Chapter 6

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