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.