions she could have answered as readily as if
they had been living in Dallas, Texas, or Seattle, Washington, as in
the next apartment. Quickly she found that she really knew nothing at
all about them except—she could not recall that any one had told her or
how she had got the impression—she was almost certain they were some
sort of foreigners.

Just when it was that her troubled thoughts were succeeded by even more
troubled dreams she was not aware, but it was noon the next day when
she was awakened by the maid bringing in her breakfast tray.

“Terrible, Miss Jane, wasn’t it,” said the servant, “about that suicide
last night, almost under our noses, you might say.”

“Suicide!” cried the girl, at once wide-awake and interested “What
suicide?”

“A man was found dead in the side street right by our building with a
revolver in his hand.”

“What sort of a looking man was he?”

“I didn’t see him,” said the maid, almost regretfully. “He was taken
away before I was up. Cook tells me it was the milkman found him and
notified the police.”

“Who was he?”

“Nobody round here knows a thing about him. He shot himself through the
heart and us sleeping here an’ not knowing anything at all about it.”

“But didn’t any one know who he was?”

“Never a soul. The superintendents from all the buildings round took a
look at the body, but none of them knew him. It wasn’t anybody that
lived around here. There’s a piece in the afternoon papers about it.”

“Get me a paper at once,” directed the girl.

Eagerly she read the paragraph the maid pointed out. It really told
very little. The body of a plainly dressed man had been found on the
sidewalk. There was a revolver in his hand with one cartridge
discharged, and the bullet had penetrated his heart. He had been a
short stalky man and had worn a brown soft hat. There was nothing about
his clothing to identify him, even the marks where his suit had been
purchased having been removed. He had not been identified. The police
and the coroner were satisfied that it was a case of suicide.

Suicide!

Jane, reading and rereading the paragraph, recalled the unusual
occurrence she had witnessed the night before. Vividly there stood out
before her the strange panorama she had seen, the tall young man in
evening clothes, and the short stalky man with the soft hat who had
followed him. The two of them had run around the corner. Only one of
them had come back. Unforgettably there was imprinted in her memory the
satanic expression on the young man’s face as he had hastened into the
house. No wonder he had cast such an anxious glance behind him as he
entered.

Suicide!

Jane was certain that it was no suicide. She remembered the curious
thud she had heard from around the corner, like a body falling to the
pavement. She recalled that it must have been at least ten minutes
before the other man reappeared, time enough to have placed the
revolver in the dead man’s hand, time enough even to have removed all
possible means of identification from the man’s clothing.


Illustration: More than likely, she alone in all the world—knew who the
murderer was.


It was not suicide, Jane felt certain. It was murder! Slowly but
oppressingly, overwhelmingly, it dawned on her not only that in all
probability a murder had been committed, but also that she—more than
likely, she alone in all the world—knew who the murderer was, who it
must have been—the young man next door.




CHAPTER II
THE ADDRESS ON THE CARD


Impatiently Jane looked at her wrist watch. It lacked an hour of the
time when she was to meet her mother at the Ritz for tea. Her nerves
still all ajangle from excitement and worry over the morning’s tragedy,
and her own accidental secret knowledge of certain aspects of the case
had made it wholly impossible for her to do anything that day with even
simulated interest.

She had been debating with herself whether or not to confide to her
mother the story of the tragic tableau of which she had been an
accidental witness, when Mrs. Strong had dashed into her bedroom to
give her a hurried peck on the cheek and to say that she was off to
luncheon and the matinée with Mrs. Starrett.

“You’re not looking well to-day, dear,” her mother had said. “Stay in
bed and rest and join us for tea if you like.”

Before she had opportunity to tell what she had seen, her mother was
gone, but Jane had found it impossible to obey her well-meant
injunction. She rose and dressed, her mind busy all the while with the
problem of what her duty was. As she donned her clothing she paused
from time to time to listen for sounds from the next apartment.

What was her neighbor doing now? Had he read of the discovery of the
man’s body in the street? Perhaps he had fled already? Not a sound was
to be heard there. He did not look in the least like what Jane imagined
a murderer would, yet certainly the circumstances pointed all too
plainly to his guilt. She had seen two men dash around the corner, one
in pursuit of the other. One of them had come back alone. Not long
afterward a body—the body of the other man—had been found with a bullet
in his heart. It must have been a murder.

What ought she to do about it? Was it her duty to tell her mother and
Dad about what she had seen? Mother, she knew, would be horrified and
would caution her to say nothing to any one, but Dad was different. He
had strict ideas about right and justice. He would insist on hearing
every word she had to tell. More than likely he would decide that it
was her duty to give the information to the authorities. Her face
blanched at the thought. She could not do that. She pictured to herself
the notoriety that would necessarily ensue. She saw herself being
hounded by reporters, she imagined her picture in the papers, she heard
herself branded as “the witness in that murder case,” she depicted
herself being questioned by detectives and badgered by lawyers.

No, she decided, it would be best for her never to tell a soul, not
even her parents. In persistent silence lay her safest course. After
all she had not witnessed the commission of the crime. She was not even
sure that the man found dead had been one of the two she had watched
from her window. If she saw the body she would not be able to identify
it. She was not even certain in her own mind that the man next door had
done the shooting, however suspicious his actions may have appeared to
her. Besides, he did not look in the least like a murderer. He was too
well-dressed.

In an effort to put the whole thing out of her mind she tried to read,
but was unable to keep her thoughts from wandering. She sat down at the
piano, but music failed to interest or soothe her. She mussed over some
unanswered notes in her desk but could not summon up enough
concentration of mind to answer them. Restless and fidgety, unable to
keep her thoughts from the unusual occurrences that had disturbed her
ordinarily too peaceful life, she decided to take a walk until it was
time to keep her appointment. Something—force of habit probably—led her
to the shopping district. With still half an hour to kill, she went
into a little specialty shop to examine some knitting bags displayed in
the window.

“Why don’t you knit as all the other girls are doing?” was her father’s
constant suggestion every time she asserted her desire to be doing
something in the war.

“There’s no thrill in knitting,” she would answer. “Fix it, Dad, so
that I can go to France as a Red Cross nurse or as an ambulance driver,
won’t you? I want some excitement.”

Always he had refused to consent to her going, insisting that France in
wartime was no place for an untrained girl.

“If I can’t go myself, I certainly am not going to send any knitting,”
she would spiritedly answer, but several times recently the sight of
such charming looking knitting bags had tempted her into almost
breaking her resolution.

Inside the shop she found nothing that appealed to her, and contented
herself with buying some toilet articles. As she made her purchases she
noticed, almost subconsciously, a man standing near, talking with one
of the shopgirls—a middle-aged man with a dark mustache.

“The address, please,” said the girl, who had been waiting on her.

“Miss Strong,” she answered, giving the number of the apartment house
on Riverside Drive.

She recalled afterward that as she mentioned the number the man
standing there had turned and looked sharply at her, but she thought
nothing of it. Her father’s name was well known and he had many
acquaintances in the city. More than likely, she supposed, this man was
some friend of her father who had recognized the name.

She lingered a few moments at some of the other counters, aimlessly
inspecting their offerings, and at last, with ten minutes left to reach
the Ritz, emerged from the store. She was amazed to see the man who had
been inside now standing near the entrance, and something within warned
her that he had been waiting to speak to her. As she attempted to pass
him quickly, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path, but raising
his hat deferentially.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Strong,” he said, “may I have a word with
you?”

Compelled to halt, she looked at him both appraisingly and resentfully.
There was nothing offensive nor flirtatious in his manner, and he
seemed far too respectably dressed to be a beggar. He was almost old
enough to be her father, and besides there was about him an indefinable
air of authority that commanded her attention. She decided that,
unusual as his request appeared, she would hear what he had to say.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to assume an air of hauteur but without
being able wholly to mask her curiosity.

“You are an American, aren’t you?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course.”

“A good American?”

“I hope so.” She decided now that he must be one of the members of some
Red Cross fund “drive,” or perhaps an overenthusiastic salesman for
government bonds. “But I don’t quite understand what it is that you
wish.”

“I can’t explain,” said her questioner, “but if you really are a good
American and you’d like to do your country a great service—an important
service—go at once to the address on this card.”

She took the slip of white pasteboard handed her. On it was written in
pencil “Room 708.” The building was a skyscraper down-town.

“What is it?” she asked half indignantly, “a new scheme to sell bonds?”

“No, no, Miss Strong,” he cried, “it is nothing like that. It is a
great opportunity to do an important service for America.”

“How did you know my name?”

“I heard you give it to the clerk just now.”

“And why,” she inquired with what she intended to be withering sarcasm,
“have I been selected so suddenly for this important work?”

“I heard the address you gave, that’s why,” he answered. “That’s what
makes it so important that you should go to that number at once. Ask
for Mr. Fleck.”

“I can’t go,” she temporized. “I am on my way now to meet my mother at
the Ritz.”

“Go to-morrow, then,” he insisted. “I’ll see Mr. Fleck meanwhile and
tell him about you.”

Puzzled at the man’s unusual and wholly preposterous request, yet in
spite of herself impressed by his evident sincerity, Jane turned the
card nervously in her hand and discovered some small characters on the
back; “K-15” they read.

“What do those figures mean?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you that. Mr. Fleck will explain everything. Promise me
you will go to see him.”

“Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that, yet.”

“Who, then, is Mr. Fleck?”

“He will explain that to you.”

“What has my address to do with it? I can’t understand yet why you make
this preposterous request of me.”

“I tell you I can’t explain it to you, not yet,” the man replied, “but
it’s because you live where you do you must go to see Mr. Fleck. It’s
about a matter of the highest importance to your government. It is more
important than life and death.”

His last words startled her. They brought to her mind afresh the
mysterious occurrence she had witnessed the night before and the
equally mysterious death near her home. Had this man’s odd request any
connection, she wondered, with what had happened there? The lure of the
unknown, the opportunity for adventure, called to her, though prudence
bade her be cautious.

“I’ll ask my mother,” she temporized.

“Don’t,” cried the man. “You must keep your visit to Mr. Fleck a secret
from everybody. You mustn’t breathe a word about it even to your father
and mother. Take my word for it, Miss Strong, that what I am asking you
to do is right. I’ve two daughters of my own. The thing I’m urging you
to do I’d be proud and honored to have either of them do if they could.
There is no one else in the world but you that can do this particular
thing. A word to a single living soul and you’ll end your usefulness.
You must not even tell any one you have talked with me. See Mr. Fleck.
He’ll explain everything to you. Promise me you’ll see him.”

“I promise,” Jane found herself saying, even against her better
judgment, won over by the man’s insistence.

“Good. I knew you would,” said her mysterious questioner, turning on
his heel and vanishing speedily as if afraid to give her an opportunity
of reconsidering.

Puzzled beyond measure not only at the man’s strange conduct but even
more at her own compliance with his request, Jane made her way slowly
and thoughtfully to the Ritz, where she found her mother and Mrs.
Starrett had already arrived.

As they sipped their tea the two elder women chatted complacently about
the matinée, about their acquaintances, about other women in the
tea-room and the gowns they had on, about bridge hands—the usual small
talk of afternoon tea.

To Jane, oppressed with her two secrets, all at once their conversation
seemed the dreariest piffle. Great things were happening everywhere in
the world, nations at war, men fighting and dying in the trenches of
horror for the sake of an ideal, kings were being overthrown, dynasties
tottering, boundaries of nations vanishing. Women, she realized, too,
more than ever in history, were taking an active and important part in
world affairs. In the lands of battle they were nursing the wounded,
driving ambulances, helping to rehabilitate wrecked villages. In the
lands where peace still reigned they were voting, speech-making,
holding jobs, running offices, many of them were uniting to aid in
movements for civic improvement, for better children, for the
improvement of the whole human race.

And here they were—here _she_ was, idling uselessly at the Ritz as she
had done yesterday, last week, last month—forever, it seemed to her.
The vague protest that for some time had been growing within her
against the senselessness and futility of her manner of existence
crystallized itself now into a determination no longer to submit to it.
Courageously she was resolving that she would take the first
opportunity to escape from this boresome routine of pleasure-seeking.
She was wondering if the request that had been so unexpectedly made of
her would prove to be her way out from her prison of desuetude.

The talk of the two women with her drifted aimlessly on. Seldom was she
included in it, save when her mother, nodding to some one she knew,
would turn to say:

“Daughter, there is Mrs. Jones-Lloyd.”

What did she care about Mrs. Jones-Lloyd? What did she care about any
of the people about them, aimless, pleasure-hunting drifters like
themselves. Left to her own devices for mental activity her thoughts
kept recurring to the surprising adventure she had had a few minutes
before. Thoughtfully she pondered over the mysterious message that had
been given to her. The man had said that it was a wonderful opportunity
for her to do her country a great service. She wondered why he had been
so secretive about it. She decided that she would investigate further
and made up her mind to carry out his instructions. What harm could
befall her in visiting an office building in the business district? At
least it would be something to do, something new, something different,
something surely exciting and, perhaps, something useful.

It would be better, she decided, for the present at least, to keep her
intentions entirely to herself. Any hint of her plans to her mother
would surely result in permission being refused. The man certainly had
seemed sincere, honest, and perfectly respectable, even if he was not
of the sort one would ask to dinner. She made up her mind to go
down-town to the address given the very first thing to-morrow morning.
If anything should happen to her, she felt that she could always reach
her father. His office was in the next block.

The problem of making the mysterious journey without her mother’s
knowledge bothered her not at all. As in the case of most
apartment-house families, she and her mother really saw very little of
each other, especially since she had become a “young lady.” Mrs. Strong
went constantly to lectures, to luncheons, to bridge parties, to
matinées with her own particular friends. Jane’s engagements were with
another set entirely, school friends most of them, whose parents and
hers hardly knew each other. Both she and her mother habitually
breakfasted in bed, generally at different hours, and seldom lunched
together. At dinner, when Mr. Strong was present, there were no
intimacies between mother and daughter. The only times they really saw
each other for protracted periods were when they happened to go
shopping, or go to the dressmaker’s together, and then the subject
always uppermost in the minds of both of them was the all-important and
absorbing topic of clothes. Occasionally, Jane poured at one of her
mother’s more formal functions, but for the most part the time of each
was taken up in a mad, senseless hunt for amusement.

Suddenly every thought was driven from Jane’s head. Her face went
white, and with difficulty she managed to suppress an alarmed cry.

“What is it, daughter?” asked her mother, noting her perturbation. “Are
you feeling ill?”

“A touch of neuralgia,” she managed to answer.

“Too many late hours,” warned Mrs. Starrett reprovingly.

“I’m afraid so,” said Mrs. Strong. “As soon as I’ve paid my check we’ll
go.”

“I’m perfectly all right now,” said Jane, controlling herself with
effort, though her face was still white.

The danger that she had feared had passed for the present at least.
Glancing toward the entrance a moment before she had been terrified to
see entering the black-mustached man who had accosted her a few moments
before. Her one thought now had been that he had followed her here, and
in a panic she was wondering how she should make explanations if he
came up to their table and spoke. To her great relief he gave no
intimation of having seen her, but settled himself into a chair near
the door where he was half hidden from her by a great palm. Furtively
she watched him, trying to divine his intention in having followed her
there. Respectable enough though he was in appearance and garb, he did
not seem in the least like the sort of man likely to be found at
tea-time in an exclusive hotel. As she studied him she soon saw that
his attention seemed to be riveted on some one sitting at the other
side of the room. Wonderingly she let her eyes follow his, and once
more it was with difficulty that she suppressed an excited gasp.

There, across the room, calmly sipping some coffee, was the handsome
young man from the next apartment—the man whom she had felt sure, or at
least almost sure, was a murderer, about whom she had been wondering
all day long, picturing him as a hunted criminal fleeing from the law.
Chatting interestedly with him was another man, a young man in the
uniform of a lieutenant in the navy.

What did it all mean? Why was the black-mustached man watching them so
intently? Her eyes turned back to him. He was still sitting there,
leaning forward a little, his brows in a pucker of concentration, his
eyes still fixed on the pair opposite. It looked almost as if he was
trying to read their lips and tell what they were talking about.

Jane thrilled with excitement. The black-mustached man, she decided,
must be a detective. She recalled that he had said to her it was
because she lived at the address she did that she was available for the
mission for which he wanted her. Did he, she wondered, know about the
mysterious death in the street outside their apartment house? Was that
the reason he was spying on her neighbor? But what could be his motive
in seeking to involve her in the matter?

Unable to find satisfactory answers to her questions she gave herself
up interestedly to studying the faces of the two young men across the
room. Neither of them, she decided, could be much more than thirty. The
face that only a few hours before she had seen utterly convulsed with
bitter hate, now placid and smiling, was really an attractive one, not
in the least like a murderer’s. Frank, alert blue eyes looked out from
under an intellectual forehead. A small military mustache lent emphasis
to a clean-shaven, forceful jaw. His flaxen hair was neatly trimmed.
His linen and clothing were immaculate, and the hand that curved around
his cup had long, tapering, well-manicured fingers. The cut of his
clothing, his manners, everything about him seemed American, yet there
was an indefinable something in his appearance that suggested foreign
birth or parentage, probably either Swedish or German. The man with him
was smaller and slighter. Despite the air of importance his uniform
gave him, it was palpable that he was the less forceful of the two, his
handsome face, it seemed to Jane, betraying weakness of character and a
fondness for the good things of life.

“Come, daughter,” said Mrs. Strong, rising, “we must be going.”

So intent was Jane on her study of the two men that her mother had to
speak twice to her.

“Yes, mother,” she answered obediently, rising hastily as the hint of
annoyance in her mother’s repeated remark brought her to a realization
of having been addressed.

Letting her mother and Mrs. Starrett precede her in the doorway she
paused to look back at the scene that had interested her so strongly.
What _could_ it mean? What was going on? How was she involved in it?

Her glance moved quickly from the watcher to the watched. The blond
young man caught her eye. Amazedly, it seemed to her, he stopped right
in the middle of what he was saying and sat there, his gaze fixed full
on her. She let her eyes fall, abashed, and turned to hasten after her
mother, but not so quickly did she turn but that she observed he had
hastily seized his cup and appeared to be drinking to her, not so much
impudently as admiringly.




CHAPTER III
“MR. FLECK”


Twice after the elevator had deposited her on the floor Jane had
approached the door of Room 708, and twice she had walked timorously
past it to the end of the hall, trying to muster up courage to enter. A
visit to a man’s office in the business district was a novelty for her.
On the few previous excursions of the sort she had made she always had
been accompanied by one of her parents. She found herself wishing now
that she had taken her father into her confidence and had asked him to
go with her. Making shopping her excuse she had come down-town with Mr.
Strong but had gotten off at Astor Place, and waited over for another
train.

In her hand she held the card given to her by the black-mustached man
the afternoon before. As she studied it now her curiosity came to the
rescue of her fast-oozing courage. She must find out what it all meant,
whatever the risk or peril that might confront her. Boldly she returned
to Room 708 and opened the door. An office boy seated at a desk looked
up inquiringly.

“Is Mr. Fleck in?” she inquired timidly.

“Who wishes to see him?”

“Just say there’s a lady wishes to speak to him,” she faltered,
hesitating to give her name.

“Are you Miss Strong?” asked the boy abruptly, “because if you are,
he’s expecting you.”

She nodded, and the boy, jumping up, escorted her into an inner room.
As she entered nervously an alert-looking man, with graying hair and
mustache, rose courteously to greet her. In the quick glance she gave
at her surroundings she was conscious only of the great mahogany desk
at which he sat and behind it some filing cabinets and a huge safe, the
outer doors of which stood open.

“Sit down, won’t you, Miss Strong,” he said, placing a chair for her.

His manner and his cultured tone, everything about him, reassured her
at once. They conveyed to her that he was what she would have termed “a
gentleman,” and with a little sigh of relief she seated herself.

“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Fleck, smiling, “that Carter’s method of
approaching you must have alarmed you.”

“Carter—Oh, the black-mustached man.”

“Yes, that describes him. You see, he did not wish to act definitely
without consulting his chief, yet the unexpected opportunity seemed far
too vital not to be utilized. He did not explain, did he, what it was
we wanted of you?”

“Indeed he didn’t,” said Jane, now wholly herself. “He was most
mysterious about it.”

Mr. Fleck smiled amusedly.

“Carter has been an agent so long that being mysterious is second
nature to him.”

“An agent—I don’t understand.”

“A Department agent,” explained Mr. Fleck, adding, “engaged in secret
service work for the government.”

“Oh!”

Jane’s exclamation was not so much of surprise as of delighted
realization, and the satisfaction expressed in her face was by no means
lost on Mr. Fleck.

“Would you object,” he asked, moving his chair a little closer to hers,
“if, before I explain why you are here, I ask you a few questions—very
personal questions?”

“Certainly not,” said Jane.

“You are American-born, of course?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And your parents?”

“American for ten or twelve generations.”

“How long have you lived in that apartment house on Riverside Drive?”

“For about five years.”

“Do you know any of the other tenants in the house?”

“No—that is, none personally.”

“Is your time fully occupied?”

“No, indeed it isn’t, I’ve nothing to do at all, nothing except to try
to amuse myself.”

“Good,” said Mr. Fleck. “Now would you be willing to help in some
secret work for the United States Government, some work of the very
highest importance?”

“Would I?” cried Jane, her eyes shining. “Gladly! Just try me.”

“Don’t answer too quickly,” warned Mr. Fleck. “Remember, it will be
real work, serious work, not always pleasant, sometimes possibly a
little perilous. Remember, too, it must be done with absolute secrecy.
You must not let even your parents know that you are working with us.
You must pledge yourself to breathe no word of what you are doing or
are asked to do to a living soul. Everything that we may tell you is to
be buried forever from everybody. No one is to be trusted. The minute
one other person knows your secret it will no longer be a secret. Can
we depend upon you?”

“You may absolutely depend on me,” said Jane slowly and soberly. “I
give you my word. I have been eager for ever so long to do something to
help, to really help. My father is doing all he can to aid the
government. He’s on the Shipping Board.”

Mr. Fleck nodded. Evidently he was aware of it already.

“My brother, my only brother,” Jane continued, with a little catch in
her throat, “is Over There—somewhere Over There—fighting for his
government. If there is anything I can do to help the country he is
fighting for, the country he may die for, I pledge you I will do it
gladly with my heart, my soul, my body—everything.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Fleck softly, taking her hand. “I felt sure you
were that sort of a girl. Now listen.” He moved his chair still closer
to hers, and his voice became almost a whisper. “In the apartment next
to you there live two men,—Otto Hoff and his nephew, Fred. They have an
old German servant, but we can leave her out of it for the present. The
old man is a lace importer. Apparently they are both above suspicion,
yet—”

He stopped abruptly.

“You think they are spies—spies for Germany,” questioned Jane
excitedly. “They’re Germans, of course?”

“Otto Hoff is German-born, but he has been here for twenty years.
Several years ago he took out papers and became an American citizen.”

“And the young man?”

Jane’s tone was vibrant with interest. It must be the man she had seen
from her window whom they suspected most.

“He professes to be American-born.”

“Oh,” said the girl, rather disappointedly.

“But,” continued Mr. Fleck, “there’s something queer about it all. He
arrived in this country only three days before we went into the war. He
had a certificate, properly endorsed, giving his birthplace as
Cincinnati. He arrived on a Scandinavian ship. He speaks German as well
and as fluently as he speaks English, both without accent.”

“Perhaps he was educated abroad,” suggested Jane, rather amazed at
finding herself seeking to defend him.

“He must have been,” said Fleck, “yet I find it hard to believe that
Germany at this time is letting any young German-American come home if
he’s soldier material—and young Hoff’s appearance certainly suggests
military training.”

“It surely does.”

“Unless,” continued Fleck, “there was some special object in sending
him here.”

“You think,” said Jane slowly, “they sent him here—to this country—as a
spy.”

“In our business we dare not think. We cannot merely conjecture. We
must prove,” said Mr. Fleck. “Maybe the Hoffs are O.K. I do not know.
Nobody knows yet. Let me tell you some of the circumstances. This much
we do know. Von Bernstorff is gone. Von Papen is gone. Scores of active
German sympathizers and propagandists have been rounded up and interned
or imprisoned, yet, in spite of all we have done, their work goes on. A
vast secret organization, well supplied with funds, is constantly at
work in this country, trying to cripple our armies, trying to destroy
our munition plants, trying to corrupt our citizens, trying to disrupt
our Congress. Every move the United States makes is watched. As you
probably know, every day now large numbers of American troops are
embarking in transports in the Hudson.”

“Yes,” said Jane, “you can see them from our windows.”

“Now then,” said Mr. Fleck, lowering his voice impressively, “here is
the fact. Some one somewhere on Riverside Drive is keeping close and
constant tab on the warships and transports there in the river. We have
managed recently to intercept and decipher some code messages. These
messages told not only when the transports sailed but how many troops
were on each and how strong their convoy was. Where these messages
originate we have not yet learned. We are practically certain that some
one in our own navy, some black-hearted traitor wearing an officer’s
uniform—perhaps several of them—is in communication with some one on
shore, betraying our government’s most vital secrets.”

“I can’t believe it,” cried Jane, “our own American officers traitors!”

“Undoubtedly some of them are,” said Mr. Fleck regretfully. “The German
efficiency, for years looking forward to this war, carefully built up a
far-reaching spy system. Years ago, long before the war was thought
of—or at least before we in this country thought of it—many secret
agents of Wilhelmstrasse were deliberately planted here. Many of them
have been residents here for years, masking their real occupation by
engaging in business, utilizing their time as they waited for the war
to come by gathering for Germany all of our trade and commercial
secrets. Some of these spies have even become naturalized, and they and
their sons pass for good American citizens. In some cases they have
even Americanized their names. Insidiously and persistently they have
worked their way into places, sometimes into high places in our
chemical plants, our steel factories, yes, even into high places in our
army and navy and into governmental positions where they can gather
information first-hand. In no other country has it been so easy for
them, because of this one fact: so large a proportion of Uncle Sam’s
population is of German birth or parentage. Why here in New York City
alone there are more than three-quarters of a million persons, either
German-born themselves or born of German parents. Many of them, the
vast majority of them, probably, are loyal to America, but think how
the plenitude of German names makes it easy for spies to get into our
army and navy. Besides that, they employ evil men of other
nationalities as spies, the criminal riffraff,—Danes, Swedes,
Spaniards, Italians, Swiss and even South Americans,—all of whom are
free to go and come as they choose in this country.”

“I never realized before,” said Jane, “how many Germans there were all
about us.”

“In an effort to locate this particular band of naval spies,” continued
Mr. Fleck, “we have combed the apartment houses and residences along
the Drive. Three places in particular are under suspicion. The
apartment of the Hoffs is one of these places. They moved in there
thirty days after this country went to war. Ordinarily, where the
occupants of an apartment are under suspicion, we take the
superintendent of the building partly into our confidence and plant
operatives in the house, or else we hire an apartment in the same
building. In this case neither course is practicable. The
superintendent of your building is a German-American and we dare not
trust him, and there is no vacant apartment that we can rent. We have
been watching the Hoffs from the outside as best we could. Carter, who
has had charge of the shadowing, accidentally happened to overhear you
give your address. He had procured a list of the tenants and remembered
the location of your apartment. It struck him at once that you would be
a valuable ally if you would consent to work with us.”

“What is it that you wish me to do?” asked Jane wonderingly. “You’ll
have to tell me how to go about it.”

“All a good detective needs,” said Mr. Fleck, “is, let us say, three
things—observation, addition and common sense. You must observe
everything closely, be able to put two and two together and use your
common sense. Do you know the Hoffs by sight?”

“Only by sight.”

“They live in the next apartment on your floor, do they not?”

“Yes. Young Mr. Hoff’s bedroom is the room next to mine.”

“Good,” cried Mr. Fleck. “Can you hear anything from the next
apartment, any conversations?”

“No, only muffled sounds.”

“The windows overlook the river and the transports, do they not?”

“Yes, the windows of Mr. Hoff’s bedroom and the room next. Their
apartment is a duplicate of ours.”

Mr. Fleck sprang up and crossed to the big safe. Opening an inner
drawer he took out a small metal disk and handed it to her. Jane looked
at it curiously. It bore no wording save the inscription “K-19.”

“That,” said Mr. Fleck, “is the only thing I can give you in the way of
credentials. Keep it somewhere safely concealed about your clothing and
never exhibit it except in case of extreme necessity. If ever you are
in peril any police officer will recognize it at once and will promptly
give you all the assistance possible.”

“But,” protested the girl, “I don’t know yet what I am to do.”

“For the present I am trusting to your resourcefulness to make
opportunities to help us. We are watching the house closely from the
outside. Carter will identify you to the other operatives. Once a day I
will expect you to call me up, not from your home but from a public
’phone. Here is my number. Say ‘this is Miss Jones speaking,’ and I
will know who it is. I can communicate with you by note without
arousing suspicion?”

“Oh, yes, certainly.”

“If at any time I have to call you on the ’phone, or if any of the
other operatives want to communicate with you the password will be ‘I
am speaking for Miss Jones.’”

“Isn’t that exciting—a secret password,” cried Jane enthusiastically.

“If you can manage it without compromising yourself too seriously, I
wish you would make the young man’s acquaintance.”

“That will be simple,” said Jane, remembering the admiring way in which
he had raised his cup in her direction as she left the hotel.

“If possible find out who their visitors are in the apartment and keep
your eyes open for any sort of signalling to the transports. If ever
there is an opportunity to get hold of notes or mail delivered to
either of them, don’t hesitate to steam it open and copy it.”

“Must I?” said Jane. “That hardly seems right or fair.”

“Of course it’s right,” cried Mr. Fleck warmly. “Think of the lives of
our soldiers that are at stake. The devilish ingenuity of these German
spies must be thwarted at all costs. They seem to be able to discover
every detail of our plans. Only two days ago one of our transports was
thoroughly inspected from stem to stern. Two hours later twenty-six
hundred soldiers were put aboard her on their way to France. Just by
accident, as they were about to sail, a time-bomb was discovered in the
coal bunkers, a bomb that would have sent them all to kingdom come.”

“How terrible!”

“Somebody aboard is a traitor. Somebody knew when that inspection was
made. Somebody put that bomb in place afterward. That shows you the
kind of enemies we are fighting.”

Jane shuddered. She was thinking of the sailing of another transport,
the one that had carried her brother to France.

“Anything seems right after that,” she said simply.

“Yes,” said Mr. Fleck, “there is only one effective way to fight those
spying devils. We must stop at nothing. They stop at nothing—not even
murder—to gain their ends.”

“I know that,” said Jane hastily. “I saw something myself you ought to
know about.”

As briefly as she could she described the scene she had witnessed in
the early morning hours from her bedroom window, the man following the
younger Hoff, Hoff’s discovery and pursuit of him around the corner and
of his return alone.

“And in the morning,” she concluded, “they found a man’s body in the
side street. He had a bullet through his heart. There was a revolver in
his hand. The newspapers said that the police and the coroner were
satisfied that it was a suicide. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Hoff’s face
when he came back from around that corner. It was all convulsed with
hate, the most terrible expression I ever saw. I’m almost certain he
murdered that man. I’m sure it wasn’t a suicide.”

“I’m sure, too, that it was no suicide,” said Mr. Fleck gravely. “The
man who was found there was one of my men, K-19, the man whose badge I
have just given you. He had been detailed to shadow the Hoffs.”




CHAPTER IV
THE CLUE IN THE BOOK


Subway passengers sitting opposite Jane Strong as she rode up-town from
Mr. Fleck’s office, if they observed her at all—and most of them
did—saw only a slim, good-looking young girl, dressed in a chic
tailormade suit, crowned with a dashing Paris hat tilted at the proper
angle to display best the sheen of her black, black hair, which after
the prevailing fashion was pulled forward becomingly over her ears.
Outwardly Jane was unchanged, but within her nerves were all atingle at
the thought of the tremendous and fascinating responsibility so
unexpectedly thrust upon her. Her mind, too, was aflame with patriotic
ardor, but coupled with these new sensations was a persisting sense of
dread, an intangible, unforgettable feeling of horror that kept
cropping up every time her fingers touched the little metal disk in her
purse.

The man who had carried it yesterday, the other “K-19” who had
undertaken to shadow those people next door, now lay dead with a bullet
through his heart. Was there, she wondered, a similar peril confronting
her? Would her life be in danger, too? Was that the reason Mr. Fleck
had told her of her predecessor’s fate—to warn her how desperate were
the men against whom she was to match her wits? Yet no sense of fear
that projected itself into her busy brain as she cogitated over the
task before her held her back. If anything she was rather thrilled at
the prospect of meeting actual danger. What bothered her most was how
she could best go about aiding Mr. Fleck and his men in their work.

Her opportunity came far more quickly than she had anticipated. She had
gotten off the train at the 96th Street station, purposing to walk the
twenty odd blocks to her home as she pondered over the work that lay
ahead of her. Busy with a horde of struggling new thoughts she
proceeded along Broadway, for once in her life unheeding the rich gowns
and feminine dainties so alluringly displayed in the shop windows.
Suddenly she pulled herself together with a start. Directly ahead of
her, plodding along in the same direction, was a figure that from
behind seemed strangely familiar. She quickened her step until she
caught up sufficiently with the man ahead to get a good glimpse of his
side face. Nervously she caught her breath. Without any doubt it was
the gray Van Dyke beard of old Otto Hoff.

Where was he going? What was he doing? She paused and looked behind
her, scanning the pavement on both sides of the street. She was
half-hoping that she would discover Carter or some of his men shadowing
their quarry, but her hope was vain. There was no one in the block at
the moment but herself and Mr. Hoff. If Fleck’s men had been watching
his movements, the old man certainly seemed to have eluded them.

What should she do? Vividly there flashed into her mind her chief’s
parting words.

“Watch everything,” he had charged her. “Remember everything, report
everything. No detail is too unimportant. If you see one of the Hoffs
leave the house, don’t merely report to me that the old man or the
young man left the house about three o’clock. That won’t do at all. I
want to know the exact time. Was it six minutes after three or eleven
minutes after three? I must know what direction he went, if he was
alone, how long he was absent, where he went, what he did, to whom he
talked. Here in my office I take your reports, Carter’s reports, a
dozen other reports, and study them together. Things that in themselves
seem trifling, unimportant, of no value, coupled with other seemingly
unimportant trifles sometimes develop most important evidence.”

To prove his point he had told her of the seemingly innocent wireless
message that an operator, listening in, had picked up, at a time when
Germans were still permitted to use the wireless station on Long Island
for commercial messages to the Fatherland. On the face of it, it was
the mere announcement of the death of a relative with a few details.
But a little later the same operator caught the same message coming
from another part of the country, with the details slightly different,
and still later another message of the same purport. Evidently, by
comparing the messages, the United States authorities had been able to
work out a code.

Remembering this, Jane decided that it was her particular duty just now
to follow the old German and note everything he did. For several blocks
she trailed along behind him, without arousing any suspicion on his
part that he was being followed. He stopped once to light a cigarette,
the girl behind him diverting suspicion by hastily turning to a shop
window. Again he stopped, this time before the display of viands in the
window of a delicatessen store. Thoughtfully Jane noted the number,
observing, too, that the name of the proprietor above the door was
obviously Teutonic. She was half-expecting to see her quarry turn in
here, but he walked on to the middle of the next block, where he
entered a stationery store.

Hesitating but a second, to decide on a course of action, she followed
him boldly into the store. She felt that she must ascertain just what
he was doing in there. As she entered she saw that in the back part of
the store was a lending library. Mr. Hoff had gone back to it and was
inspecting the books displayed there. Unhesitatingly she, too,
approached the book counter.

“Have you ‘Limehouse Nights’?” she asked the attendant, naming the
first book that came into her head. She had a copy of the book at home,
but that seemed to be the only title she could think of.

“We have several copies,” the girl in charge answered, “but I think
they are all out. I’ll look.”

As the clerk examined the shelves, Jane kept up a desultory talk with
her, questioning her about various books on the shelves, all the while
watching the old German out of the corner of her eye. His back was
toward her, and he seemed to be examining various books on the shelves,
turning over the pages as if unable to decide what he wanted. Curious
as to what his taste in reading was, Jane endeavored to locate each
book that he removed from its place, her idea being that she would
later try to discover their titles. To her amazement she found that it
was invariably the third book in each shelf that he removed and
examined—the third from the end. It did not appear to her that he was
examining the contents of the pages so much as searching them as if he
expected to find something there.

All at once, as she furtively watched from behind him, she heard him
give a little pleased grunt and she saw him picking out from between
the leaves of the book a fragment of paper, which he held concealed in
his hand. Watching closely, Jane saw him thrust this same hand into his
trousers pocket, and when he brought it out she was certain that the
hand was empty. What did this curious performance mean? What was the
little slip of paper he had found in the book? Why had he concealed it
in his pocket?

Still keeping her attention riveted on him, she picked up a book to
mask her occupation and pretended to be turning its pages. She was glad
she had done so, for a minute later old Hoff wheeled suddenly and
looked sharply about him. Apparently having his suspicions disarmed by
seeing only herself and the clerk there, he turned again to the
bookshelves. Jane this time saw him thrust his fingers into his
waistcoat pocket and withdraw therefrom,—she was almost certain of
it,—a little slip of paper. She saw him remove from the second row of
books the fifth from the end, open it quickly and close it again and
then restore it to its place. As he did so he turned to leave the
store.

“Didn’t you find anything to read to-day, Mr. Hoff?” the clerk asked.

“Nodding,” he answered. “You keep novels, trash, nodding worth while.”

Her nerves aquiver, Jane waited until he was out of the store and then
stepped briskly to the place where he had stood. Hastily she pulled
forth the fifth book from the end in the second row. Turning its pages
she came upon what she had anticipated,—a strip of yellow manila
paper,—the paper she was sure she had seen him take from his pocket.
Hastily she examined it, expecting to find some message written there.
To her chagrin it was just a meaningless jumble of figures in three
columns.

534	 5	 2 331	54	 6 544	76	 3
49	12	 9 540	30	12 390	 3	 2 519	 3	 6
327	20	 2
 	 	97

Her first thought was to thrust the little scrap of paper in her purse
and start again in pursuit of old Hoff, but a sudden light began to
dawn on her. This was a cipher message, of course. The old man had left
it here for some one to come and get. If she followed Hoff, how was she
to discover who the message was for? Puzzled as to what she should do,
she borrowed a pencil from the clerk on the pretense of writing a
postal and hastily copied the figures, after which she restored the
slip to the book in which she had found it.

Glancing about undecidedly, wondering if it would do to take the clerk
into her confidence, wishing she had some means of reaching Mr. Fleck
and asking his advice, she spied in a drug-store just across the street
a telephone booth. She could telephone from there and at the same time
keep her eye on the store. Quickly she did so, twisting her head around
all the time she was ’phoning to make sure that no one entered
opposite.

“Is this Mr. Fleck?” she asked. “This is Miss Jones.”

“So soon?” came back his voice. “What has happened? What is the matter?
Have you changed your mind?”

“Not at all,” she answered indignantly. “I’ve discovered something
already—a cipher message.”

“What’s that?”

Even over the wire she could sense the eagerness in Mr. Fleck’s tone,
and a sense of achievement brought a radiant glow to her cheek.

“I ran into that man—you know whom—”

“The young one?” he interrupted.

“No, the uncle.”

“Yes, yes, go on,” cried Mr. Fleck impatiently.

“I followed him along Broadway after I got off at 96th Street and into
a library and stationery store. I watched him fuss over the books
there, and I think he got a slip of paper with a message out of one of
them.”

“Good,” cried Mr. Fleck, “that is something new. Go on.”

“And then he slipped a paper into a book—”

“Did you notice what book?”

“I don’t know the title. It was the fifth book from the end on the
second shelf, and I got the paper and copied it.”

“Splendid. What did the message say?”

“It’s just a lot of figures. I put it back after copying it, and I am
in a drug-store across the street where I can watch to see if any one
comes to get the message. What shall I do now?”

“Can you remain there fifteen minutes without arousing suspicion?”

“Certainly. I’ll say I am waiting for some one.”

“Good. I’ll get in touch with Carter at once. He’ll tell you what to do
when he arrives.”

Impatiently Jane sat there, keeping vigilant watch on the entrance
across the street, determined to be able to describe minutely each
person that entered. From time to time she surreptitiously studied the
postcard on which she had jotted down the mysterious numbers. How
utterly meaningless they looked. Surely it would be impossible for any
one, even Mr. Fleck, to decipher any message that these figures might
convey. It would be impossible unless one had the key. Figures could be
made to mean anything at all. She doubted if her discovery could be of
much importance after all, yet certainly Mr. Fleck had seemed quite
excited about it.

She spied Carter passing in a taxi. Two other men were with him. Her
first impulse was to run out in the street and signal to him, but she
waited, wondering what she should do. She was glad she had not acted
impulsively, for a moment later Carter entered alone, evidently having
left the car somewhere around the corner. She expected that he would
address her at once, but that was not Carter’s way. He went to the soda
counter and ordered something to drink, his eyes all the while studying
his surroundings. Presently he pretended to discover her sitting there.
To all appearances it might have been an entirely casual meeting of
acquaintances.

“Good-morning, Miss Jones,” he said quite cordially, extending his
hand. “I’m lucky to have met you, for my daughter gave me a message for
you.”

He put just a little stress on the words “my daughter” and Jane
understood that he was referring to “Mr. Fleck.”

“Indeed,” she replied, “what is it?”

“She wants you to go down-town at once and meet her at Room 708—you
know the building.”

“Aren’t you coming, too?”

“Not right away. I have some errands to do in the neighborhood. I’ve
got to buy a book for a birthday present. There’s a library around here
somewhere, isn’t there?”

“Just across the street,” said Jane, entering into the spirit of the
masked conversation with interest. “I was looking at a fine book over
there a few minutes ago. You’ll find it on the second shelf—the fifth
book from the end, on the north side of the store.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Carter, repeating, “the fifth book on the
second shelf.”

“That’s right,” said Jane, as they left the drug-store together.

“Which way did the old man go?” asked Carter.

“Down Broadway—toward home,” she replied. “I wanted to follow him, but
it seemed more important to stay here and watch to see if any one came
for the message he left there in the book.”

“You did just right, and the Chief is tickled to death. He wants to see
you right away. You have a copy of the message, haven’t you?”

“Yes, do you wish to see it?”

“No, but he does. Has anybody entered the store since you were there?”

“Nobody, that is no one but a couple of girls.”

“What did they look like? Describe them.”

“Why,” Jane faltered, “I did not really notice. I was not looking for
girls. I was watching to see that no other men entered the store.”

Carter shook his head.

“You ought to have spotted them, too. You never can tell who the
Germans will employ. They have women spies, too,—clever ones.”

“I never thought of their using girls,” protested Jane.

“Humph,” snapped Carter, “ain’t we using you? Ain’t one of our best
little operatives right this minute working in a nursegirl’s garb
pulling a baby carriage with a baby in it up and down Riverside Drive?
Well, it can’t be helped. You’d better beat it down-town to the Chief
right away.”

“I’ll take a subway express,” said Jane, feeling somewhat crestfallen
at his implied suggestion of failure.

Twenty-five minutes later found her once more in Mr. Fleck’s office.
Thrilling with the excitement of it all she told him in detail how she
had followed old Hoff and of his peculiar actions in the bookstore.

“And here,” she said, presenting the postcard, “is an exact copy of the
cipher message he left there. I copied every figure, in the columns,
just as they were set down. I don’t suppose though you’ll be able to
make head or tail out of it. I know I can’t.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” smiled Chief Fleck, as he took the card.
“When you get used to codes, most of them identify themselves at the
first glance—at least they tell what kind of a code it is. That’s one
thing about the Germans that makes their spy work clumsy at times. They
are so methodical that they commit everything to writing. Now the most
important things I know are right in here”—he tapped his head. “Every
once in a while they ransack my rooms, but they never find anything
worth while. Now this code”—he was studying the card intently—“seems to
be one of a sort that our friends from Wilhelmstrasse are ridiculously
fond of using. It is manifestly a book code.”

“A book code,” Jane repeated perplexedly. “I don’t understand.”

“It is very simple when two persons who wish to communicate with each
other secretly both have a copy of some book they have agreed to use.
They write their message out and then go through the book locating the
words of the message by page, line and word. That’s what the three
columns mean. Our only problem is to discover which is the book they
both have. They often employ the Bible or a dictionary or—”

He stopped abruptly and studied the columns of figures.

“This code,” he went on, “on its face is from a book that has at least
544 pages. One of the pages has at least 76 lines—that’s the middle
column—so the book must be set in small type.”

“What book do you suppose it is?” asked Jane interestedly. She was glad
now that she had listened to Carter. She was sure she was going to like
being in the service. It was all so interesting, and she was learning
so many fascinating things.

“If my theory is right those letters indicate that the book used was an
almanac. That’s the book that Wilhelmstrasse made use of when a
wireless message was sent in cipher to the German ambassador directing
him to warn Americans not to sail on the Lusitania. They betrayed
themselves at the Embassy by sending out to buy a copy of this almanac.
Let’s see how our theory works out.”

Taking up an almanac that lay on his desk he began turning to the pages
indicated in the first column of figures, checking off the lines
indicated in the second column and putting a ring around the words
marked by the third column of figures.

“Let’s see—page 534—fifth line—second word—that’s (eight). Now
then—page 331—that’s the chronology of the war in the almanac, so I
guess we are on the right track—fifty-fourth line—sixth
word—(transport).”

“Isn’t it wonderful!” cried Jane.

“Damn them,” he exploded. “I know we are on the right track. Some
transports with our troops sailed this morning, and already the German
spies are spreading the news, hoping to get it to one of their
unspeakable U-boats.”

Quickly he ran through the rest of the cipher, writing it out as he
went along:

EIGHT—TRANSPORT—SAILED—THURSDAY—15,000—INFANTRY—FIVE DESTROYERS.

As Fleck finished the message his face became almost black with rage.

“Damn them,” he cried again, “in spite of everything we do they get
track of all our troop movements. Their information, whenever we
succeed in intercepting it, is always accurate. If I had my way I’d
lock up every German in the country until the war was over, and I’d
shoot a lot of those I locked up. Until the whole country realizes that
we are living in a nest of spies—that there are German spies all around
us, in every city, in every factory, in every regiment, on every ship,
everywhere right next door to us—this country never can win the war.”

“What does the ‘97’ at the end mean?” questioned Jane timidly, a little
bit frightened at his outburst, yet more than ever realizing the vast
importance of his work—and hers.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Probably old Hoff’s number. Most spies are known
just by numbers.”

“Yes, of course,” said Jane, flushing as she recalled that she herself
was now “K-19.” Was she a spy? Was Mr. Fleck a chief of spies? She
always had looked on a spy as a despicable sort of person, yet surely
the work in which they both were engaged was vital to American success
at arms—a patriotic and important service for one’s country.

“I suppose,” she said thoughtfully, unwilling to pursue the chain of
her own thought any further, “that there is evidence enough now to
arrest old Mr. Hoff right away.”

“You bet there is,” said Mr. Fleck emphatically, “but that is the last
thing I am thinking of doing yet. He is only one link in a great chain
that extends from our battleships and transports there in the North
River clear into the heart of Berlin. We’ve got to locate both ends of
the chain before we start smashing the links. We’ve got to find who it
is in this country that is supplying the money for all their nefarious
work, from whom they get their orders, how they smuggle their news out.
Most of all we have got to find where the end of the chain is fastened
in our own navy. The traitors there are the black-hearted rascals I
would most like to get. They are the ones we’ve got to get.”

“Yes, indeed,” assented Jane, suddenly recalling the navy lieutenant
she had seen in the Ritz chatting so confidentially with old Otto
Hoff’s nephew. Was he, she wondered, one of the links in the terrible
chain? Was he the end—the American end of the chain?

“We’re certain about the old man now,” said Fleck, rising as if to
indicate that the interview was at an end. “We’ve got to get the young
fellow next. There is nothing in this to implicate him. That’s your
job. Find out all you can about him. Get acquainted with him, if
possible. That’s one of the weakest spots about all German spies. They
can’t help boasting to women. Try to get to know this Fred Hoff. It’s
most important.”

“I’ll do more than try,” said Jane spiritedly. “I’ll get acquainted
right away. I’ll make him talk to me.”




CHAPTER V
ON THE TRAIL


Few men, even fathers, realize how utterly inexperienced is the average
well-brought-up girl, just emerged from her teens, in the affairs of
the great mysterious world that lies about her. A boy, in his youth
living over again the history of his progenitors, escapes his nurse to
become an adventurer. At ten he is a pirate, at twelve a train robber,
at fourteen an aviator, actually living in all his thoughts and
experiences the life of his hero of the moment, learning all the while
that the world about him is full of adventurers like himself, ready to
dispute his claims at the slightest pretext, or to carry off his booty
by prevailing physical force.

Well-brought-up girls seldom are fortunate enough to have such
educative experiences. Their friends are selected for them, gentle
untaught creatures like themselves. Few of them learn much of the
practical side of life. A boy is delighted at knowing the toughest boy
in the neighborhood. A girl’s ambitions always are to know girls
“nicer” than she is. The average girl emerges into womanhood with her
eyes blinded, uninformed on the affairs of life, business, politics,
untrained in anything useful or practical, knowing more of romance and
history than she does of present-day facts.

If Chief Fleck had understood how really inexperienced Jane Strong
actually was, it is a question whether he would have ventured to
entrust so important a mission to her as he had done. Jane herself, as
she left his office, aroused by his revelations of the treacherous work
of Germany’s spies, and uplifted by his appeal to her patriotism, felt
enthusiastically capable of obeying his instructions. It seemed very
simple, as he had talked about it. All she had to do was to get
acquainted with the young man next door. Yet the further the subway
carried her from Mr. Fleck’s office after her second visit there that
morning, the more her heart sank within her, and the fuller her mind
became of misgivings.

In a big city next door in an apartment house is almost the same thing
as miles away. She ransacked her brain, trying to remember some
acquaintance who might be likely to know the Hoffs, but failed utterly
to recall any one. She reviewed all possible means of getting
acquainted but could find none that seemed practical. Never in her life
had she spoken to a man without having been introduced to him—except of
course to Carter and Mr. Fleck, and these men, she told herself, were
government officials, something like policemen, only nicer. At any
rate, she knew them only in a business way, not socially. If she was to
be successful in learning much about the Hoffs—about young Mr. Hoff—she
felt that it was necessary to make them social acquaintances.

She must manage to meet Frederic Hoff in some proper way, but how? She
thought of such flimsy tricks as dropping a handkerchief or a purse in
the elevator some time when he happened to be in it, but rejected the
plan as disadvantageous. “Nice” girls did not do that sort of thing,
and even though she was seeking to entrap her neighbor she did not for
a moment wish him to consider her as belonging to the other sort. It
rather annoyed her to find that she cared what kind of an impression
she made on him. What difference did it make what a German spy thought
of her, especially a murderer? Yet, she argued with herself, the better
the impression she made at first the more likely she would be to gain
his confidence, and that she knew would delight Mr. Fleck. Was Frederic
Hoff, too, really, she wondered, a spy? Her face colored as she
recalled the mental picture she last had had of him, gallantly and
admiringly raising his cup to her as she left the Ritz, not obtrusively
or impudently, but so subtly that she was sure that no one had observed
it but herself. It seemed preposterous to associate the thought of
murder with a man like him.

As she entered the apartment house she was arguing still with herself
about him. Her intuition told her that Frederic Hoff was a gentleman,
and how could a gentleman be what Mr. Fleck seemed to think he was? As
the door swung to behind her she gave a little quick breath of delight,
for she had caught sight of a uniformed figure standing by the
switchboard. She had recognized him at once. It was the naval
lieutenant who had been at the Ritz. She heard him saying to the girl
at the switchboard:

“Tell Mr. Hoff, young Mr. Hoff, that Lieutenant Kramer is here. I’ll
wait for him down-stairs.”

Quick as a flash a course of action came into her mind. She saw an
opportunity too good to be neglected. She hurried forward to where the
lieutenant was standing, her hand outstretched, with a smile of
recognition—feigned, but well-feigned—on her lips.

“Why, Lieutenant Kramer,” she cried, “how delightful. Have you really
kept your promise at last and come to see the Strongs?”

She could hardly restrain her amusement as she watched the embarrassed
young officer strive in vain to recall where it was that he had met
her. She had relied on the fact that the men in the navy meet so many
girls at social functions that it is impossible for any of them to
remember all they had met.

“Really, Miss—” he stammered, struggling for some fitting explanation.

“Don’t tell me,” she warned reprovingly, “that it isn’t Jane Strong
that you are here to see, after all those nice things you said to me
that day we had tea aboard your ship.”

She was hoping he would not insist on going into particulars as to
which ship it was. Fortunately she had been to functions on several of
the war vessels, so that she might find a loop-hole if he was too
insistent on details.

“Indeed, Miss Strong,” said Kramer, gallantly pretending to recall her,
“I’m delighted to see you again. I’ve been intending to come to see you
for ever so long, but you understand how busy we are now. In fact, it
was business that brought me here to-day. I’m calling on Mr. Hoff, who
lives here, to take him to lunch to discuss some important matters.”

At his last phrase Jane’s heart thrilled. What important matters could
there be that a navy lieutenant could fittingly discuss with a German,
with the nephew of the man whose secret code message they had just
succeeded in reading? Determining within herself to keep fast hold on
the beginning she had made, she masked her real thoughts and let her
face express frank disappointment.

“How horrid of you,” she continued, “when I was just going to insist
that you stay and have luncheon with us.”

He was protesting that it was quite out of the question when the
elevator brought down her mother, whom Jane at once summoned as an
ally, feeling sure that considering how many men of her daughter’s
acquaintance she had met, it would be perfectly safe to keep up the
deception.

“Oh, mother,” she cried, “you remember Lieutenant Kramer, don’t you?
I’ve just been urging him to stay and have luncheon with us. Do help me
persuade him.”

“Of course I remember Mr. Kramer,” fibbed the matron cordially, all
unaware of her daughter’s duplicity. “Do stay, Mr. Kramer, and have
luncheon with Jane. I ordered luncheon for four, expecting to be home,
and now I’ve been called away, but your aunt is there to chaperone you.
It spoils the servants so to prepare meals and have no one to eat them,
to say nothing of displeasing Mr. Hoover. It’s really your duty—your
duty as a patriot—to stay and prevent a food-waste.”

“I’ve just been trying to explain to your daughter that I was taking
Mr. Hoff to luncheon with me. Here he is now.”

Mrs. Strong’s eyes swept the tall figure approaching appraisingly and
apparently was pleased with his aspect. As Mr. Hoff was presented she
hastened to include him in the invitation to luncheon.

“Have pity on a poor girl doomed to eat a lonely luncheon by her
parent’s neglect,” urged Jane. “Really, you must come, both of you.
Nice men to talk to are so scarce in these war times that I have no
intention of letting you escape.”

“I’m in Kramer’s hands,” said Frederic Hoff gallantly, “but if he takes
me to some wretched hotel instead of accepting such a charming
invitation as this, my opinion of him as a host will be shattered.”

“But,” struggled Kramer, realizing that it must be a case of mistaken
identity and sure now that he never had met either Jane or her mother
before, “we have some business to talk over.”

“Business always can wait a fair lady’s pleasure,” said Hoff. “Is this
ruthless war making you navy men ungallant?”

With a mock gesture of surrender, and as a matter of fact, not at all
averse to pursuing the adventure further, Lieutenant Kramer permitted
Jane to lead the way to the Strong apartment.

Soon, with the familiarity of youth and high spirits, the three of them
were merrily chatting on the weather, the war, the theater and all
manner of things. Jane, in the midst of the conversation, could not
help noting that Hoff had seated himself in a chair by the window where
he seemed to be keeping a vigilant eye on the ships that could be seen
from there. Even at the luncheon table he got up once and walked to the
window to look out, making some clumsy excuse about the beautiful view.

Determined to press the opportunity, Jane endeavored to turn the
conversation into personal channels.

“You are an American,” she said turning to Hoff, “are you not? I’m
surprised that you are not in uniform, too.”

“A man does not necessarily need to be in uniform to be serving his
government,” he replied. “Perhaps I am doing something more important.”

“But you are an American, aren’t you?” she persisted almost impudently,
driven on by her eagerness to learn all she possibly could about him.

“I was born in Cincinnati,” he replied hesitantly.

She could not help observing how diplomatically he had parried both her
questions. Mentally she recorded his exact words with the idea in her
mind of repeating what he had said verbatim to her chief.

“Then you _are_ doing work for the government?”

Intensely she waited for his answer. Surely he could find no way of
evading such a direct inquiry as this.

“Every man who believes in his own country,” he answered, modestly
enough, yet with a curious reservation that puzzled her, “in times like
these is doing his bit.”

She felt far from satisfied. If he was born in America, if he really
was an American at heart, his replies would have been reassuring, but
his name was Hoff. His uncle was a German-American, a proved spy or at
least a messenger for spies. If her guest still considered Prussia his
fatherland the answers he had made would fit equally well.

“You’re just as provokingly secretive as these navy men,” she taunted
him. “When I try to find out now where any of my friends in the navy
are stationed they won’t tell me a thing, will they, Mr. Kramer?”

“I’ll tell you where they all are,” said Lieutenant Kramer. “Every
letter I’ve had from abroad recently from chaps in the service has had
the same address—‘A deleted port.’”

“I really think the government is far too strict about it,” she
continued. “My only brother is over there now fighting. All we know is
that he is ‘Somewhere in France.’ War makes it hard on all of us.”

“Yet after all,” said Hoff soberly, “what are our hardships here
compared to what people are suffering over there, in France, in
Belgium, in Germany, even in the neutral countries. They know over
there, they have known for three years, greater horrors than we can
imagine.”

The longer she chatted with him, the more puzzled Jane became. He
seemed to speak with sincerity and feeling. Her intuition told her that
he was a man of honor and high ideals, and yet in everything he said
there was always reserve, hesitation, caution, as if he weighed every
word before uttering it. Intently she listened, hoping to catch some
intonation, some awkward arrangement of words that might betray his
tongue for German, but the English he spoke was perfect—not the English
of the United States nor yet of England, but rather the manner of
speech that one hears from the world-traveler. Question after question
she put, hoping to trap him into some admission, but skilfully he
eluded her efforts. She decided at last to try more direct tactics.

“Your name has a German sound. It is German, isn’t it?” she asked.

“I told you I was born in Cincinnati,” he answered laughingly. “Some
people insist that that is a German province.”

“But you have been in Germany, haven’t you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you had not lived in that country?”

“I could not well have been there without having lived there, could I?”

Kramer came to her rescue.

“Of course he has lived there. Mr. Hoff and I both attended German
universities. That was what brought us together at the start—our common
bond.”

“Did you attend the same university?” asked Jane. She felt that at last
she was on the point of finding out something worth while.

“No,” said Kramer, “unfortunately it was not the same university.”

She caught her breath and blushed guiltily. If Mr. Kramer had attended
a German university he could not be an Annapolis graduate. He must be a
recent comer in the American navy. She knew that since the war began
some civilians had been admitted. It had just dawned on her that if
this was the case, since visiting on board ships was no longer
permitted, it clearly was impossible for her to have met him at any
function on a warship. He must have known all along that she knew she
never had met him. He must have been aware, too, that her mother did
not know him. She felt that she was getting into perilous waters and
fearful of making more blunders refrained from further questions. A
vague alarm began to agitate her. If he had detected her ruse when she
first had spoken to him, why had he not admitted it? What had been his
purpose in accepting her invitation and in bringing into it his German
friend, Mr. Hoff?

The ringing of the telephone bell came as a welcome interruption. A
maid summoned her to answer a call, and excusing herself from the table
she went to the ’phone desk in the foyer.

“Hello, is this you, Miss Strong?”

It was Carter’s voice, but from the anxious stress in it she judged
that he was in a state of great perturbation.

“Yes, it is Jane Strong speaking,” she answered.

“You know who this is?”

“Of course. I recognize your voice. It’s Mr. C—”

A warning “sst” over the ’phone checked her before she pronounced the
name and starting guiltily she turned to look over her shoulder,
feeling relieved to see the two men still chatting at the table,
apparently paying no attention to her.

“I understand,” she answered quickly. “What is it?”

“You know that book I told you I was going to buy?”

“Yes, yes!”

“It’s not there.”

“What’s that? The book is gone!”

“The book is there all right, but it’s not the book I want.”

“Are you sure,” she questioned, “that you looked at the right book?”

“I looked at the one you told me to.”

“Are you certain—the fifth book on the second shelf.”


Illustration: Had he been standing there listening? How much had he
heard?


She heard a movement behind her and turning quickly saw Frederic Hoff
standing behind her, his hat and stick in hand. Panic-stricken, she
hung up the receiver abruptly. Had he been standing there listening?
How much had he heard? He would know, of course, what “the fifth book
on the second shelf” signified. Had her carelessness betrayed to him
the fact that he and his uncle were being closely watched? Anxiously
she studied his face for some intimation of his thoughts. He was
standing there smiling at her, and to her agitated brain it seemed that
in his smile there was something sardonic, defying, challenging.

“I cannot tell you, Miss Strong, how much I have enjoyed your
hospitality. You made the time so interesting that I had no idea it was
so late. You will excuse me if I tear myself away at once. I have some
important business that demands my immediate attention.”

“I hope you’ll come again,” she managed to stammer, “and you, too, Mr.
Kramer.”

White-faced and terrified she escorted them out, leaving the telephone
bell jangling angrily. As the door closed behind them, she sank weak
and faint into a chair, not daring yet to go again to the ’phone until
she was sure they were out of hearing.

What was the “immediate business” that was calling them away so
suddenly? She was more than afraid that her incautious use of the
phrase “the fifth book on the second shelf” had betrayed her. What else
could it mean? Why else would they have departed so abruptly?

Mustering up her strength and courage she went once more to the ’phone.

“Hello, hello, is that you, Miss Strong? Some one cut us off,” Carter’s
voice was impatiently saying.

“Hello, Mr. Carter,” she called, “this is Jane Strong speaking. Where
can I see you at once? It’s most important.”

“I’ll be sitting on a bench along the Drive two blocks north of your
house inside of ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she answered quickly, with a feeling of relief.

The situation was becoming far too complicated, she felt, for her to
handle alone. Carter would know what to do. If Hoff and Kramer had
learned from her about the trailing of old Hoff, the sooner it was
reported to more experienced operatives than she was the better.

“Don’t speak to me when you see me sitting on the bench,” warned
Carter. “Just sit down there beside me and wait till I make sure no one
is watching us. I’ll speak to you when it’s safe.”

“I understand,” she answered. “Good-by.”

As she hastened to don her hat and coat she was almost overwhelmed by a
revulsion of feeling. Two days ago the world about her had seemed a
carefree, pleasant, even if sometimes boresome place. Now she
shudderingly saw it stripped of its mask and revealed for the first
time in all its hideousness, a place of murders and spying and secret
machinations. People about her were no longer more or less interesting
puppets in a play-world. They were vivid actualities, scheming and
planning to thwart and overcome each other. Almost she wished that her
dream had been undisturbed and that she had not been waked up to the
realities. Almost she was tempted to abandon her new-found occupation.

Then, once more, a feeling of patriotic fervor swept over her. She
thought of her brother fighting somewhere in the trenches. She pictured
to herself the other brave soldiers in the great ships in the Hudson.
She remembered the evil plotters with their death-dealing bombs,
striving to bring about a ghastly end for them all before they might
strengthen the lines of the Allies. She thought, too, of those
humanity-defying U-boats, forever at their devilish work, guided to
their prey by crafty, spying creatures right here in New York, more
than likely by the very people next door.

With her pretty lips set in a resolute line she left the house and
walked rapidly north. Come what may she would go on with it. Her
country needed her, and that was all-sufficient.




CHAPTER VI
THE MISSING MESSAGE


After Jane left Carter at the drug-store, he did not cross immediately
to the bookshop opposite. His detective work was not of that sort. He
strolled leisurely around the corner long enough to give some
directions to his two aides waiting there and then, moving across the
street, paused in front of the window of books as if something there
had attracted his attention. All the while he was keeping a sharp eye
for any person who looked as if they might be connected in any way with
old Hoff. Satisfied that his entrance was unobserved he strolled
casually in and began looking over the volumes in the lending library.
The lone clerk in the store—a young woman—at first volunteered some
suggestions, but as they went unheeded she returned to her work of
posting up the accounts.

As soon as her attention was occupied Carter moved at once to the end
of the shelf that Miss Strong had indicated and removed the fifth book.
To his amazement he found nothing whatever concealed between the
leaves. The books on either side on the same shelf failed to yield up
anything. He tried the shelf above and the shelf below. Perhaps Miss
Strong had been mistaken in the directions. He examined the books at
the other end. There was nothing there. He recalled that the girl had
said that no one except two girls had entered the store between the
time she had discovered and copied the cipher and the time of his
arrival. If these girls had not taken the message away there could be
only one other explanation—the clerk in the bookstore must have removed
it and concealed it somewhere.

“Which of the war books do you think the best?” he asked for the
purpose of starting a conversation.

“There’s that many it is hard to say, sir,” the young woman answered.

Something in her inflection made him look sharply at her. Her accent
surely was English, or possibly Canadian. A few judicious questions
quickly brought out the information that she came from Liverpool and
that she had three brothers in the British army. Carter decided that it
was preposterous to suspect her of being in league with German agents.
There was only one other thing that could have happened. Some one
else—some one who had eluded Miss Strong’s notice—had removed the
cipher message.

Promptly he had telephoned to her to meet him. He was glad that he had
done so, for her evident perturbation as she answered the ’phone both
interested and puzzled him. Pausing just long enough to report to Chief
Fleck, he hastened to the rendezvous, arriving there first. He selected
a bench apart from the others, where the wall jutted out from the walk,
and seating himself, idled there as if merely watching the river. In
obedience with his instructions Jane, when she arrived, planted herself
nonchalantly on the same bench, and paying no attention to him,
pretended to be reading a letter.

Presently Carter rose and stretching himself lazily, as if about to
leave, turned to face the Drive, his keen eyes taking in all the
passers-by. Apparently satisfied, he sat down abruptly and turned to
speak to the girl beside him.

“All right, K-19,” he said, “it’s safe. Now we can talk.”

“I’ve got such a lot to tell,” cried Jane.

“First,” said Carter, “just where did you put that cipher message when
you put it back?”

“What!” cried the girl, her face blanching, “wasn’t it there? Didn’t
you find it?”

Carter shook his head.

“It must be there,” she insisted. “Are you sure you looked in the right
book—the fifth book from the end on the second shelf on the up-town
side of the store.”

“It’s not there. I examined every book there, on the shelves above and
below and at the other end, too.”

“The clerk in the store, that girl—must have hidden it,” cried Jane
with conviction.

“That’s not likely. She’s an English girl—from Liverpool. She has three
brothers fighting on the Allies’ side. We can leave her out of it.”

“Who else could have taken it?”

“There’s only one answer,” said Carter slowly and impressively. “Some
one went into that store between the time you copied the message and
the time I met you at the drug-store. You told me no one but a couple
of girls had entered. Was there any one else? Think—think!”

“There was no one,” said Jane thoughtfully, “no one except the two
girls together. I never thought of suspecting them.”

“What did they look like? Could you identify them?”

“I did not notice them particularly,” Jane confessed. “I was expecting
Mr. Hoff’s confederate to be a man.”

“They’re using a lot of women spies,” asserted Carter. “Don’t you
remember what the girls looked like?”

“One of them,” said Jane thoughtfully, “wore an odd-shaped hat, a sort
of a tam with a red feather.”

“Would you know the hat again if you saw it?”

“I think—I’m sure I would.”

“Well, that’s something. Watch for that hat, and if you ever see it
again trail the girl till you find out where she lives. If you locate
her telephone Mr. Fleck at once. And now, what has happened to you?”

“I’ve so much to tell, important, very important, I think.”

She hesitated, wondering how much Carter was in the chief’s confidence.
Did he know the import of the cipher message she had discovered? Ought
she to talk freely to him?

“Do you know what those numbers meant?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “about the eight transports sailing. The Chief told
me about it.”

“Well,” she said, with a sigh of relief, “I have become acquainted with
young Mr. Hoff already. I’ve just had luncheon with him.”

“That’s fine,” he cried enthusiastically. “A lucky day it was I ran
across you.”

“When you ’phoned me he was there in our apartment, he and a navy
lieutenant, Mr. Kramer.”

Attentively he listened as she told of the ruse by which she had
inveigled them into coming to luncheon, reminding him that it was the
same naval officer that he himself had seen in close conversation with
Hoff at the Ritz the day before. He nodded his head in a satisfied way.

“They are together too much to be up to any good,” he commented. “Tell
me the rest. What made you so rattled when I ’phoned you?”

He listened intently as she told of finding young Hoff standing right
behind her as she had inadvertently mentioned aloud “the fifth book.”

“Do you suppose,” she questioned anxiously, “that he overheard me and
understood what we were talking about? He left right away after that. I
do hope I didn’t betray the fact that they are being watched.”

“We can’t tell yet,” said Carter. “The precautions they take and the
roundabout methods they have of communicating with each other show that
all Germany’s spies constantly act as if they knew they were under
surveillance. In fact, I suppose every German in this country, whether
he is a spy or not, can’t help but notice that his neighbors are
watching him—and well they might.”

“I don’t see why,” cried Jane, “Mr. Fleck did not have old Mr. Hoff
locked up right away. He could not do any more damage then, or be
sending any more messages about our transports.”

“That wouldn’t have done the least bit of good,” said Carter
decisively. “Watching our transports sail and spreading the news is
only one of many of their activities. Somewhere in this country there
is a master-council of German plotters, directing the secret movements
of many hundreds, perhaps many thousands of spies and secret agents.
They have their work well mapped out. They have men fomenting strikes
in the government shipyards and stirring up all kinds of labor
troubles. Others are busy making bombs and contriving diabolical
methods of crippling the machinery in munition plants. A flourishing
trade in false passports is being carried on, enabling their spies to
travel back and forth across the Atlantic in the guise of American
business men, ambulance drivers, Red Cross workers and what not. Still
others of their agents are detailed to arrange for the shipping of the
supplies Germany needs to neutral countries. By watching shipping
closely they gather information, too, that is of value to the U-boat
commanders. Every time there is any sort of activity against the draft,
or peace meetings, or Irish agitation, we find traces of German
handiwork. We have dismantled and sealed up every wireless plant we
could find in America except those under direct government control, yet
we are positive that every day wireless messages go from this country
somewhere—perhaps to Mexico or South America, and from there are
relayed to Germany, probably by way of Spain. Think of the enormous
amount of money required to finance these operations and keep all these
spies under pay. While we try to thwart their plans as we find them,
all our efforts are constantly directed toward discovering who controls
and finances their damnable system. We seldom if ever arrest any of the
spies we track down, but keep watching, watching, watching, hoping that
sooner or later the master-spy will be betrayed into our hands.”

“You don’t think then,” said Jane disappointedly, “that old Mr. Hoff is
one of the important spies.”

“We can’t tell yet. He may be just one of the cogs—perhaps what they
call a control-agent. We don’t know yet. Germany has been building up
her spy system forty years, and it is ingenious beyond imagination. Her
codes are the most difficult in the world. It took the French three
years and a half to decipher a code despatch from Von Bethmann Hollweg
to Baron von Schoen. By the time they had it deciphered in Paris the
Germans had discovered what they were doing and had changed the code.
It is seldom any one of the German spies knows much about the work that
other spies are doing. The rank and file merely get orders to go and do
such a thing, or find out about such a thing. Often they are not told
what they are doing it for. They obey their orders implicitly in detail
and make their reports, get new orders and go on to do something else.
Only their master spy-council here knows what the summary of their
efforts amounts to. Arresting old Hoff, or a dozen more like him, would
not cripple them much. Other men would be assigned in their places, and
the nefarious work would go on.”

“I don’t know,” insisted Jane thoughtfully. “I believe that old Mr.
Hoff is a far bigger spoke in the wheel than you think. I watched his
face as I followed him this morning. He is a man of great intelligence,
and I should judge a man of education.”

“They’d hardly be using a man of that sort to carry messages,” objected
Carter. “Maybe you’re right. We have not watched him long enough to
find out. We’ve got nothing yet on the young fellow. Maybe he’s the
real boss of the outfit. At any rate he is the one the Chief is anxious
to have you keep tabs on. Are you to see him again?”

“Oh, yes,” the girl answered quickly, a touch of color coming to her
face, “I think so. I asked him to come to see me. I think—in fact I’m
sure—he will. Do you want me to watch the bookshop to see if they leave
any more messages there?”

“No,” said Carter. “I’ve got one of my men assigned to that. You keep
after the young fellow. Say, does your father keep an automobile?”

“Yes, but it’s been put up for the winter. We’re going to bring it out
as soon as Dad can find a chauffeur. Our man—the one we had last
year—has been drafted, and good chauffeurs are scarce now. Why did you
ask?”

“I’ll find you a chauffeur,” said Carter decisively.

“You mean”—Jane hesitated—“a detective?”

Carter grinned.

“An agent like you and me. K-27 is an expert chauffeur and mechanic
with fine references. His last job was with the British High
Commission, and they gave him good testimonials.”

“What do you want him to do?”

“Driving the Strong car makes a good excuse for him to be around
without exciting suspicion. He might even come up-stairs once in a
while to get orders or do little repair jobs around the apartment. Some
day, supposing the people next door were all out, he might even succeed
in planting a dictograph so that you could sit there in your room and
hear all that was going on and what the Hoffs talked about. That would
help a lot. If ever he was caught prowling about the hall, the fact
that he was your chauffeur would provide him with an alibi. Do you
think you can fix it up with your father?”

“I’m sure of it. When can he come?”

“The sooner the better—to-night—to-morrow.”

“I’ll tell Dad at dinner to-night that I’ve learned of a good chauffeur
and have asked him to come in at eight this evening.”

“Fine,” said Carter. “He’ll be there. And don’t forget to report once a
day to the Chief.”

“I won’t.”

“And if anything unexpected turns up,” said Carter, “and you need help,
take a good look at that nurse that is passing.”

Jane turned curiously to inspect a buxom girl in a drab nurse’s costume
who was wheeling a baby carriage along the sidewalk near-by. Seeing
herself observed the girl stopped, and at a sign from Carter wheeled
her charge up to where they were standing.

“K-22,” said Carter, “I want to introduce you to K-19.”

Gravely the two girls, nodding, inspected each other.

“She always wears a blue bow at her neck,” Carter added, “so you can
recognize her by that.”

The girl smilingly nodded again and wheeled the carriage on up the
Drive.

“Who is she?” Jane asked eagerly, turning to Carter.

“Just K-22,” said the agent, “and all she knows about you is that you
are K-19. That’s the way we work in the service mostly. The less one
operative knows about another the better, for what you don’t know you
can’t talk about.”

“Doesn’t she even know my name?” persisted Jane.

“She may have found it out for herself while she has been watching the
Hoffs, but we didn’t tell her. Nobody in the service knows who you are
except the Chief and myself—and of course K-27 will have to know if he
takes the chauffeur’s job.”

“What is his name?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Carter gravely. “I haven’t seen his
references, so I don’t know what name they are made out in. You can
find out what to call him when he reports to-night. You’ll see that he
gets the job?”

“Indeed I will,” answered Jane, experiencing a sense of relief at the
prospect of having some one at hand in the household with whom she
could discuss her activities.

And as she had anticipated she had little difficulty in interesting her
father in the subject of a new chauffeur. Mr. Strong for several days
had been trying to find one without success.

“You say this man’s last place was with the British High Commission.”

“Some one of the girls was telling me,” she prevaricated. “I asked her
to tell him to come here to-night at eight. He ought to be here any
minute.”

Presently the candidate for the place was announced.

“Mr. Thomas Dean to see about a chauffeur’s position,” the maid said as
she brought him in, and while her father questioned him, Jane studied
him carefully.

He could not be more than thirty, she decided, and the voice in which
he answered her father’s questions was surely a cultivated one. It
would not have surprised her in the least to have learned that he was a
college man. Even in his neat chauffeur’s uniform he seemed every inch
a gentleman. He had been driving a car for twelve years, he explained.
No, he did not drink and had never been arrested for speeding.

“Are you a married man?”

Jane listened curiously for his answer to this question of her
father’s. Surely it would be far more interesting if he wasn’t. Of
course, he was a chauffeur and a detective, but somehow she could not
help feeling, perhaps because of his easy manner, that more than likely
most of the cars he had driven were cars that he himself had owned.
K-27 she decided was going to be quite a satisfactory partner to work
with.

“There’s just one thing,” said her father. “You say you are not
married. I can’t understand why it is that you are not in the army.”

“I am not eligible,” said Thomas Dean calmly, though Jane thought she
could detect a twinkle in his eye. “One of my legs has been broken in
three places.”

“But there are things a young fellow can do for his country besides
marching,” insisted Mr. Strong. “The government needs mechanics, too.”

“I know,” said Thomas Dean, almost humbly, “but I have a mother, and my
father is dead.”

Jane smiled a little to herself at his answer. She noted how carefully
he had avoided saying anything about having a mother to support. It
would not have surprised her in the least to have learned that he was a
millionaire, yet her father, ordinarily shrewd in judging men,
apparently was satisfied.

“Supporting a mother, I suppose, comes first,” he said. “Well, Dean,
when can you come?”

“To-morrow morning if you like,” the new chauffeur answered, nodding
gravely to Jane as he withdrew.

Mr. Strong, as soon as they were alone, spoke enthusiastically about
the young man, complimenting Jane on having discovered him, and as he
did so a revulsion of feeling swept over her. For the first time she
realized into what duplicity her work for the government was leading
her. She had pledged her word to Chief Fleck that she would keep her
activities an absolute secret even from her parents. Already she was
deceiving them, bringing into the household an employee who really was
a detective, a spy. She was tempted to tell her father, at least, what
she was doing. He, she knew, was filled with a high spirit of
patriotism. While he might not wholly approve of what she herself was
doing she might be able to convince him of the necessity of it. If she
could only tell him, her conscience would not trouble her, but there
was her promise—her sacred promise; she couldn’t break that.

While with troubled mind she debated with herself between her duty to
her parents and her duty to her country, one of the maids came in with
a box of flowers for her.

Eagerly she cut the string and opened the box. Chief Fleck especially
wanted her to cultivate young Hoff’s acquaintance. If her suspicion as
to the sender were correct, she could feel that she had made an
auspicious beginning.

In a tremor of excitement she snatched off the lid of the box and tore
out the accompanying card from its envelope.

“Mr. Frederic Johann Hoff,” it read, “in appreciation of a most
profitable afternoon.”

Wondering at the peculiar sentiment of the card she tore off the
enclosing tissue paper from the flowers. Orchids, wonderful, delicately
tinted orchids, nestled in a sheaf of feathery green fern—five of them.

“Five orchids—the fifth book—a profitable afternoon.”

Jane felt sure now she had betrayed the government’s watchers to at
least one of the watched.




CHAPTER VII
THE WOMAN ON THE ROOF


It is amazing how much information on any given subject any one—even a
wholly inexperienced person like Jane Strong—can acquire within a few
days when one’s mind is set resolutely to the task. It is much more
amazing how much one can learn when aided and abetted by an experienced
chauffeur, or more properly speaking a mysterious and cultured secret
service operative, masquerading as an automobile driver.

Who Thomas Dean was, why he was in the secret service, and what his
real name was, were questions that kept perpetually puzzling Jane. In
the presence of her father and mother, so skilful an actor was he that
it was hard to believe him anything but what he appeared to be, a
respectful, intelligent and prompt young man who knew the traffic
regulations and the anatomy of automobiles. When he and Jane were by
themselves he invariably threw off his mask to some extent. He became
the director instead of the directed, though never letting anything of
the personal relation creep in. That he was college-bred, Jane felt
certain. He spoke both German and French much better than she did. He
occasionally used words that no ordinary chauffeur would be likely to
know the meaning of. Sharing the secret of such a mission as theirs,
they quickly found themselves on a friendly basis, yet the girl
hesitated whenever her curiosity prompted her to try to find out
anything that would reveal his identity. There was always present the
feeling that any exhibition of undue curiosity on her part would be a
disappointment to her employer. The chief disapproved of curiosity
except on one subject—what the Germans were doing.

Many things Jane and her aide learned about the Hoffs in the days
following Thomas Dean’s coming, reporting them all as directed. Of how
much or of how little value her discoveries were Jane had no means of
knowing. Chief Fleck seemed satisfied but was always urging her to
acquire more information and more details, always details. Dean, too,
had seconded the warning about observing even what seemed to be
insignificant trifles.

“Most of the Germans,” he said to her, “you will find are very
methodical. They like to do things according to schedule. For instance,
I learned yesterday that old Hoff and his nephew frequently go off on
all-day automobile trips. They always go on Wednesday.”

“Are they going to-morrow?”

“The presumption is that they will. They have done so every Wednesday
for six weeks.”

“Can’t we follow them in our car?” cried the girl, “and see what they
are up to?”

Dean shook his head.

“The Chief is looking out for that. There is more important work for us
to do right here. I want to try to install a dictograph in their
apartment.”

“How exciting.”

“You must find some excuse for me to come up into your apartment and
see to it that none of your people are about.”

“That will be easy. Mother and Aunt will be out all day, and it is
cook’s afternoon off. I can easily send the maids out.”

“But that’s not all. There is the Hoffs’ servant to be disposed of.”

“I don’t see how I can manage that,” said Jane. She could think of no
possible way of overcoming that difficulty.

“She’s an old German woman—Lena Kraus,” continued Dean. “I’ve found out
that she always washes on Wednesdays. When she goes up on the roof in
the afternoon to get the clothes will be our time. It will be your job
to see that she stays there until I am through. It will not take me
more than half an hour.”

“But what will I do if she starts to come down? How will I stop her?”

“You’ll have to use your wits. Keep her talking as long as you can.
When she starts down come with her. Press the elevator button four
times. I’ll leave the door of the Hoff apartment open and very likely
will hear it in time to get away.”

“But how’ll you get their door open?”

Dean smilingly drew forth a key.

“I borrowed the superintendent’s bunch last night, pretending I had
lost the key to my locker in the basement. I knew he had a master-key
that unlocks all the apartment doors, and there was no trouble in
picking it out. I had some wax in my hand and made an impression of it
right under his nose.”

“How clever,” cried Jane, “but suppose the Hoffs do not go off
to-morrow. What will we do then?”

“You are taking tea with young Hoff this afternoon, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Jane, “that is, he asked me to. I am to meet him at the
Biltmore at five.”

“When you’re with him propose doing something together to-morrow
afternoon. See what he says.”

“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll ask him to go to the matinée with me.”

“That will do splendidly. Has he been with that navy officer lately?”

“Not since Sunday, to my knowledge. I wonder if old Mr. Hoff has left
any more cipher messages at the bookshop?”

“No,” said Dean, “he hasn’t. The place has been constantly watched, but
he hasn’t been near it since that first day.”

“I’m afraid,” sighed Jane despondently, “I betrayed the fact that we
were watching them to the nephew. He overheard me talking to Carter
about the ‘fifth book,’ and of course he knew what it meant. I’m
certain the old man is still reporting about our transports. Every day
I can hear some one telephoning to him. He waits for the message, and
then he goes out.”

“He certainly is expert in eluding shadowers,” admitted Dean. “Every
day he has been followed, but always he manages to give the operatives
the slip. He must know he is being watched.”

“I’m anxious to know what the nephew will say to me to-day,” said Jane.
“I know he knows what I am doing. He looks at me in such an amusedly
superior way every time he sees me.”

“Be careful about trying to pump him,” cautioned Dean. “He strikes me
as by far the more intelligent of the two. It would not surprise me in
the least if he were not old Hoff’s nephew at all, but really his
superior, sent over especially by Wilhelmstrasse to take charge of the
plotters. He doesn’t in the least resemble old Hoff.”

“No indeed, he doesn’t,” admitted Jane. “He certainly is clever, too.
We haven’t learned a single thing that incriminates him, have we?”

“Nothing definite, yet everything taken together looks damaging enough.
Here is a young German of military age and appearance, who arrived from
Sweden just before we went into the war. He has plenty of money and
spends his time idling about New York, in frequent communication with
at least one navy officer. He selects a home overlooking the river from
which our soldiers are departing for France. You yourself saw him
pursuing K-19—the other K-19—who a few hours afterward was found
murdered.”

“Things don’t look right,” Jane agreed, yet a few hours later as she
sat opposite the young man at tea, she found herself doubting. It
seemed incredible, impossible, that Frederic Hoff could be a murderer.
Her instinctive sense of justice forced her to admit that it was hard
for her to believe him even a spy. He seemed so cultured, so clean, so
straightforward, so nice. If she had not seen that unforgettable look
of hate on his face that night as she watched him from the window she
could not, she would not have believed evil of him.

The tremor of nervous excitement in which she met him quickly passed,
and she found herself once more chatting intimately with him and
enjoying it. He talked well on practically all subjects, showing
reserve only when she tried to draw him out about himself. Her previous
experiences with the opposite sex had taught her that most men’s
favorite topic of conversation is themselves, but Mr. Hoff appeared to
be the exception. Adroitly he baffled all her efforts to get him to
discuss his family, his achievements, or his past, even when she sought
to encourage intimacy by telling about her brother who was abroad in
Pershing’s army.

“You must let me be your big brother while he is away,” her escort had
suggested gallantly.

“All right, brother,” she had challenged him. “I’ll take you on at
once. I have seats for a matinée to-morrow. I’d much rather go with a
brother than with one of the girls.”

“I would be delighted,” he answered unsuspectingly, “but unfortunately
I have an engagement that takes me out of town.”

“We’ll go next week, then—Wednesday.”

“A week is too long to wait. Let me take you to a matinée on Saturday.”

Jane hesitated. At times her conscience troubled her not a little.
While satisfied that the importance of her trust wholly justified her
actions, she disliked any deception of her family.

“Wouldn’t it be better,” she parried, “if you came to call on me some
evening first? You’ve only just met my mother, and I would like you to
know Dad, too.”

“May I?” he cried with manifest pleasure. “How about to-morrow
evening?”

“That’s Wednesday,” she answered slowly. That was the day she and Dean
were planning to put in a dictograph. She wondered at herself calmly
carrying on this casual conversation with the man she was planning to
betray. Coloring a little from the very shame of it, she continued,
“How about making it Thursday evening?”

“Delighted,” cried Hoff, “and about Saturday’s matinée—what haven’t you
seen?”

Glad for the respite of at least twenty-four hours, Jane, as they
talked, watched his face, his expression, his eyes. Regardless of the
things she believed about him, he impressed her as honest and sincere.
Certainly there was no mistaking the fact that his liking for her and
his delight in her society were wholly genuine. Her heart warned her
that it was his intention to press their new-formed acquaintance into
close intimacy. Was he, she wondered, like herself, pretending
friendship merely to unmask secrets for his government? No, she could
not, she would not believe it. She felt sure that his admiration was
unfeigned. Something told her that quickly his ardor and determination
might lead her into embarrassing circumstances. He might even ask her
to marry him. For a moment she was overcome with timidity and tempted
to stop short on her new career, but there came to her the thought of
the brave Americans in the trenches, of the soldiers at sea, of the
brutal, lurking U-boats, and sternly she put aside all personal
considerations.

“You spoke of going out of town,” she said when the subject of the
matinée had been disposed of. “Don’t you find train travel rather
disagreeable these days?”

“Fortunately I’m motoring.”

“That will be nice, if you don’t have to travel too far.”

“It is quite a distance for one day, but I am used to it. I make the
trip often.”

Feeling that at least she had learned something, Jane rose to go. She
knew that both the Hoffs would be out of the way to-morrow. The
inference from his last remark was that they were going to the same
place they had gone on previous Wednesdays. That was something to
report to Mr. Fleck.

“My car is outside,” she said as they rose. “Can’t I take you home?”

“Sorry,” said her host, “but I am dining here to-night. Lieutenant
Kramer is to join me.”

“Remember me to him,” she said as he escorted her to the automobile,
driven by Dean.

A block away from the hotel she tapped on the glass, and as Dean
brought the car to a stop she climbed into the seat beside him. Only a
week ago she would have criticized any girl who rode beside the
chauffeur. In fact she had spoken disapprovingly of a girl in her own
set who made a habit of doing it, but now she never gave it a thought.
Many things in her life seemed to have assumed new aspects and values
since she had entered on a career of useful activity. In her was
rapidly developing something of her father’s ability and directness. As
she wanted to talk confidentially with Dean, she went the easiest way
about it, entirely regardless of appearances.

“Apparently you carried it off well,” he commented.

“I hope so,” she answered, coloring a little. “They’re making their
usual Wednesday motor trip.”

“He did not tell you their destination?”

“No, but Lieutenant Kramer is dining with him to-night at the
Biltmore.”

“Fine. Those things the Chief can take care of. That leaves the way
clear for us to-morrow afternoon.”

“What excuse will I make for having you come up to the apartment?”

“You want me to change some pictures. That will account for the wire if
I’m caught.”

“I hope no one sees you.”

“Nobody’ll see me but the elevator man, and he’ll think nothing of it.”

Apparently, too, Dean was right, for the next afternoon he entered the
Strong apartment carrying a suitcase in which was concealed his
apparatus and the necessary wire.

“Hurry,” cried Jane, who was waiting for him. “The Hoffs’ maid has just
gone up on the roof.”

“We can safely give her at least a few minutes,” said Dean setting to
work to make a hole through the wall into the apartment adjoining. Just
as he had finished making it and had pushed one end of the wire
through, the telephone bell rang, and Jane in dismay sprang to answer
it.

“Disguise your voice,” warned Dean. “If it is a caller say there is no
one home.”

“It was Lieutenant Kramer calling,” said Jane as she returned.

“Did he recognize your voice?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell Miss Strong that he had called.”

“Then he didn’t suspect you.”

“Isn’t there danger, though, that he may come up to the Hoff
apartment?”

Dean sprang to the window and looked out at the street below.

“No, there he goes up the street. He evidently did not try to see if
the Hoffs were at home. That’s funny.”

“Why funny?”

“It means of course that he, too, knows about those Wednesday trips the
Hoffs make.”

Cautiously he opened the door into the public hall. There was no one
about. Catlike in swiftness and silence he moved to the Hoff door and
inserted his new-made key. It worked perfectly.

“Now,” he whispered to Jane, “to the roof—quick. I must not be taken by
surprise. Give me at least ten minutes more—fifteen if you can.”

Quickly he passed inside, closing the door behind him all but a barely
noticeable crack, as Jane rang for the elevator and bade the operator
take her to the roof. As she emerged there and stood waiting for the
elevator to descend again, an ornamental lattice screened her from the
rest of the roof. Cautiously and curiously she peered between the
slats, trying to see what the Hoff servant was doing at the moment. She
decided that she would not reveal her presence until the woman made
ready to go down-stairs.

As from behind her screen she scanned the roof she espied old Lena over
on the side next the river bending over a half-filled basket of
clothes, apparently putting into the basket some of the freshly dried
laundry from the lines extending all over the roof. As Jane watched her
the old woman straightened herself up and cast a cautious glance about.
Apparently satisfied that she was alone she whipped out something from
a pocket in her apron and turned in the direction of the river.

Jane gasped in amazement, a thrill of excitement sweeping over her at
this new discovery. It was plain that the old servant was studying the
transports in the river below through a pair of powerful field glasses.
Curiously Jane observed her, wondering what she was trying to
ascertain, wondering if through the glasses she was able to identify
the battleships and other boats. Old Lena’s next move was still more
puzzling. Hastily dropping her glasses into the basket she began to
hang again on the line some of the clothes. They were handkerchiefs,
Jane noted interestedly, one large red one, and the rest white, some
large, some small, a whole long row of nothing but handkerchiefs.

All at once it came to Jane what it must mean. The arrangement of the
handkerchiefs must be some sort of a code. She studied the way they
were placed, committing the order to memory. “Red—two large—one
small—one large—one small.” Of course it was a code, a signal to some
one aboard one of the ships.

The line of handkerchiefs completed old Lena once more took up her
glasses, first looking around as before to see if any one were on the
roof. How Jane wished that she, too, could see the ships from where she
stood. Was some traitor in the navy wigwagging to the old woman? She
was tempted to spring forward and seize her and stop this dastardly
signalling, but she remembered her duty. She was there to see that Dean
was not surprised by old Lena’s return. So long as the woman kept
signalling he was safe.

Once more the laundress dropped her glasses and began frantically
rearranging the handkerchiefs. Again Jane noted their order—red—two
small—one large—three small—two large. Again the laundress resorted to
the glasses, and at last, apparently satisfied, began taking down the
rest of the laundry and making ready to leave the roof. Trying to act
as if she had just arrived, Jane stepped boldly forward.

“I wonder,” she said approaching the woman, “if you can tell me where I
can find a good laundress.”

“_Nicht versteh_” said old Lena, eyeing her suspiciously and hostilely,
and at the same time attempting to pass her with the basket of clothes.

Deliberately blocking the way, Jane repeated her question, this time in
German, feeling thankful that her language studies at school were not
wholly forgotten and that they had included such practical phrases as
those required to hire and discharge maids and complain about the
quality of their work.

“I know no one,” the old woman answered her, this time in English.

Jane breathed fast with excitement. The laundress’ slip of the tongue,
after denying that she understood, was evidence in itself of her
deliberate duplicity. Realizing her mistake, the old woman now sullenly
refused to answer any questions, merely shaking her head and trying to
dodge past and escape.

To prolong the questioning, Jane felt, would be only to arouse
suspicion, and reluctantly she allowed old Lena to precede her to the
elevator, anticipating her, however, in ringing the bell, pressing the
button four times as Dean had directed. As they descended together she
was almost in a panic. How long had she kept the laundress on the roof?
She really had no idea. She had been so absorbed in her new discovery
she had given no thought to the time. For all she knew she might have
been there only five minutes. Had Dean had time to finish his work?

Almost frenzied with anxiety, wondering if it were too soon, she moved
forward in the car so as to obstruct old Lena’s view through the door
as it opened. One glance showed her the Hoff door now tightly closed,
and she thought she heard the door of her own apartment just closing.
Suddenly she remembered that she had gone up on the roof without a key.
It would be a pretty pass if Dean were still in the Hoff apartment and
she couldn’t get into her own.

All in a tremble she pressed the button of her own door, waiting,
however, to see that the laundress was out of the hall. It was Dean who
opened the door, and she all but fainted in his arms as she saw that he
was back in safety.

“It’s done,” he cried gleefully, as he caught her and drew her within,
closing the door carefully behind her. “I just finished my work as you
came down.”

Great drops of perspiration still stood on his forehead and he was
breathing rapidly.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he cried, noticing for the first time Jane’s
perturbation. “Was it too much for you? What happened?”

“Put this down quick, quick,” gasped Jane, “Red—two large—one small—one
large—one small—and then—red—two small—one large—three small—two
large.”

Wonderingly he complied, jotting down what she told him in his
notebook, and turning to ask her what it meant, discovered that she had
fainted.




CHAPTER VIII
THE LISTENING EAR


“I don’t know what is the matter with Jane,” sighed Mrs. Strong a few
days after the employment of the new chauffeur.

“She’s not ill, is she?” responded her husband. “I never saw her
looking more fit.”

“She looks all right,” said her mother. “It is the peculiar way she is
acting that bothers me. She spends hours and hours moping in her room,
and then there are times when she takes notions of going out and is
positively insistent that she must have the car.”

“Maybe she’s in love,” suggested Mr. Strong, resorting to the common
masculine suspicion.

“With whom?” retorted his wife indignantly. “I don’t believe there is
an eligible man under forty in all New York. None of the men are
thinking about marriage these days. They all want to go to France, even
the married ones. I believe you’d go yourself if you were a few years
younger.”

“I certainly would,” announced her husband enthusiastically.

“Jane tells me she is writing a novel,” Mrs. Strong continued, “and
that’s why she stays in her room so much. I hope she won’t turn out to
be literary.”

“Don’t worry,” advised Mr. Strong. “With all the men off to war you’ll
find young women doing all kinds of funny things to work off their
energy. If a girl can’t be husband-hunting, she’s got to be doing
something to keep busy. There are worse things than trying to write
novels. Jane is all right. Let her alone.”

So, even though her mother’s suspicions had been aroused, the girl in
the next few days managed to spend many hours with her ears glued to
the receiver of the dictograph without being discovered. In the Hoffs’
apartment Dean had succeeded in locating it over the dining-room table,
concealed in the chandelier, and in Jane’s room the other end rested in
the back of a dresser drawer that she always carefully locked when
absent.

The novelty of listening for bits of her neighbors’ conversation
quickly wore off. To sit almost motionless for hours listening,
listening intently for every sound, hearing occasional words spoken
either in too low tones or too far distant to make them understandable,
to record bits of conversation that sounded harmless, yet might have
some sinister meaning, became a most laborious task. Yet persistently
Jane stuck at it. The greater knowledge she gained of the plottings of
the German agents, the more important and vital she realized it was for
every clue to be diligently followed in the hope that the trail might
at last reach the master-spy, whose manifold activities were menacing
America.

In general she was disappointed with the results of her listening. To
be sure they had furnished indisputable evidence of something they
already had ascertained—that old Hoff, despite being a naturalized
American, still was a devoted adherent of the ruler of Germany. Nightly
as he and his nephew sat down to dinner she could hear his gruff,
unpleasant voice ceremoniously proposing always the same toast:

“Der Kaiser!”

Even when the younger Hoff was dining out, as he sometimes did, Jane
could hear the old man giving the toast, presumably with only the old
servant for an auditor. That the woman, too, was a spy, as well as
servant, Jane had known since the day on the roof, but so far neither
she nor Dean had been able to make anything out of her handkerchief
code, though both were sure the messages related to the sailings of
transports.

Only once had she heard anything that she deemed really important. One
evening, as uncle and nephew dined, there had been an acrimonious
dispute.

“Have you it yet?” the uncle had asked in German.

“Not yet,” Frederic had answered.

His seemingly simple reply for some reason appeared to have stirred the
elder man’s wrath. He broke into a volley of curses and epithets,
reproaching his nephew for his delay. In the rapid medley of oaths and
expostulations Jane could distinguish only occasional
words—“afraid”—“haste”—”all-highest importance”—“American swine.” The
younger Hoff had appeared to exercise marvelous self-control.

“There is yet time,” he answered calmly.

“Donnerwetter,” the old man had exclaimed. “There is yet time, you
say—and Emil the wonder-worker almost ready has. It must be done at
once.”

The outburst over, old Hoff had subsided into inarticulate mutterings,
evidently busy with his food, leaving Jane to wonder futilely who Emil
might be, what he meant by the “wonder-worker,” and what particular
task had been assigned to the nephew that must be performed
immediately. She had hastened to report this conversation in detail to
Chief Fleck, but if he understood what it was about he had taken
neither Jane nor Thomas Dean into his confidence.

Other things, too, Jane had learned and reported, which she knew the
chief appreciated even though he was sparing in his thanks and
compliments. She had learned through her almost constant listening that
Lieutenant Kramer was a regular visitor, coming to the Hoff apartment
or seeing Frederic Hoff somewhere every other day. Unfortunately he was
always conducted into one of the inner rooms, so that no more of the
conversation than the ordinary greetings and farewells ever reached
Jane’s ears. The mere fact of his coming so regularly to the Hoffs
convicted him of treachery, in Jane’s mind. What proper business could
an American naval officer have in the home of two German agents? The
excuse that Frederic Hoff was a delightful and entertaining friend was
entirely too flimsy and unsatisfactory.

Nothing that she had overheard—and within her heart she felt glad that
it was so—in any way as yet incriminated young Hoff. When she dared to
think about it, she found herself almost believing, certainly at least
wishing, that the nephew was not involved in his uncle’s activities.
Most of his time, in fact, was spent out of the apartment. He
frequently went out early in the morning, not returning until the early
hours of the next morning. The old man, on the contrary, always stayed
at home until eleven o’clock. At that hour his telephone would ring.
The telephone was located near the dining room, so Jane could easily
hear his conversations. Invariably some brief message was given to him,
a name, which he repeated aloud as if for verification.

As Jane overheard them she had set them down:

Thursday—“Jones.”
Friday—“Simpson.”
Saturday—“Marks.”
Sunday—“Heilwitz.”
Monday—“Lilienthal.”
Tuesday—“Wheeler.”


As she sat by the hour listening Jane kept pondering over these names.
What could they mean? Were they, too, a code of some sort? Always, as
soon as this word had come to him, old Hoff went out. Could they be,
she wondered, passwords by which he gained access somewhere to
government buildings or places where munitions were being made or
shipped?

Meanwhile her acquaintance with Frederic Hoff had been progressing
rapidly. As she had suggested he had called on her and had been
presented to her father, and on the next Saturday they had gone to a
matinée together. She had been eager to see what her father thought of
him, for Mr. Strong, she knew, was regarded as a shrewd judge of men.

“What does that young Hoff do who was here last night?” her father had
asked at the breakfast table.

“He’s in the importing business with his uncle, I think,” she had
answered.

“Where’d you meet him?”

“He lives in the apartment next door. Lieutenant Kramer introduced
him.”

“He’s German, isn’t he?”

“Oh, no,” said Jane, almost unconsciously rallying to defend him, “he
was born in this country.”

“Well, it’s a German name.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“He talks well,” her father said, “and seems to be well-bred.”

It was with reluctance, too, that Jane admitted to herself that the
better acquainted she became with Frederic Hoff the more fascinating
she found his society. She was always expecting that by some word or
action he would reveal to her his true character. At the matinée she
had waited anxiously to see what he would do when the orchestra played
the national anthem. To her amazement he was on his feet almost among
the first and remained standing in an attitude of the utmost respect
until the last bar was completed. If he were only pretending the rôle
of a good American, he certainly was a wonderful actor. As her
admiration for him increased and her interest in him grew she found
that almost her only antidote was to try to keep thinking of his face
as she had seen it the night that K-19—the other K-19—had been so
mysteriously murdered. She kept wondering if Chief Fleck had made any
further discoveries about the murder and resolved to ask him about it
at the first opportunity. She therefore was delighted when on Tuesday,
as she made her regular report by telephone, he asked if she could come
to his office that afternoon with Dean to discuss some matters of
importance. They found Carter already with the chief when they arrived.

“Thanks to your work, Miss Strong, and to Dean’s dictograph,” said the
chief, “we have made considerable progress. We have learned a lot more
about the cipher messages.”

“You have learned it through me,” cried Jane in amazement.

“Yes,” said the chief, smiling, “from that list of names you reported.”

“What were they, a cipher, a code?” questioned the girl breathlessly.

“No, nothing like that. They are merely the names of various innocent
and unsuspecting booksellers in various parts of the city.”

“How did you discover that?”

“In the simplest and easiest way possible. I listed all the names you
reported and studied them carefully, trying to find their common
denominator. They were not in the same neighborhood, so it was not
locality. They were not all German, so it was not racial. I looked them
up in the telephone directory, checking up the numbers of the
telephones of the Jones, the Simpsons, but that gave no clue. Then, as
I looked through the telephone lists, I discovered that there was a
bookstore kept by a man of each name. Then I understood. It is a simple
plan for throwing off shadowers.”

“You mean that Mr. Hoff goes to a different bookstore each day to leave
a code message?”

“That’s it. The spy who gets the messages each morning calls him up by
’phone, mentioning just the one word. From that Mr. Hoff knows just
where to go, concealing the message in a book before agreed upon.”

“The fifth book,” interrupted Dean.

“Not always,” explained Fleck. “It depends on whether there are five
letters in the name telephoned. I have located and copied several more
of the messages.”

“But who gets the messages he leaves? Who takes them away from the
bookshops?” asked Jane, mindful of her own failure in that respect.

“It’s a girl, or rather two girls together, though possibly only one of
them is in the plot. Very likely the other may not know what her
companion is doing.”

“To whom does this girl take them?”

“That is still a mystery,” said the chief. “We have ascertained who the
girl is, where she lives. Her actions have been watched and recorded
for every hour in the twenty-four for the last three days, and yet we
don’t know what she does with these messages. Carter has a theory—tell
us about it, Carter.”

“In accordance with instructions,” began Carter, as if he was making
out a report, “I had operatives K-24 and K-11 shadow the party
suspected. On two different occasions they followed her to a bookstore
and back home again. She was accompanied on one occasion by her younger
sister. Each time she went directly home and stopped there, neither she
nor her sister coming out again, and no person visiting the apartment,
but—”

“Here’s the interesting part,” interrupted Fleck.

“On both occasions within a couple of blocks of the bookstore she
passed a man with a dachshund. She did not speak to the man, but each
time she stopped to pet the dog.”

“Was it the same man both times?” asked Dean.

“Apparently not,” replied Carter, “but it may have been the same dog.
Dachshunds all look alike.”

“Go on,” said the chief.

“Now my theory is that that girl was instructed to walk north until she
met the man with the dog. I’ll bet anything that code message went
under the dog’s collar. The next time she gets a message I’m going to
get that dog.”

“It seems preposterous,” scoffed Dean.

“Rather it shows,” said Fleck, “that these spies all suspect they are
being watched, and that they resort to the most extraordinary methods
of communication to throw off shadowers. They have used dachshunds
before. There’s a New England munition plant to which they used to send
a messenger each week to learn how their plans for strikes and
destruction were progressing. They put a different man on the job each
time to avoid stirring up suspicion. At the station there would always
be two children playing with a dachshund. The spy would simply follow
them as if casually, and they would lead him to a rendezvous with the
local plotters. Now, Miss Strong,” he said, turning to Jane, “I brought
you down here for two reasons. First, to give you an inkling of how
important your task is, and second, to ask you to undertake still
another task for us. Are you still willing to help?”

“More than ever,” said the girl firmly.

“The one disappointment is that we are getting no evidence whatever to
involve or incriminate young Hoff. To-morrow, while he and his uncle
are away on their usual auto trip, I am going to have the apartment
thoroughly searched.”

Jane’s face blanched. She recalled what a strain it had been on her
nerves the day she watched on the roof while Dean installed the
dictograph. She felt hardly equal to the task of ransacking desks and
drawers.

“There will be no one at home but the old servant. She can be easily
disposed of. It is imperative that the search be made at once. There is
evidence that what they are planning—evidently some big coup—is nearing
the time for its execution. We must find it out in order to thwart
them. I have got to know what old Hoff meant by the ‘wonder-worker!’ He
said that it was nearly ready. I suspect that it is some new engine of
destruction. We must prevent any disaster to transports or munition
factories, if that’s what they have in mind.”

“You think it’s a bomb plot?” asked Jane.

“I don’t know what it is. These empire-mad fools stop at nothing.
Nothing is sacred to them, women, children, property. With fanatical
energy and ability they commit murders, resort to arson, use poisons,
foment strikes, wreck buildings, blow up ships, do anything, attempt
anything to serve the Kaiser. Karl Boy-ed spent three millions here in
America in two months, and Von Papen a million more. What for? Ten
thousand dollars to one man to start a bomb factory, twenty-five
thousand dollars to another to blow up a tunnel. Millions on millions
for German propaganda was raised right here, and it is far from all
spent yet. We’ve got to find out what the wonder-worker is and destroy
it before it destroys—God knows what.”

“Very well,” said Jane with quiet determination, “I’ll search their
apartment.”

“No, not that,” said the chief, “I’ll send some fake inspectors to test
the electric wiring, and they’ll do the searching. I do not know for
sure that the Hoffs suspect you of watching them, but I’m taking no
chances. It will be just as well for you and Dean to be out of the way
to-morrow all day, so that you will have an alibi. Germany’s secret
agents are suspicious of everybody. They do not even trust their own
people. What I want you and Dean to do is to try to follow the Hoffs
and see where they go. I don’t want to use the same persons twice to
trail them as they may get suspicious.”

“I can easily do that,” said Jane, feeling relieved. “I’ll tell Mother
I want our car for all day.”

“No, don’t use your own car. They might recognize it. I’ll provide
another one. They gave two of my men the slip last week somewhere the
other side of Tarrytown. Let’s hope they are not so successful this
time.”

“But won’t they recognize me?”

“Not if you disguise yourself with goggles and a dust coat. Dean can
make up, too. He had practice enough at college, eh, Dean?”

Jane turned to look interestedly at Dean, who had the grace to color
up. She was right then. He was a college man, working in the secret
service not for the sake of the job but for the sake of his country.

“Of course I can disguise myself too,” she said enthusiastically, a new
zest in her work asserting itself, now that she knew her principal
co-operator was probably in the same social stratum as herself.

“You can rely on us, Chief,” said Dean, as they left the office
together. “We’ll run them down.”

As they emerged into Broadway and turned north to reach the subway at
Fulton Street, Dean, with a warning “sst,” suddenly caught Jane’s arm
and drew her to a shop window, where he appeared to be pointing out
some goods displayed there. As he did so he whispered:

“Don’t say a word and don’t turn around, but watch the people passing,
in this mirror here—quick, now, look.”

Jane, as she was bidden, glanced, at first curiously and then in
recognition and amazement, at a tall figure reflected in the mirror, as
he passed close behind her. It was a man in uniform. Regardless of
Dean’s warning she turned abruptly to stare uncertainly at the military
back now a few paces away.

“Did you recognize him?” cried Dean.

“It—it looked like Frederic Hoff,” faltered the girl.

“It was Frederic Hoff,” corrected her companion, “Frederic Hoff in the
uniform of a British officer, a British cavalry captain!”




CHAPTER IX
THE PURSUIT


Masked by an enormous pair of motor goggles and further shielded from
recognition by a cap drawn down almost over his nose, Thomas Dean in a
basket-rigged motorcycle impatiently sat awaiting the arrival of Jane
Strong at a corner they had agreed upon the evening before. He had been
particularly insistent that Jane should be on hand at a quarter before
eight. He had learned by judicious inquiries that always on
Wednesdays—at least on the Wednesdays previous—the Hoffs had started
off on their mysterious trips at eight sharp. His intention was to get
away ahead of them and pick them up somewhere outside the city limits.

Jane had promised that she would be on hand promptly. Once more he
looked impatiently at his watch. It lacked just half a minute of the
quarter, but there was no sign of his fellow operative. The only person
visible in the block was a boy strolling carelessly in his direction.
With a muttered exclamation of annoyance Dean restored his watch to his
pocket, debating with himself how long he ought to wait and whether or
not he had better wait if she did not appear soon. Very possibly, he
realized, something entirely unforeseen might have detained her or have
prevented her coming. Perhaps her family had doubted her story that she
was going off on an all-day motor trip with a friend? Maybe their
suspicions had been aroused by his having reported sick? He had almost
decided to go on alone when he observed that the boy he had seen
approaching was standing beside the motorcycle.

“Good morning, Thomas,” said the boy, a little doubtfully, as if not
quite sure that it was he.

Dean gasped in astonishment. The boy’s voice was the voice of Jane.
Laughing merrily at his amazement and discomfiture, she climbed into
the seat beside him, asking:

“How do you like my disguise?”

“It’s great,” he cried. “You fooled me completely, and I was expecting
you.”

“When Chief Fleck said I ought to disguise myself for fear that the
Hoffs already suspected me, I happened to remember these clothes. I had
them once for a play we gave in school.”

“But you don’t even walk like a girl.”

Jane laughed again.

“I practised that walk for days and days. When I first put on this suit
my brother hooted at the way I walked. He said no girl ever could learn
to walk like a boy. I made up my mind I’d show him.”

“But your hair,” protested Dean, almost anxiously. Even if he was just
now assuming the humble rôle of chauffeur he still was an ardent
admirer of such hair as Jane’s, long, black and luxurious.

“Tucked up under my cap,” laughed the girl, “and for fear it might
tumble down, I brought this along. It’s what the sailor boys call a
‘beanie,’ isn’t it?”

As she spoke she adjusted over her head a visorlike woolen cap that
left only her face showing.

“But your mother—didn’t she wonder about your wearing those clothes?”

“She was in bed when I left. All she caught was just a glimpse of me in
Dad’s dust coat, and that came to my ankles. I wore it until I was a
block away from the house. Will I do?”

“You can’t change your eyes,” said Dean boldly, that is boldly for a
chauffeur, but he knew that Jane knew he wasn’t a chauffeur except by
choice, so that made it all right.

“I couldn’t well leave them behind. I understood that I was to have a
lot of use for my eyes to-day.”

“Yes, indeed, you very likely will.”

“Do you know I hardly recognized you at first and was almost afraid to
speak? I had expected to find you in a car. What was the idea of the
motorcycle?”

“It was Chief Fleck’s suggestion. The Hoffs will be motoring. People in
a car seldom pay any attention to motorcyclists. If we were to follow
them in a motor they’d surely notice it. Last week they managed to
dodge the people the Chief assigned to trail them. Maybe as two dusty
motorcyclists we’ll have better luck.”

“I hope so. Where do you intend waiting to pick them up?”

“Getty Square in Yonkers is the best place. Everybody going north goes
that way. I can be tinkering with the machine while you keep watch for
them. They will not be apt to suspect a pair of Yonkers motorcyclists.
There’s no danger of missing them.”

“Did you tell the Chief about seeing Mr. Hoff in that uniform?”

“Of course. He did not seem even surprised. Some one had reported to
him already that there was a German going about in British uniform.”

“What had he heard? What was the man doing?” questioned Jane anxiously.
Even though she believed Frederic Hoff an alien enemy, even though she
was all but sure that he was a murderer, she kept finding herself
always hoping for something in his favor. He seemed far too nice and
entertaining to be engaged in any nefarious, underhanded, despicable
machinations. Yet she had seen him masquerading as a British officer.
She could not doubt the evidence of her own eyes.

“What happened was this,” continued Dean. “A woman—one of the society
lot—was driving down Park Avenue day before yesterday morning in her
motor. It had been raining, and the streets were muddy. At one of the
crossings a British officer stopped to let the car pass. One of the
wheels hit a rut, and his uniform was all splashed with mud. He burst
into a string of curses—_German_ curses.”

“He cursed in German?” cried Jane.

“Sure,” said Dean. “On the impulse of the moment he forgot his rôle and
revealed his true self—an arrogant Prussian officer.”

“What did the woman do?”

“Reported him to the first policeman she met, but by that time he had
vanished, of course.”

“What did Chief Fleck think about it?”

“He didn’t seem to take the story seriously.”

“Do you suppose it could have been Mr. Hoff?”

“It must have been he, or one of his gang, at any rate. I don’t see why
the Chief does not order his arrest at once. He is far too dangerous to
be at large.”

“There’s no real evidence against him yet,” protested Jane, “not
against the young man, at least.”

“Didn’t we both see him in British uniform?”

“Yes,” admitted the girl.

“Well, that’s proof, isn’t it? A man with a German name in British
uniform in wartime can’t be up to any good.”

“Still we have no actual evidence against him. We don’t know what he
was doing.”

“I’d arrest him then for murder and get the evidence that he is a spy
afterward. It would be easy to fasten the murder of K-19 on him.
There’s no doubt that he did that.”

“Has a witness been found?” asked Jane with a quick catch of the
breath. Somehow she never had been able to persuade herself that the
man next door, whatever else he might be, had really committed that
brutal murder.

“No, there’s no actual witness, but it could be proved by
circumstantial evidence. K-19, the man whose work you took up, had
instructions to shadow young Hoff to his home. At two in the morning he
relieved another operative. At three you yourself saw him shadowing
Hoff.”

“I saw two men on the sidewalk,” corrected Jane. “One of them was
Frederic Hoff. I did not see the other distinctly enough to identify
him. I saw no murder. I merely saw the two of them run around the
corner.”

“Look here,” said Dean sharply, not wholly succeeding in suppressing a
note of jealousy in his tones, “I believe you are trying to shield
Frederic Hoff. What is he to you? Has he won you over to his side?”

“You’ve no right to say such things to me,” cried Jane, nevertheless
coloring furiously. “I’ve seen the man only three or four times. I am
working just as hard as you are to prove that he is a German spy, if he
is one. I am only trying to be fair. I know nothing that convicts him
of murder. Any testimony I could give would not prove a single thing.”

“Certainly not, if that’s the way you feel about it,” snapped Dean.

After that they rode along together in silence, each busy with thoughts
of their own. Dean was cursing himself for having let his enthusiasm to
be of service to his government lead him into such circumstances. He
felt that his chauffeur’s position handicapped him in his relations
with Jane, to whom he had been strongly attracted from the beginning.
The son of a distinguished American diplomat, he had been educated for
the most part in Europe. Friends of his father, when he had offered his
services to the government, had convinced him that his knowledge of
German and French would make him most useful in the secret service.
Reluctantly he had consented to take up the work, and as he had gone
further and further into it and had realized the vast machinery for
surreptitious observation and dangerous activity that the German agents
had secretly planted in the United States, he had become fascinated
with his occupation—that is, until he met Jane Strong.

His association with her under present circumstances was fast becoming
unbearable. Even though he was aware that she knew he was no ordinary
chauffeur, he loathed the necessity of having to wear his mask in the
presence of her family. He wanted to be free to come to see her, to
send her flowers and to go about with her. For him to take any
advantage of their present intimate relations to court her seemed to
him little short of a betrayal of his government, yet at times it was
all he could do to keep from telling her that he adored her. Love’s
sharp instincts, too, had made him realize that Jane was already
beginning to be attracted by the handsome young German whom they were
seeking to entrap, and the knowledge of this fact filled him with
helpless rage and jealousy.

Jane, too, angered and insulted at first by Dean’s outburst, had been
endeavoring to analyze her own conduct. Candor reluctantly compelled
her to admit that each time she met Frederic Hoff she had found herself
coming more and more under his spell. He had a wonderful personality,
talked entertainingly and ever exhibited an innate gallantry toward
women in general, and herself in particular, which Jane had found
delightfully interesting. Though she had undertaken wholeheartedly to
try to get evidence against him, she was forced to admit to herself now
that she was secretly delighted that there had been nothing damaging
found as yet, so far as he was concerned, beyond the one fact that he
had been in British uniform.

In vain she marshalled the circumstances about him, trying to make
herself hate him. He was a German, she told herself. He was an enemy of
her country. He lived with a man who had been proved to be a spy. He
surreptitiously associated with American naval officers. The dictograph
told her that nightly his uncle and he in the seclusion of their home
toasted America’s arch enemy, the German Kaiser. More than likely, too,
her reason told her, he was a murderer. She ought to hate, to loathe,
to despise him, and yet she didn’t. She liked him. Whenever he
approached she could feel her heart beating faster. She looked forward
after each meeting with him to the time when she would see him again.
What, she wondered, could be the matter with her? Assuredly she was a
good patriotic American girl. Why couldn’t she hate Frederic Hoff as
she knew he ought to be hated?

She was still puzzling over her unruly heart when they reached Getty
Square, and Dean brought the motorcycle to a stop in one of the side
streets overlooking Broadway. Dismounting, he looked at his watch and
made a pretense of tinkering with the engine, while Jane kept a sharp
lookout on the main thoroughfare, by which they expected the Hoffs to
approach. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, more than half an hour they
waited, anxiously scanning each car as it passed.

“I can’t understand it,” said Dean. “They should have been here at
least twenty minutes ago. I am going to ’phone Carter. He will know
what time they started.”

He had hardly entered an adjacent shop before Jane, still keeping
watch, saw the Hoffs’ car flash by, going rapidly north. Quickly she
sprang out and ran into the store. Dean saw her coming and left the
telephone booth, his finger on his lips in a warning gesture.

“Don’t bother to ’phone,” cried the girl, misunderstanding his
meaning—and thinking only that he was trying to prevent her naming the
Hoffs. “Come, let’s get started.”

Without speaking he hurried from the store and got the motorcycle under
way.

“Have they passed?” he whispered then.

“Just a moment ago.”

Silently he gathered up speed, racing in the direction the Hoffs’ car
had gone, not addressing her again until perhaps two miles from Getty
Square they caught up with it close enough to identify the occupants,
whereupon he slowed down and followed at a more discreet interval.

“Be careful about speaking to me when there’s any one about,” he warned
Jane, almost crossly. “Those clothes make you look like a boy, and your
walk is all right, but your voice gives you away. Did you see that
clerk in the store look at you when you spoke to me? I tried to warn
you to say nothing.”

“I’ll be careful hereafter,” said Jane humbly, still depressed by her
recent estimate of herself. “I forgot about my voice.”

Mile after mile they kept up the pursuit without further exchange of
conversation. As they passed through various towns along the road Dean
purposely lagged behind for fear of attracting attention, but always on
the outskirts he raced until he caught up close enough again to the car
to identify it, then let his motorcycle lag back again. Thus far the
Hoffs had given no indication of any intention to leave the main road.

As the cyclists, far behind, came down a long winding hill on which
they had managed to catch occasional glimpses of their quarry, Dean,
with a muttered exclamation, put on a sudden burst of speed. At a rise
in the road he had seen the Hoffs’ car swing sharply to the left.
Furiously he negotiated the rest of the hill, arriving at the base just
in time to see them boarding a little ferry the other side of the
railroad tracks. While he and Jane were still five hundred yards away
the ferryboat, with a warning toot, slipped slowly out into the Hudson.

In blank despair they turned to face each other. The situation seemed
hopeless. They dared not shout or try to detain the boat. That surely
would betray to the Hoffs that they were being followed. Despondently
Dean clambered off the motorcycle and crossed to read a placard on the
ferryhouse.

“There’s not another boat for half an hour,” he said when he returned.
“They have gained that much on us.”

“Perhaps we can pick up their trail on the other side of the river,”
suggested Jane. “There are not nearly so many cars passing as there
would be in the city.”

“We can only try,” said Dean gloomily.

“At least we know where to pick up their trail the next time.”

“Damn them,” cried Dean, “I believe they suspect that they may be
followed and time their arrival here so as to be the last aboard the
ferryboat. That shuts off pursuit effectually. They make this trip
every week. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have not fixed it with the
ferry people to pull out as soon as they arrive. A two-dollar bill
might do the trick. I’d give five thousand right now if we were on the
other side of the river. It’s the first time—the only time I’ve ever
failed the Chief.”

“Never mind,” said Jane consolingly, “why can’t we be waiting for them
at the other side next week when they come up here? They’re not apt to
suspect motorcyclists they meet up here with having followed them.”

“Perhaps next week will be too late.”

“I wonder where they are headed for,” said the girl, looking across at
the rapidly receding boat. “Why, look! What are those buildings over
there?”

“That’s West Point,” Dean exclaimed, noting for the first time where
they were.

“West Point!” she echoed in amazement.

What mission could the Hoffs have that would take them to the United
States Government military school was the question that perplexed them
both. Could it be that the web of treachery and destruction the
Kaiser’s busy agents were weaving had its deadly strands fastened even
here—at West Point?




CHAPTER X
CARTER’S DISCOVERY


“It’s the young man I’m after,” said Chief Fleck. “We have the goods on
old Hoff, but we have nothing incriminating against Frederic yet. The
very fact that he holds aloof from his uncle’s activities makes me
think he is engaged in more important work. He’s just the type the
Germans would select as a director.”

“That’s right,” said Carter despondently. “There’s nothing except the
fact that Dean and the girl think they saw him in British uniform. Why
didn’t they follow and make sure?”

“They tried to,” said the chief, “but he gave them the slip. I’m
inclined to believe they were mistaken. More than likely it was a
chance resemblance. Lots of Britishers of the Anglo-Saxon strain look
much like Germans, and a uniform makes a big difference in a man’s
appearance. I’m afraid there’s nothing in that.”

“But both saw the man—Dean and Miss Strong,” protested Carter.

“The trouble is,” observed Fleck, “that Dean is getting infatuated with
the girl. A young man in love is not a keen observer. Anything she
thinks she has seen he’ll be ready to swear to. I hope the girl keeps
her head. Lovers don’t make good detectives.”

“I have watched them together,” said Carter. “I’ll admit he’s struck on
her, but I don’t think she cares a rap for him. She’s too keenly
interested in Frederic Hoff.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the chief sharply.

“You can depend on her all right. She’s patriotic through and through.
She’s the kind that would do her duty, no matter what it cost her. All
I meant is that Hoff’s the type that interests women. He’s got a way
about him. The fact that he’s a spy, in peril most of the time, gives
him a sort of halo. I never knew a daring young criminal yet that
didn’t have some woman, and often several of them, ready to go the
limit for him. All the same, I’m sure we can trust Miss Strong.”

“We’ve got to,” growled Fleck, “for the present at any rate. Is
everything fixed for the search this afternoon? What have you done to
get the superintendent out of the way? He’s not to be trusted. His name
is Hauser.”

“I’ve got him fixed. Jimmy Golden, my nephew, who has helped us in a
couple of cases, is a lawyer. He has telephoned to Hauser to come to
his office this afternoon.”

“Suppose he doesn’t go?”

“He’ll go all right. Jimmy ’phoned him that it was about a legacy.
That’s sure bait. Jimmy will make Hauser wait an hour, then keep him
talking half an hour longer. That will give us plenty of time.”

“Then there’s the woman—the servant, Lena Kraus.”

“She goes to the roof every Wednesday while the Hoffs are away to
signal. Other days they apparently do the signalling themselves in some
way we haven’t caught on to yet. She always goes up about three o’clock
and—”

“Suppose she comes down unexpectedly and catches you? We can’t have
that happen. That would put them on their guard.”

“She won’t surprise us. I’ve got a trick up my sleeve for preventing
that.”

“Go to it, then,” said the chief, and Carter went on his way rejoicing.

Ever since he had been informed that the search of the Hoffs’ apartment
was to be intrusted to him Carter had been in a state of exuberant
delight. He fairly revelled in jobs that required a disguise and he
welcomed the opportunity it gave him and his assistants to don the
uniform of employees of the electric light company. He even made a
point of arriving that afternoon at the apartment house in the
company’s repair wagon, the vehicle having been procured through
Fleck’s assistance.

“There’s a dangerous short circuit somewhere in the house,” he
announced to the superintendent’s wife.

“My husband isn’t here,” she answered unsuspectingly. “Do you know
where the switch-boards are?”

“We can find them,” said Carter. “We’ll start at the top floor and work
down.”

Always thorough in his methods of camouflage he actually did go through
several apartments, making a pretense of inspecting switch-boards and
wiring, all the while keeping watch for the time when old Lena went to
the roof. The moment she had entered the elevator to ascend with her
basket of linen, Carter and his aides were at the Hoff door. Equipped
with the key Dean had manufactured they had no difficulty in entering.

“Bob,” said Carter to one of his men, “we haven’t much time, and
there’s a lot to be done. You take the servant’s room and the kitchen,
and you, Williams, take the old man’s quarters. I’ll take care of the
young man’s bedroom, and we’ll tackle the living room and dining room
later.”

Thoroughly experienced in this sort of work all three of them set at
once to their tasks. Carter, standing for a moment in the doorway,
surveyed Frederic Hoff’s quarters, taking in all the details of the
furnishings. Both the sitting room and the bedroom adjoining were
equipped in military simplicity, with hardly an extra article of
furniture or adornment, chairs, tables, everything of the plainest
sort. Moving first into the bedroom, Carter quickly investigated
pillows and mattress, but in neither place did he find what he sought,
evidence of a secret hiding place. He rummaged for a while through the
drawers of two tables, carefully restoring the contents, but
discovering nothing that aroused his suspicions. The books lying about
on the tables and on shelves he examined one by one, noting their
titles, examining their bindings for hidden pockets, holding them up by
their backs and shaking the leaves. There was nothing there. Lifting
the rugs and moving the furniture about he made a careful survey of the
flooring, seeking to find some panel that might conceal a hiding place.
Once or twice in corners he went so far as to make soundings but
apparently the whole floor was intact. His search in the bath room was
equally profitless, and at last he turned to the clothes press. As he
opened the door an exclamation of amazement burst from his lips.

There, concealed behind some other suits, was the complete outfit of a
British cavalry captain.

“That’s one on the Chief,” he said to himself. “It must have been Hoff
that Dean and Miss Strong saw. I wonder where he got it?”

With a grim smile of satisfaction he devoted himself to going carefully
through all the pockets and over all the seams of the clothing in the
closet. He even felt into the toe of the shoes and examined the soles.
There was nothing to be found anywhere, but he felt satisfied. The
uniform in itself was to his mind damning proof of the young man’s
occupation.

No explanation that could be given by a young man of German name, even
though he was American-born, or had an American birth certificate,
could possibly account for his having a British uniform. It was prima
facie evidence that Frederic Hoff was a spy. What puzzled Carter most
was how Hoff managed to smuggle the uniform in and out of the apartment
without being observed. For more than two weeks now every parcel that
had arrived at the house of the Hoffs had been searched before it was
delivered. The house had been constantly under the strictest
surveillance. It was out of the question for him to have worn the
uniform in or out as it could not be easily concealed under other
clothing.

“There’s somebody else in this place in league with the Hoffs,” he
muttered to himself. “I wonder who it can be.”

He looked at his watch. The old servant had been out now nearly half an
hour. She was likely to return at any moment. He must work quickly.
Swiftly he went through the dresser drawers but without satisfactory
result. There was no time for him to do more. He hastened into the
living room and summoned his aides.

“Find anything, Bob?” he asked.

“Not a thing.”

“Beat it up to the roof,” he directed. “Have you those field glasses
with you?”

“Sure,” replied the operative, “and the handkerchiefs, too.”

“All right. Get up there before she starts down. Begin putting up
handkerchiefs and appear to be watching the river. That will mix her up
so she will not know what to do. She will not dare to leave the roof
while you are there. When we’re through I’ll send the elevator man up
for you with the message that we have found the short circuit.”

He turned to the other operative.

“Find anything, Williams?”

“Only this.”

Carter’s face brightened as his assistant held out to him two copies of
an afternoon newspaper. In each of them a square was missing where
something had been cut out.

“I found them in the waste-paper basket by the old man’s desk,” the man
explained, “and there was some ashes there—ashes of paper—as if he had
burned up something. Maybe it was what he cut out of those papers. I
could not tell.”

“We’ve got to get copies of those papers at once and see what it was.
Come on, I’m going to take them to the Chief. We can get the papers on
the way down.”

Calling the other operative from the roof, before he even had had time
to attract the attention of Lena Kraus by his activities, they hastened
back to the office, where Fleck and Carter together scanned the two
papers from which the clippings had been taken.

“Why,” said Carter disappointedly, “it is just a couple of
advertisements he cut out—advertisements for a tooth paste. There’s
nothing in that.”

“Don’t be too sure,” warned Fleck. “If a man cuts out one tooth-paste
advertisement, the natural presumption would be that he wished to
remind himself to buy some. When he cuts out two, he must have some
special interest in that particular tooth paste. We’ll have to find out
what his interest is.”

“Maybe he owns it,” suggested Carter.

“Perhaps,” said Fleck, as he began studying the advertisements, “but it
would not surprise me if these advertisements contained some sort of
code messages.”

“Messages in advertisements,” exclaimed Carter incredulously.

“Why not? The Germans have hundreds of spies at work here in this city
and all over the country. What would be an easier method of
communicating orders to them than by code messages concealed in
advertising. They have done it before. When the German armies got into
France they found their way placarded in advance with much useful
information in harmless looking posters advertising a certain brand of
chocolate. I’d be willing to bet that every one of these advertisements
carries a code message. I’ve noticed that these advertisements, all
peculiarly worded, have been running for some time. I never thought of
hooking them up with German propaganda, but, see, it is a German firm
that inserts them.”

Carefully he cut out the two advertisements and laid them side by side
on his desk. Turning to Carter he said:

“Go at once to see Mr. Sprague, the publisher of this paper. Get him to
give you a copy of each paper that has contained an advertisement of
this sort in the last six months. Find out what agency places the
advertising. Tell him I want to know. He’ll understand. We have worked
together before.”

Alone in his office, Fleck bent with wrinkled brow over the first of
the two advertisements, which read:

REMEMBER


Please, that our new paste, DENTO,
will stop decay of your teeth. Sound
teeth are passports to good health and
comfort. Now, no business man can
risk ill health. It is closely allied with
failure. The teeth if not watched are
quickly gone.


USE DENTO


A genuine, safe, pleasing paste for the
teeth, prepared and sold only by the
Auer Dental Company, New York.


He tried all the methods of solving cipher letters that he thought of.
He drew diagonals this way and that across the advertisement. He tried
reading it backward. He tried reading every other word, every third
word, both backward and forward. Nothing that he did revealed any
combination of words that made sense.

“Passports,” he muttered to himself, “that’s it. If there is a message
there it must be something about passports.”

In despair he turned to the other advertisement. It read:

DON’T


Forget it is imperative for one and all to
use cleansing agents on teeth that leave
no bad results.

“Ship more of that wonder-working
paste immediately. Workers, employers,
wives, all ready to commend it. Friday’s
supply gone,” writes a druggist to whom
a big shipment was made last week.


USE DENTO


A genuine, safe, pleasing paste for the
teeth, prepared and sold only by the
Auer Dental Company, New York.


Fleck’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he read this advertisement
and caught the phrase “wonder-working.” He felt sure now that he was on
the right track. He recalled that Jane Strong over the dictograph had
heard old Hoff speak of something that he called the “wonder-worker.”
As soon as Carter returned with the other advertisements that had been
appearing he felt positive that he would be able to unravel the cipher.
Two words he was sure of—“passports” and “wonder-working.” One
footprint does not lead anywhere, but two do, and given three
footprints, a pathway is indicated.

His telephone rang sharply. He turned to answer it, suspecting it must
be Carter with some message about the papers he had sent for.

“Hello,” he called.

“Hello,” came a faint voice, as if the speaker were using long
distance, and had a bad connection, “is this Fleck?”

“Yes, Fleck,” he answered, “who is this?”

“Dean speaking,” came the voice faintly.

“Dean,” cried Fleck, excitedly, “yes, yes. What is it, Dean?”

He had not expected to hear any results from the expedition that Dean
and Jane Strong had undertaken until late in the afternoon after the
Hoffs returned. The fact that Dean was calling him up now would seem to
indicate that something of importance had happened.

“I’m telephoning from a doctor’s house near Nyack,” said Dean.

“What’s that? Speak louder.”

“I’m here in Doctor Spencer’s office near Nyack with a broken arm,”
Dean continued. “We’ve had an accident. Somebody’s auto smashed into
us, I guess.”

“Miss Strong? Where is she? Is she hurt?” asked the chief anxiously.

“I don’t know. She has vanished.”

Jane Strong vanished! The chief’s figure became suddenly tensed. That
it was more than a mere automobile accident he felt certain now.
Shadowing the Hoffs was an occupation that seemed unusually perilous.
There flashed into his mind the fate of K-19—murdered almost at the
Hoffs’ door. And now two more of his operatives, one disabled and the
other mysteriously missing.

“Quick,” he said over the ’phone. “Tell me briefly just what happened.
Speak as loudly as you can.”

“We got half an hour behind at the West Point Ferry,” Dean’s voice went
on, still weak and low as if he were speaking with difficulty. “We had
some trouble getting started on the trail again but finally succeeded.
We were dashing along about ten or twelve miles south of West Point
when an automobile coming out of a cross road crashed right into us. It
must have knocked me unconscious. I didn’t remember anything more till
I found myself here. I came to as the doctor was setting my arm. I
’phoned as soon as they would let me.”

“Who brought you there?”

“I don’t know. All they know here was that some couple in an automobile
left me here. They said they passed just after an auto hit my
motorcycle. They said the auto didn’t stop.”

“And Miss Strong—did they say anything about her?”

“Not a word. The people here were under the impression I was riding
alone.”

“All right,” said the chief. “I’ll get some one up there at once to
look after you and pick up any clues.”

As he hung up the ’phone, his forehead wrinkled into little lines of
absorbed concentration. He sat at his desk for fully five minutes
almost motionless, trying to figure it out. What did the accident to
Dean signify? How was the sudden disappearance of Jane Strong to be
accounted for? Had she fled from the scene after Dean was disabled,
fearing that her name might be coupled with his in an account of the
accident? It did not seem like the sort of thing she would do. The
impression she had made on him was that of a girl of high resolve who
would be apt to carry through anything she undertook, cost what it may.
Yet what could have happened to her? If she, too, had been injured, why
was she not with Dean? If she was not injured, why had she not
communicated with the office? Who were the couple that had brought Dean
to the doctor’s office? Why had not the doctor taken their names and
addresses?

What part had the Hoffs played in the accident? Had they purposely run
down the motorcycle? If they had found out they were being shadowed
they would not have hesitated, he felt sure, to resort to such
murderous tactics. Had they not already one dastardly murder to their
record? He must find out when the Hoffs arrived home. They would not be
due for an hour or two, but he would caution the operatives watching
the house to keep more vigilant watch. Reaching for his ’phone he
called up the head-quarters of the operatives.

“Report to me at once,” he said to the operative who answered his call,
“the minute the Hoffs have arrived home.”

“The old man is home now,” the operative answered.

“What’s that?” cried Fleck.

“He came in alone five minutes ago on foot. The young man is not home
yet with the automobile.”

“Let me know as soon as he arrives,” said Fleck curtly, turning away
from the ’phone.

He was more perplexed than ever. What could have happened? Where was
young Hoff with the motor? Where was Jane Strong? Why had she
disappeared after Dean had been hurt? How had she vanished? The Hoffs’
affairs had assuredly taken a new and bothersome turn, over which Fleck
sat puzzling many minutes.

Where was Jane Strong? In the answer to that question, he decided at
length, lay the crux of the whole situation.




CHAPTER XI
JANE’S ADVENTURE


For more than two hours Thomas Dean and Jane had been vainly circling
about West Point on their motorcycle, striving to pick up some clue
that would put them once more on the trail of the Hoffs’ car. They had
not dared to ask too many questions of any one near the ferry, fearful
lest the people they were pursuing might have a guard posted there to
warn them in case of a possible pursuit, yet cautious inquiries seemed
to indicate that all the automobiles on the ferryboat which had
preceded had been headed to the north.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” Dean had said despondently. “We
have got to run out each road we come to until we reach some shop or
garage where the people would be likely to have noticed the Hoffs. They
may have stopped somewhere, or we may meet some one coming toward us
who will remember having passed them.”

“It seems like a wild-goose chase,” said Jane, “but I suppose there is
nothing else to do.”

The strain of their bitter disappointment was telling on both of them.
Each felt inclined to blame the other for their having fallen so far
behind. They rode along in silence, their nerves becoming more and more
keyed up as their hopes grew less. At garage after garage they paused
to question the employees.

“Did a big gray car with two men, an old man with a beard and a young
man driving, pass this way about an hour ago?”

“I don’t remember any such car,” was the invariable answer.

Time and time again they repeated their query, wording it always the
same, except for lengthening the interval of time in which the car
might have passed, for the afternoon was rapidly passing. In their
circuit they had now reached the roads pointing to the southward.

“We’ll try this one more garage,” said Dean, as they approached a
wayside shed bearing a large sign “Gasoline.”

“I fear it is only wasting time,” said Jane wearily.

“Don’t you want the Hoffs caught?” snapped her companion.

“Of course I do,” she retorted heatedly, “but I don’t see you catching
them.”

“I believe you are half glad of it,” snarled her escort as he brought
the machine to a stop and repeated his usual question.

“Sure there was a car with two men in it like you describe passed
here,” the man replied to their amazement and delight. “They stopped
here for gas, as they generally do. About three hours ago, I guess it
musta been.”

Dean shot a triumphant glance at Jane.

“An old man with a gray beard and a smooth-shaven young man
driving—does that describe them?” he repeated.

“That’s them,” said the garage proprietor. “They come through here
every few days, always about the same time.”

“Where do they go?” questioned Dean eagerly, feeling at last that the
scent was growing hot.

The man shook his head in a puzzled way.

“I’ve often wondered about that. They’re always heading south and
appear to be in a powerful hurry, but the funny part of it is I ain’t
never seen them coming back.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No, I can’t say I do, though it seems as if I’d heard one of them
called Fred. I can’t say which it was.”

“Do they always come by on the same day—on Wednesday?” asked Jane,
forgetful once more of Dean’s warning to let him do the talking lest
her voice should betray her sex.

“Come to think of it,” said the man, apparently noticing nothing
unusual, “I guess it always is on a Wednesday they come by.”

“Is the number of their car anything like this?” asked Dean, exhibiting
an entry in his notebook.

“I couldn’t say,” said the man, studying the figures. “I know it is a
New York license, and the number ends with two nines like this one
does. What might you be wanting them for?”

He spoke to a cloud of dust, for Dean had started up the motorcycle
before he finished speaking and already was speeding away.

“Where now?” asked Jane.

“I don’t know,” he answered frankly, “I only know we are going the
direction the Hoffs went, and I want to gain on them before they get
too far ahead. The chap back there had told us all he knew and was
beginning to get curious, so I thought it better to vamoose.”

“It’s funny about his never seeing them coming back.”

“Probably there is nothing mysterious about that. I have a notion they
always come up one side the river and down the other, taking the 125th
Street ferry home. That would not be a bad plan to help them in eluding
too curious observers. All these German spies are trained to leave as
blind a trail behind them as possible. The thing we have got to
discover is what brought them up here. We’ve just got to find out their
destination.”

“I am afraid there is little chance of our doing that,” insisted Jane.
“We’ve nothing to go on.”

“We’ve learned something. We know that their destination is somewhere
between here and Fort Lee on this side of the river. That narrows down
the search considerably. That’s more, too, than anybody else that the
Chief has had on their trail has learned. Something tells me that we
are getting warm right now. Obviously the place they come to must be
nearer West Point than it is New York. They would hardly take too
roundabout a course, even for the sake of hiding their tracks. Keep a
sharp lookout for tire tracks leaving the main road.”

The route they were following quickly led them into a sparsely
inhabited mountainous district and instead of the concreted state
highway they found themselves on a hilly dirt road, full of ruts and
loose stones that made travel difficult. At times it was all Dean could
do to manage the machine, so that he had to leave most of the task of
observing the by-ways to Jane. For more than two miles they had seen
neither house nor barn. Once or twice they came upon little used lanes
leading off through the woods, but none of them showed any traces of
the recent passing of an automobile.

As they came dashing around a curve on a steep down-grade, where hardly
more than the semblance of a road had been cut into the hillside, Jane
caught her breath sharply. Above the roar of their own motor she
thought she heard some other noise, something that sounded like another
car near-by; yet neither behind nor ahead was there another automobile
in sight.

“Listen,” she cried sharply.

Dean started to slow down, but it was too late. Out of a cut in the
hillside, half screened by a clump of bushes at the side on which Jane
was riding, a great gray motor shot out just as they were passing. Jane
caught just one glimpse of the man on the driver’s seat. It was
Frederic Hoff, frantically twisting at the wheel in an effort to avert
the threatened collision. There came a thud and a crash as the forward
part of the Hoff car struck the motorcycle a glancing blow, overturning
it completely. Too terrified even to shriek, Jane felt herself being
catapulted out of her seat and flung high in air. Then came a blank.

Her companion did not escape so easily. The heavy machine crashed over
on him and dragged him several yards. His head, as he landed in the
roadway, struck a stone, and the motorcycle itself pinned him to the
earth by its weight, one of his arms doubled up in an alarming fashion,
as he lay there completely senseless.

Jane fortunately had landed on some soft grass, though with sufficient
force to leave her badly stunned. As she lay there, a boyish figure in
her disguise, her senses began gradually to revive, although it was
some time before she opened her eyes.

Vaguely, as from a great distance, she began to hear voices, and it
seemed to her that they were German voices, arguing about something.
The voices seemed angry and excited. At first she did not bother about
them. She was wondering how badly she was hurt. Her arms and limbs had
a curious sort of deadness about them, a detached sensation, as if they
belonged to some one else. She wondered if she was paralyzed and dared
not try to move them, fearful lest she might find that it was the
terrible truth.

The voices—the German voices—came nearer, became louder and more
strident. She struggled to collect her thoughts. Where was she? What
had happened? Where was Thomas Dean? Gradually some memory of the
accident came to her. They had been run down by the Hoffs’ car. The
voices she kept hearing were those of the two Hoffs, angrily wrangling
about something. As she revived further she became acutely conscious
that her head seemed to be splitting. What was it the Hoffs were
arguing about? Still lying there motionless, with her eyes closed,
endeavoring to collect herself, she tried to listen to what they were
saying.

“I tell you there is not time. I must hurry. Every minute is precious.
I cannot delay my work for these swine, no matter if they both are
dying or dead,” old Otto was angrily shouting with many German oaths.

“I tell you,” Frederic was saying,—his voice was calmer but
determined,—“we’ve got to get these people to a doctor. It’s too
heartless. I will not leave them here.”

“And betray us at the last moment, when our plans are all ready,”
snarled old Otto.

“There is less danger if we bundle them into the car and take them with
us than if we leave them here,” protested Frederic. “Two bodies right
here at the entrance would be fine, _nicht wahr?_”

His last remark appealed to old Otto.

“That is so,” he muttered. “It is not safe. We must hide the bodies,
both of them, yes?”

The bodies! Jane decided that Dean must have been killed and that they
thought that she, too, was dead. As she strove to open her eyes she
could hear Frederic protesting.

“It’s inhuman,” he cried. “They both are hurt, but perhaps still alive.
We must take them to a hospital.”

“And endanger all our plans,” stormed old Otto. “Throw them into the
woods.”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” Frederic insisted, his voice becoming
unusually stern and severe. “I’m going to get both of these people to a
doctor at once, I tell you.”

With effort Jane opened her eyes and looked cautiously about. Where was
Thomas Dean? How badly had he been hurt? The Hoffs’ automobile was
slowly backing up. As she looked old Otto sprang out of it and righted
the motorcycle. As he did so Jane saw the body of Dean lying senseless
beneath it, but to him the old German paid no attention. He was
examining the motorcycle and still sputtering that the swine should be
left to rot.

“We are going to take them with us in the car,” directed Frederic in a
voice of authority. “I command it.”

At the word old Otto’s mutterings ceased, though he shot a black look
at the younger man.

“This machine,” he suggested, “it is not hurt. I will take it and do
our work. There is haste. You remain with the car. Do what you will
with these people.”

“Go then,” said his nephew curtly. “You can take the train at the first
station and make time.”

As the old man mounted the motorcycle and sped away Frederic sprang
from the car, and approaching the spot where Dean’s body lay, began
making an examination of his injuries.

“Scalp wound, perhaps fractured skull, broken arm,” Jane heard him
saying aloud to himself. She noted curiously that as soon as he was
left to himself he began speaking in English.

He left Dean and approached her. As he came nearer she closed her eyes
again, trying to plan some course of action. Her head was throbbing so
that she found it impossible to think. She felt toward young Hoff a
warmth of gratitude for not having gone off and left them helpless as
his uncle had insisted. Even though he was an enemy of her country, a
man to be hated, a spy, she could not help being glad for his presence
there. What would she have done without him, with Dean lying there
injured and helpless on this lonely mountain road?

“This chap seems only stunned,” she heard him say as he bent over her,
then as he looked closer, she heard him exclaim:

“My God, it’s Jane!”

In an instant he was down at her side on his knees. Tenderly one of his
arms went about her and lifted her head.

“Miss Strong, Jane, Jane,” he implored, “Jane dear, speak to me.”


Illustration: “Thank God,” he cried. “Jane dear, tell me you are not
hurt.”


Stunned though she still was a flush crept into Jane’s cheeks at the
unexpected term of endearment, though she still kept her eyes closed.
Gently he laid her back on the turf and hastened to the automobile,
returning with a flask which he held to her lips. Slowly Jane opened
her eyes.

“Thank God,” he cried. “Jane dear, tell me you are not hurt.”

For a moment she lay there, staring wonderingly at him as he bent over
her imploringly, the tenderest of anxiety showing in every line of his
face. Unprotestingly she let him slip his strong arm once more under
her head. In her dazed brain there was a strange conflict of peculiar
emotions. He was a German, a spy,—she hated him, and yet it was
wonderfully comforting to her to have him there. Under other
circumstances she could have loved him. He was so handsome, so
masterful and so kind, too. He cared for her. Had he not called her
“Jane, dear” in his amazement at finding her lying there? But she must
not let herself think of him in that way. It was her duty, her sacred
duty to trap him, to thwart his nefarious plans against her country.
She must do her duty just as her soldier brother was doing his in far
away France.

Still supported by Hoff’s arms she sat up, trying to collect her
thoughts and gingerly testing the movement of her arms and limbs.

“Tell me,” he cried again, “Jane, dear, are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so,” she managed to say.

With his assistance she got up on her feet and walked uncertainly to
the car, shuddering as she looked at Dean’s crumpled senseless body.

“Your friend,” said Hoff, as he placed her in the forward seat and
wrapped a rug about her, “I am afraid, is badly hurt.”

“It’s our chauffeur, Thomas Dean,” she explained confusedly.

She had been wondering what she could say to Frederic to account for
her presence there. It was unconventional at least for a girl to be
motorcycling about the country dressed in man’s clothes with a
chauffeur. Hoff must surely realize now that she had been shadowing
him. She felt almost certain that he had known it from the very first,
since that afternoon when he had overheard her telephoning about the
“fifth book.” Yet never by word or manner had he betrayed the fact that
he suspected her. Beyond his customary reserve in speaking about
himself or his activities, there was nothing to indicate that he knew
anything yet. Whatever she told him now she must be careful not to
betray her mission. Perhaps even in spite of all that had happened she
still might be able to aid Chief Fleck in trapping them.

But did she really want to trap Frederic Hoff? Had Thomas Dean’s bitter
charge that she was trying to protect him been true? Frederic Hoff
loved her. She, yes—she had to admit it to herself—she was beginning to
love him. Could she go on with it?

Hoff had been busy lifting the unconscious Dean into the tonneau. As
she watched him as he lifted up the body unaided she was conscious of
admiration of his great strength.

“Will he die?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “He is badly hurt. We must get him to a
doctor at once.”

He stopped a moment longer to examine the car. Fortunately the glancing
blow that it had struck the motorcycle had done no more damage than
shatter one of the lamps and bend the mud guard. Soon they were moving
rapidly in the direction of New York.

“I think,” said Hoff, “we had better leave him in the care of the first
doctor we come to. We can say that he is an injured motorcyclist we
found lying in the road.”

“And me?” asked Jane, almost fearfully.

“I’ll take you back to the city with me.”

“No,” she replied, “that won’t do. I ought to stay by him. Besides, if
I return with you, it will be hard to explain.”

He turned to look inquiringly at her and for a moment drove on in
silence.

“There’s nothing more you can do for the man once he is in competent
medical hands, except to notify his people. Is he married?”

“No,” said Jane, “he’s not married. I can tell his friends.”

“Did your parents know about”—he hesitated—“about this trip with the
chauffeur?”

Jane blushed guiltily, wondering what he suspected of her. She hoped
that he did not think she had a habit of going off on such journeys
with the chauffeur. Even though the man at her side was officially her
enemy she resented being put into a position that would cheapen her in
his eyes.

“No,” she replied, “they knew nothing about it.”

Hoff drove on in silence. She had feared that he might ask her more
embarrassing questions, might insist on knowing where she had been
going when the accident occurred. A panic seized her. What if he should
ask her? What could she tell him? He had a masterful way about him. If
he took it into his head to make her confess she realized that she
would have a struggle to keep from telling him everything. She made up
her mind that she would not, she dare not answer any more questions.

When he spoke again she was relieved to hear a suggestion instead of a
query.

“When we have crossed the ferry,” he said, “you can put on a dust coat
to hide your costume, and I will send you home in a taxi. Will that be
all right?”

“That will do nicely,” she replied, gratefully conscious that he was
endeavoring to plan so that her part in the afternoon’s adventures need
not become public.

Nevertheless she waited nervously while Hoff and the doctor carried
Dean into the doctor’s home. What if the doctor’s suspicions should be
aroused, and he should insist on knowing all the details of the
accident? To her astonishment the doctor seemed to accept Hoff’s brief
recital of finding an injured motorcyclist on the road without
question. Perhaps if she had seen the amount of the bills Hoff left to
care for the chauffeur’s treatment she might have understood better.

Yet unconscious though Dean had lain all the way, as they resumed their
journey without him, she felt a sudden sense of dread at being alone in
the car with Frederic Hoff. It was not that she longer feared he would
endeavor to make her tell her reasons for the expedition. She was
afraid that with just the two of them alone in the car he might seize
the opportunity to declare his affection for her.

But, to her amazement, he hardly spoke a word to her on all the rest of
the journey homeward. Once in a while as she ventured a glance in his
direction, annoyed a little perhaps by this neglect of her, she saw
only a strong face set in lines of thought, his brow wrinkled in deep
perplexity, and his blue eyes looking steadily at the road ahead—and at
something far, far beyond.

Save for an occasional solicitous question about her comfort he did not
speak again until just after he had put her in a taxi at the ferry. As
Jane was trying to say her thanks he leaned forward unexpectedly, his
tall frame blocking the whole doorway.

“Jane,” he said, his voice vibrant with emotion, “Jane, you must trust
me. Everything must come out all right. Some day—some day soon when we
have won—I am coming to find you and tell you that I love you.”

“When we have won!” Jane shuddered and drew back in the car, aflame
with sudden wrath.

She had read and had heard often of the unspeakable conceit of the
Prussians. She knew that they regarded themselves as supermen who could
not be defeated. Her challenged American pride rose to battle. As she
rode home she was sure now that more than she hated anything else in
the world she hated Frederic Hoff, the spy, the German, who had dared
to boast to her that they expected to win.




CHAPTER XII
PUZZLES AND PLANS


Chief Fleck had spent a sleepless night trying to put two and two
together. Instead of the answer being “four” as it should have been
each time he completed his figuring the result was “zero.” Time and
again he mustered the facts into columns, only to succeed in puzzling
himself the more.

Two German spies, the Hoffs, had set out together in their motor on
their usual mysterious Wednesday mission. Two other persons, two of his
most intelligent operatives, Thomas Dean and Jane Strong, had set out
on a motorcycle to shadow them.

What had happened?

Otto Hoff had returned to his apartment on foot, hours befor

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