THE SEALED PACKET
“Is this Miss Strong?”
Jane, her face blanching, held the receiver in wavering hands for a
moment before she could muster courage to answer. She had recognized
Frederic Hoff’s voice speaking. What could he want with her now?
“It is Miss Strong,” she managed to answer.
“This is Frederic Hoff. May I come in for a moment? It is most
important.”
Again Jane hesitated. Frederic was the last person in the world she
felt like seeing just at this moment. Only five minutes before she had
arrived home from Chief Fleck’s office. She was under orders to hold
herself in readiness to start immediately for the scene of yesterday’s
accident. That this trip, unless their plans miscarried, would
inevitably result in the exposure and disgrace of both the Hoffs she
felt morally certain. To face on friendly terms the man whose downfall
she was plotting, the man who only a few hours before had told her that
he loved her, seemed a task far beyond her endurance, a situation too
tragic for her to cope with.
Duty, her duty to her country, her honor, her patriotism, her affection
for her soldier brother, all bade her mask her feelings and seek one
more opportunity of leading Hoff to betray himself in conversation if
that were possible. Yet, to her own amazement and horror, her heart
protested vigorously against such action. Harassed as she was by
conflicting emotions, worn out by the trying experiences that had been
hers the last few days, she realized at last that she was really in
love with Hoff. The throb of joy that she had experienced at the sound
of his voice, the thrill that came to her each time she saw him, the
delight she found in his presence, the fact that despite all the
circumstances, she wanted to be near him, to be with him, convinced her
against her will and judgment that her heart was his. In vain she
marshalled the damning facts against him. She tried to remember only
the expression of murderous hate she had seen on his face the night
that her predecessor, the other K-19, had been murdered. She tried to
think of him only as a treacherous spy, an enemy of her country forever
plotting to destroy Americans, yet she could not. However base and
treacherous and low her reason told her Frederic Hoff must be, her
refractory heart persisted in beating faster at the prospect of his
coming.
Hitherto not much given to self-analysis, she now found herself
wondering at herself. What could be the matter with her? Why must she
love this rascal? Why could she not fall in love with some decent,
clean, patriotic young American, with some man like Thomas Dean?
Chauffeur though he was now pretending to be, she knew that he was a
college man, well-bred, and traveled. She knew, too, that Dean was in
love with her. For him she had a sincere liking, great admiration even,
and toward him now she was experiencing that feeling of sympathy a
woman always has for the man she cannot love. But her feeling toward
Dean, she classified as only that of friendship, nothing at all like
the passionate affection that was rapidly drawing her closer and closer
to Hoff.
Dared she see him now? Might not her love for him overcome her high
desire to be of service to her country? Might she not be led by her
unruly heart into betraying to him the fact that he was in the most
imminent peril?
Yet she must see him, she told herself. Perhaps this very day he might
be arrested and imprisoned. She might never again have the opportunity
of seeing him alone and of talking with him. Into her troubled brain
came a daring thought. Perhaps it was not too late, even yet, to turn
him from his evil course. Was there, she wishfully wondered, any
possibility of her leading him, through his love for her, to forsake
his comrades, even to betray them? No, she admitted to herself, that
was a preposterous idea. He was too dominating, too forceful, too
determined, to be influenced to anything against his will.
“May I come in, please?” he kept insisting over the ’phone.
“Only for a minute,” she answered tremulously. “I’m going out soon. I
have an engagement.”
“I’ll come right over. I will not keep you long.”
As she awaited his arrival, subconsciously desirous of looking her best
in his presence, she stopped almost mechanically before her mirror to
adjust her hair, letting him wait for her for a few minutes.
He sprang forward to meet her as she entered the room where he was, his
face beaming with delight at the sight of her.
“Jane,” he cried, with a volume of meaning in the monosyllable, as
seizing her hand, he held it tightly and gazed earnestly into her face.
Bravely she tried to meet his gaze, to read in his face if she could
the object of his unexpected visit, but her eyes fell before his, and
the hot blood surged into her cheeks. Within her raged a desperate
battle between her head and heart. Mingled with her unwelcome
quickening of the pulse at his approach and admiration for his audacity
in coming to her when he must know that she knew what he was, there was
also an overwhelming sense of futile rage that he, a scheming German
plotter, dared intrude his presence into an American home.
“I’m glad to see you appear no worse for your accident,” he said,
releasing her hand at last. “You got home all right, without attracting
any one’s notice?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered, trying to make her reply seem wholly
indifferent and disinterested.
“Your chauffeur is all right, too,” he went on. “I telephoned this
morning. He had already left the doctor’s. There’s nothing more the
matter with him than a broken arm and a scalp wound. That’s fortunate,
isn’t it?”
“Very fortunate,” she admitted.
All at once as they stood there there seemed to have arisen between
them an invisible, impenetrable barrier. They faced each other
wordlessly, each embarrassed by the knowledge of the secret gulf that
was between them. Hoff was the first to recover from it.
“Come,” he said, “sit down. There is something I wish to say to
you,—something of the utmost importance, Jane.”
Still struggling with her emotions, Jane allowed him to place a chair
for her and seated herself, striving all the while to crush back into
her heart the warmth of feeling toward him that always overwhelmed her
in his presence, endeavoring to present to him a mask of cold
indifference. Yet her curiosity, as well as her affections, had been
greatly stirred by his remark. What was it that he was about to say to
her? Did he intend, in spite of the insurmountable obstacles between
them, dared he, ask her to marry him? Tremblingly she waited for what
he had to say.
“Jane,” he said, “you know that I love you. I am confident, too, that
you love me.”
“I don’t love you,” she forced her unwilling lips to say. “I can’t.
When our country is at war, when she needs men, brave men, how could
any true American girl love any man who stayed at home, who idled about
the hotels, who—”
“Girl,” his voice grew suddenly stern and commanding, softening a
little as he repeated her name, “Jane, dear, let me finish. I love you.
There are grave reasons—all-important reasons—why I may not now ask you
to be my wife.”
Illustration: She could not bring herself to tell him, the man she
loved, the thing she knew he was.
“I never could be your wife,” she cried desperately, “the wife of a—”
The word died in her throat. She could not bring herself to tell him,
the man she loved, the thing she knew he was.
“My Jane,” he said, wholly unheeding her impassioned protest, “you know
little yet of what life means in this great world of ours. You, here in
your parents’ home, sheltered, protected, inexperienced, have not the
knowledge nor the means of judging me. You must take me on faith, on
the faith of your love for me. For a woman, life holds but two great
treasures, two loves—her husband’s and her children’s. With a man it is
different. Love is his, too, but there is something more, something
bigger—duty. Here in your country—”
Even in her distress she caught his phrase “here in _your_ country” and
turned ghastly white. Always before in talking with her he had spoken
of himself as an American. Did he realize, she wondered, that he had at
last betrayed himself to her? Was he about to strip the mask from
himself and his activities at last, and in the face of it all expect
her, Jane Strong, to admit that she loved him?
“Here in your country,” he went on placidly, “women forced by economic
conditions have been driven from home into business, into politics,
into office-holding, even into war activities. Longing for the clinging
arms of little children they are striving to forget in assuming some
part in the affairs that belong properly to men. But to the true woman
love must ever mean more than duty, more than country. Those are words
for men. A woman, if she would find happiness, must follow her heart,
must forsake all for the man she loves. A woman’s duty is only to the
man she loves, just as a man’s duty is to be true to himself, to his
country.”
“But,” she cried, “you told me you were American, that you were born
here?”
“Jane,” he persisted, with an impatient gesture, “we will not discuss
that now. I love you. You must trust me in spite of everything. I know
you will. You must. I can answer no questions. I can make no
explanations. I can only say I love you. That must suffice.”
“No, no,” she protested, almost sobbing.
“I came here to-day,” he went on calmly, “to ask a favor of you.”
“A favor,” she cried.
Calming herself she forced herself to look into his face. There was
something so monstrously unbelievable about his audacity that she could
hardly believe her ears. What sort of a credulous stupid creature was
he, she angrily asked herself, that in one breath he could all but
confess to her that he was a spy and in the next beseech her to do him
a favor. Yet there came to her now a remembrance of her duty to her
country. She felt that she must mask her feelings toward him, that if
she was to be of service she must endeavor bravely to lead him on. She
must try to induce him to confide in her. Hard as her task might be,
what was it compared to the work her brother and those other brave
American boys had undertaken facing the fire of death-dealing guns,
facing the terrible gas attacks, living for days and weeks in those
terrible trenches? Reinforced by a sense of duty, she made a pitiable
effort at cordiality as she asked:
“What is it you wish of me?”
From one of his pockets he had brought forth a small packet which he
held out to her. In spite of her agitation she forced herself to study
it observingly, making note that it was tied with strong cord and
sealed in several places with red wax. Curiously, too, she noted that
on it was written her own name.
“Jane,” said Hoff, “to-night I am going away. I may be absent for only
a day or two if all goes well, but it is possible I may never come
back,—may never be able to see you again.”
She caught her breath sharply. There was the solemnity of finality in
his tones. Where was he going? What might happen to him? She realized
that the journey he was about to make was in connection with the plot
that she and Chief Fleck were seeking to uncover. Evidently he
anticipated peril in what he was about to undertake. Suppose he should
be trapped in the commission of some act inimical to America’s welfare?
What would happen to him? He would be arrested, of course. More than
likely he would be sent to prison. He might even be shot as a spy. What
if she were the one responsible for his meeting a disgraceful death?
How could she go on with it? She must warn him. She must try to
persuade him to give up his plans. She tried hard to steady herself, to
think calmly. She must listen to every word he was saying and try to
remember it.
“This little packet is for you,” he went on. “I want you to keep it
safely. In case anything happens, in the event that within one month I
have not returned and you have heard nothing of me, I wish you to open
it and keep what it contains. Promise me that you will do what I ask.”
In a panic of indecision she got up from her chair, trying to frame a
score of questions, but none of them succeeded in passing the barrier
of her trembling lips.
“Promise me,” he said softly yet impellingly, as he placed the little
packet in her hand and closed her fingers over it.
“I promise,” she whispered, hardly knowing what she said.
Quickly he caught her in his powerful arms. For just a second he held
her there, his face close to hers, his blue eyes burning into hers with
a steady inscrutable gaze as if he was trying to read in them the love
her lips had refused to speak.
Then, so quickly that it was all over before she quite realized what
had happened, he had kissed her passionately full on the lips and was
gone.
Overcome with the lassitude which follows emotional crises, trembling
in every limb, weak as from a long illness, the girl sank back into a
chair, still clutching in her hand the sealed packet Hoff had entrusted
to her. Minute after minute she sat there with staring eyes, with heart
beating madly, with her whole body racked with the torment of her
thoughts.
Slowly she lifted the packet and turned it over and over, wondering
what it could possibly contain, questioning herself as to what could
have been Frederic Hoff’s motive in entrusting it to her. Was there,
she wondered, under those seals, some evidence of his guilt and
treachery that he had not dared to leave behind him? He must have known
that she suspected him and was seeking to entrap him. Had he, knowing
all this, but sensing the love for him that he had kindled in her,
taken advantage of it and extorted from her her promise to keep it
safe?
Wherein lay her duty now? More than ever she was certain that Frederic
Hoff was on some hazardous mission for the enemy. He had all but
admitted his nationality to her. Her own country’s welfare demanded
that the Hoffs’ plans should be discovered and thwarted. Should she, or
should she not open the package? Possibly it contained some secret
code, some clue to the dastardly activities in which he and his uncle
were engaged.
But her heart rebelled. She recalled what he had said, that she must
take him on trust. The memory of his burning kiss, of that last earnest
look he had given her, refused to be forgotten. Whatever he was,
however base the work in which he was engaged, she knew down deep in
her heart that Frederic Hoff had been earnestly sincere when he had
said that he loved her.
As she debated with herself what she ought to do, the telephone rang
again. It was Chief Fleck.
“Can you meet me at the 110th Street subway station in half an hour?”
he asked. “I’ll be waiting in my car. Arrange it, if you can without
arousing your family’s suspicion, to be away all night.”
“I will be there,” she answered.
As she turned away from the telephone with sudden resolve she thrust
the sealed packet, still unopened, into the bosom of her gown.
“I promised him,” she said almost fiercely. “I’ll keep my promise. That
much at least I owe our love.”