THE INVASION OF CANADA
Harrison Grant carried home with him that night the vision of a
handcuff, its metal seared through by the electric current, hanging
empty by the switch in the power house. A potpourri of emotions seethed
through his mind. A feeling of distaste that one who was, in all
outward appearances, so square and true, so refined, should lend her
cleverness to the furtherance of German plots, mingled with his feeling
of personal disappointment. He owned frankly, to himself, that he did
not want Dixie Mason to be anything but as good and true as she was
beautiful, that he had wanted her so because--he had cared for her. But
any such feeling was impossible now. She had proved it. Her apparent
friendliness with the German element was born of co-partnership in
their crimes; her interest in Von Lertz had come through the fact that
she, too, was a co-worker in Imperial Germany's great game of murder, a
co-plotter in the destruction of American industries, American peace of
mind, American lives! He could see no alternative but that he should
blot out this love for her that had grown in spite of him, and once
more register a report against her.
Early the next morning he made his report at the chief's office.
"We will investigate the charge," he was assured. "You need concern
yourself no further with it." The similarity of the announcement to
those following his other reports of Dixie Mason jarred strangely on
Grant. He could not fathom the mystery of events unless--a subtle
hope suddenly sprang into existence. Could it be possible that there
was some good reason for her activities, other than interest in the
Germans? Might it be that the main office was holding information from
him that would explain it all? Grant pursued this line of reasoning
because it held out a hope for him and removed the cause of his
distrust for Dixie Mason. But once more it brought him up against a
blank wall of useless conjectures.
If Dixie Mason had been in the Secret Service, she would have told him
so in the power house instead of allowing him to think her a German
spy, arrest her, and then put her to the trouble and danger of freeing
herself by such precarious means. If the arrest had gone through,
and she had been a member of the Service, she would have had to tell
everything about herself later, so why not in the beginning? More
than that, what possible reason could there be for her to conceal her
affiliation with the Service--if she were in it?
All of which goes to prove how futile is the attempt of one mind to
reason as another would. For there had been several reasons why Dixie
Mason concealed her connection with the Secret Service. The first and
biggest was her order from the Chief that she work herself into the
confidence of those highest in Germany's spy system in the United
States, and that she tell no one of her connection with the Secret
Service. Another very good reason for her not revealing her true
status to Grant flashed into her mind as she stood at the switchboard
listening to Grant's accusation that she had been instrumental in
causing the destruction of the A.T.R. Munitions works. If it had been
so simple a thing for Grant to believe, why could she not convince Von
Lertz and his German friends that she had done this thing which would
mean so much to them, and so lay the foundation for a confidence which
would help her obtain their secrets by established right? It was a good
idea.
The night of her disappearance from the power house she called Von
Lertz on the telephone.
"Can you come to my apartment, soon? At once if possible. It is
very important. And please bring a sharp file with you--yes rather
large--I'll explain--Thank you--Good-bye."
She hung up the receiver with a triumphant smile. The smile lingered
as she deliberated on the events of the evening. She was very tired,
but she must bring this latest affair to a successful close. The
opportunity was too great to pass by.
She heard shortly the sound of Von Lertz's car drawn up to the curb and
a few moments later the bell of the apartment rang. She ran to open it
herself, and, as Von Lertz entered, she held up laughingly a little
hand about whose wrist dangled one manacle of a pair of handcuffs.
"Now you know what I wanted the file for. Will you help me take it
off?" She seated herself on a low stool beside the great armchair into
which Von Lertz threw himself with easy familiarity.
"Take it off and I will tell you all about it. It's a long, long story,
and I'm tired and when I get through I think you will agree with me
that I have a right to be tired." With quick interest Von Lertz bent
over the little wrist with its strange adornment, and as Dixie in low
tones told her story, Von Lertz filed away at the manacle.
"The electrician mistook me for Madam Stephan, I think. I was standing
by the power house and he came running past, followed by the chief
watchman." She stopped meditatively. "Do you think I look like Madam
Stephan?"
Von Lertz glanced up impatiently. "Hardly, to one who knows you, you
are both dark. But the story. What happened then?"
"Oh, yes," Dixie, obediently and naively took up the tale convinced
that she was really interesting him. "I was standing there and he
called. I ran into the power house and threw the switch. Then there was
this awful explosion and the whole plant went up in smoke and flame.
The watchman ran in and arrested me. When someone called him out he
handcuffed me to the gate. I saw a rubber glove in the electrician's
box and I put it on. Then I pulled the handcuff over the switch and it
melted and I got away, but I took one with me."
Dixie paused for breath and gazed at him soulfully out of great dark
eyes, doubting for an instant her ability as a romancer.
Von Lertz stopped filing for a moment and gazed at her in admiration.
If he had any doubts, the handcuff had convinced him.
"Poor little girl! But that was great work. Why, you are a little
heroine. Ah, if I had only trusted you before, what wonderful things
you might have been doing for Imperial Germany with your cleverness and
willingness to be of service." With a final chilling rasp the file was
applied to the steel once more and slipped through the link. "There,
that's off. Tomorrow morning we will go to Captain Von Papen's office,
you and I, and tell him of your wonderful exploit."
Dixie smiled. "It's very kind of you, and I will be glad to go." Just
how glad she did not go into details to tell him. Her plans were
working out too well.
Von Lertz called for her very early the next morning. Dixie thrilled
with the excitement of the experience she was about to have as his car
threaded its way down the long lanes of traffic into lower New York and
the canyons of Wall Street where Von Papen's office was located.
She found Madam Stephan, Germany's greatest woman spy, there, and
Captain Boy-Ed, the Naval Attache. And when Von Lertz had told of her
great exploit, had gone over all the details as she had told him the
night before, Dixie had to tell it all over again for them herself,
while they laughed and congratulated her on her bravery and her
devotion to the interests of the government they represented.
"You are wonderful, my dear," Madam Stephan assured her when Dixie
protested that it was but a little thing she had done. "We can
find many things that your great ability can help us to do." Dixie
artlessly and very truthfully avowed she hoped they would give her the
opportunity. When, shortly, Boy-Ed and Madam Stephan departed, Dixie
strolled to the window while Von Papen and Von Lertz conversed in low
tones, at the table. Since entering the room she had been conscious of
the open desk near the window, littered with papers. Now as she stood
at the window ostensibly for the purpose of gazing curiously over the
tall buildings, she glanced at a letter, evidently tossed aside hastily.
"Your Excellency:" the letter ran in German, "Dr. Albert and myself
today took up your suggestion of an invasion of Canada with Count
Von Bernstorff. While he believes that the enterprise would be an
exceedingly dangerous one and that we should use every precaution
to prevent the Secret Service from charging us with any part in it,
should it fail, there is reason to believe that such an enterprise
would meet with a great measure of success.
"I reported to him that our plan included the raiding of all
important points of Canada possessing military stores, such as
Windsor, Montreal, Winnipeg, Regina, Port Hope and other centers, the
demoralization of which would mean great delay in the sending overseas
of large expeditionary forces on the part of Great Britain.
"B. asked what had been done and I told him that arms already had
been stored in six sections, assembling at Silver Creek, Mich.,
there to seize the Welland Canal, Wind Mill Point, Mich., Wilson,
N.Y., adjacent to Port Hope, Can., Watertown, N.Y., near Kingston,
Can., Detroit, near Windsor, Can., Cornwall, N.Y., from which easy
possession can be made of Ottawa, Can., and at Exeter.
"It is at Exeter, as I explained to B., that everything must be done
now, inasmuch as arms and reservists are available for all the other
stations. However, as you told me to explain, I showed B. that all
efforts must now be centered on Exeter, and that Von Lertz and Madam
Stephen should leave at once to represent us in the final work which
will immediately precede the invasion.
"In this connection, might I suggest to you that this be done at
once, as more than 100,000 reservists throughout the United States
will shortly receive their orders to move toward the border in as
inconspicuous a manner as possible, and that everything should be
awaiting them when they arrive. Otherwise, we fail. Dr. Albert and
myself will attend to the shipment of arms by the usual method.
"B.E."
Efficiency again--efficiency in the shape of another written report
from one office to another, in the stolid, plodding desire of Imperial
Germany to see that every step of its murderous progress was arranged
for and made clear to those in whose hands the trend of events lay.
This time it had made clear one of its plots to Dixie Mason of the
Secret Service!
Across the top of the letter, in Von Papen's scrawling hand, had been
written:
"Von Lertz and Stephan ... 10:20, N.Y.C."
"N.Y.C." New York Central, of course, and they were leaving at 10:20!
Dixie glanced at her watch. It was a quarter after nine. She had
wondered at the extreme earliness of Von Lertz's visit. Now she knew.
He must catch that train. There were things she must do, too. Suddenly
she caught at the window frame and gave a little moan.
Von Lertz looked up in time to see her slide limply to the floor in a
faint. He rushed to her and picking up her unconscious form laid her on
the long leather lounge that stood at one side of the room.
"Call a taxi and send her home," Von Papen ordered sharply, as Von
Lertz rubbed her lifeless wrists.
"No, I'll take her home. She will be all right in a moment. Poor little
girl, she had a hard day of it yesterday."
"But the time!" Von Papen looked at his watch. "You have less than an
hour and you must get that 10:20 train, and there are matters to be
gone over before you leave."
"I'll be back all right. Don't worry," Von Lertz's efforts to bring
Dixie back to consciousness were meeting with success. With bewildered
eyes she sat up and looked around her, then smiling weakly, she
staggered to her feet.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized softly, "I don't know what made me do
such a silly thing. I must have been tired out from everything I did
yesterday. Can you take me home?"
Von Lertz smiled down upon her reassuringly as he held her coat for
her. Dixie bade Von Papen good-bye, very sweetly and graciously. That
Von Papen's farewell was somewhat short and a little impatient was due
to the fear lurking in his mind that Von Lertz would not make that
10:20 train. But defying all laws defiable and conforming as little as
possible to the inexorable ones, Von Lertz drove Dixie up-town and left
her in her apartment a short time later.
"And don't worry about me--please," Dixie begged giving him her hand
in good-bye, "because I'll be all right. If I don't I'll take a little
trip, down south maybe, for a week or two."
"I may be out of town myself for a while, so if I don't call----"
"I'll understand," Dixie assured him, with perfect verity. "Good-bye."
As the door closed behind him, Dixie jumped to her feet with a sudden
access of energy.
"Goodness. I'll have to hurry like _everything_," she told herself.
She sat down at her desk and began to scribble hurriedly on a scrap of
paper. Between lines she called to Mamette.
"Mamette! Mamette! Where are you? Hurry!" Mamette appeared in the
doorway wiping her hands on her apron.
"Yes'm, Miss Dixie."
"I have just about half an hour. I want you to go down the street in
that old second hand store and buy me the articles on this list of
clothing."
She handed Mamette the list and some money. Mamette seized them and
hurried out. Dixie turned again to her desk and scrawled a letter which
two hours later was delivered to Harrison Grant at the Criminology Club
by special delivery. It added another jot to the mystification which
had been lending zest to his life the last few days. The letter read:
"Have notified the Chief of German concentration camps along the
border preparatory to invasion of Canada. Hold yourself in readiness
for a big raid on German headquarters at Exeter. Will keep you
informed under name of Randolph Bruce.
"Operative 324."
Grant turned to his card index of Secret Service operatives and
hurriedly skimmed through the file.
"Operative 324," he slipped out the card and stared at it in
irritation. The card bore no name, no address, no photograph, no
thumbprints, no identification, simply the legend:
"Operative 324--Name and identification withheld for good of service."
Grant frowned, and then philosophically slipped the card back into its
place and stepped toward the button to summon his operatives.
In a moment Stewart, Cavanaugh and Sisson joined him.
"Boys, there is a chance of heavy work for the Criminology Club very
soon. We will have to summon every member possible who can leave his
other duties. They must eat here, sleep here, wait here, until certain
word comes to us." Grant glanced down at the message which he still
held. "Stewart!"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you see what arrangements can be made for a special train to
take a hundred men to Exeter, Vermont, if necessary? Keep it quiet,
of course. Sisson!" Grant looked at the two other men. "And you,
Cavanaugh, round up the other members. And if any telegrams come to the
club signed Randolph Bruce, find me at once!"
After Grant had issued his orders the Criminology Club became the scene
of action as its members gathered, eager for the service they held
themselves in readiness at all times to tender.
Hours after Grant had received the message from Operative 324, a train
which had left New York at promptly 10:20 that morning, thundered into
the station at Exeter. A dirty faced boy in rough clothes jumped from
the steps of the day coach and stood at a respectful distance watching
those more fortunate ones being assisted with servile obsequiousness
from the parlor car. When Heinric von Lertz alighted, followed closely
by Madam Stephan, an expression of relief flitted across the face of
the boy. He watched them curiously as a tall, cadaverous individual
stepped up to greet them.
Across the dusty road from the station an undertaking shop held sway.
That its proprietor was J.B. Dollings was signified by the ornate gold
lettering across the window, and that the cadaverous individual who
greeted Von Lertz and Madam Stephan was none other than J.B. Dollings,
was a conclusion not hard to arrive at as the boy watched him conduct
his visitors across the road and into the shop. From his vantage point
on the platform the boy awaited developments. In a short while Von
Lertz and Madam Stephan and their tall host emerged from the shop and
entered the car that stood at the curb. The boy watched the car whirl
away amid clouds of midsummer dust down the long road that seemed to
lead out of the city to the mountains that towered in the distance.
The dirty faced boy slipped down from the truck on which he had been
sitting and gazed after them ruminatively.
"So they are undertakers now. Queer business to be in." He stepped into
the station and peered through the bars of the ticket window at the
station agent who sat in the inner office, chair tilted back against
the wall, an odoriferous corn cob pipe clutched between toothless gums.
The station agent brought his chair to a level and slowly rose and
slouched to the window. Following which effort was a long argument
during which the dirty faced boy finally convinced the station agent
that he needed an assistant, had always needed one, and that he was the
assistant needed. After due attention had been called to the ancient
dirt covered floor, the dust of the station benches, and litter of
bygone lunches, the job was landed and an hour later found the station
undergoing a long-needed cleaning at the hands of the new assistant.
The dirty faced boy had found employment, food, shelter--and the
opportunity of acquiring the contents of every telegram entering or
leaving the station! And as the dirty faced boy was Dixie Mason, the
information was priceless to her--and the interests she served.
While members of the Criminology Club passed days of waiting, armed and
ready for any emergency that might arise, Dixie pursued her purpose
with relentless activity in and around Exeter.
She first of all established the fact that the undertaking business
of J.B. Dollings was a comparatively new departure. That while he had
several assistants constantly in attendance, his establishment was
little patronized and he made no efforts to gain patronage. Dixie
found that Heinric von Lertz and Madam Stephan made their daily
headquarters in a new, roughly constructed building, among the hills at
the outskirts of the village where a small city of tents had sprung up
miraculously, housing laborers strangely inactive for a grading outfit.
She found that hundreds of men were gathering daily. At night, snuggled
close to a great boulder, Dixie watched the activities of the camp and
saw wagons loaded to their limit with supplies winding their way along
the gorge roads. And she saw the men gathering at the board building
for meetings.
One afternoon Dixie, attractive in spite of dirty face, towsled mop of
hair, rough clothes, ran across the street to J.B. Dolling's shop.
"A carload of caskets just came in for you, Mr. Dollings." Mr.
Dollings' long clawlike fingers clutched the bill in obvious
excitement.
"Where--where are they?" He reached for his hat and hurried around the
counter.
"The caskets? Over on the first track. I'll show you----"
"No, never mind, never mind. The number of the car's on the bill of
lading. I'll find it." As Dixie lingered outside she heard him calling
hoarsely, "Bloedt! Rudolph! Mahlen! The caskets have come. Get teams at
once. We must unload them at once. Hurry! Must send a telegram!"
Dixie listened speculatively. Mr. Dollings was exhibiting an unheard
of amount of excitement over a carload of caskets for one who was an
undertaker. And a carload of caskets for an undertaking shop that did
no business!
Her speculations were cut short by the rumble of express wagons. They
drove through the yards to the car. One of the men broke the seal while
Dollings bustled about, excitedly issuing orders. Dixie found a place
where she could watch them without being seen.
Carefully the grewsome boxes were unloaded and carried out to the
express wagons. She saw two wagons loaded and driven across the street
to the shop. Her ruminations over their disposal were cut short by
a crash and sound of splintering wood which quickly brought her
attention back to the unloading process.
Dollings' voice was raised in angry expostulation.
"_Donnerwetter!_ Why didn't you hold on to that end? Here you, Bloedt
cover up that end. Quick! Mahlen, you go too----"
Dixie slipped down behind the freight car and peeped under it. She
could see plainly the splintered box. And though the men were vainly
trying to conceal its contents she could see them. It was no casket
that the box contained. Slipping out from its broken boards were
rifles! Military rifles!
And the car had been filled with scores of boxes similar to this. This
was the cause of Dollings' excitement! Here were rifles enough to fit
out hundreds of men who were gathering at the borders of Canada waiting
the hour to strike. The men at the grading camp were there awaiting
these arms. As soon as they were fitted out the time would be ripe for
the invasion which the powers above them had planned.
Then Dixie remembered the telegram that Dollings had hastened to send
as soon as the car had been reported.
She hurried back into the station. The station agent had left. There
were no trains due until late in the evening. She let herself into the
office and reached for the telegrams which had been filed for the day.
Near the top was Dollings' addressed to
"Captain Franz von Papen
"60 Wall Street
"New York City.
"Everything O.K.
"Dollings."
That was all. But it meant that the rifles had arrived--the rifles
for which Von Lertz and Madam Stephan had been waiting, the rifles
which were to equip the waiting German reservists! An armed invasion
of Canada from American soil. Her mind whirled at the thought of the
complications involved--perhaps war between Great Britain and the
United States on the charge of having fostered this invasion by German
sympathizers!
No! Dixie knew that the moment for action had come. Her fingers sought
the telegraph key.
"Harrison Grant, Criminology Club, New York City," she tapped. "Danger!
Come quick! Wire arrival. Randolph Bruce."
Then, womanlike, she gave herself up for a moment to wild surmisings.
Had she waited too long? Would this message reach him in time to get
his men to Exeter to stop this invasion? After all, had she followed
the right course. Would it not have been better to have stopped the
whole thing at its inception, rather than let it attain this amazing
growth that threatened to be overwhelming. But time was short. Already
Von Papen had received the telegram and she must wire the Chief of
developments. Her fingers tapped the keys once more. She had the
consolation of knowing that the Chief's men had covered all other camps
along the border. This one camp had depended on her, and Harrison Grant
and his men were dependent on her. As soon as the Chief received her
wire his message would go back to the other camps ordering instant
action. But here--at Exeter--no one could foresee the result.
The afternoon light was fading in the dim station as Dixie crept
out. She took the road to the gorge, stepping into shadows as wagons
lumbered past with cargoes that she dreaded to guess at. A great
purring car slid past and she heard Madam Stephan's laugh tinkle out on
the night air. A sudden activity had sprung into being. Everywhere were
wagons, rumbling through the night and men hurrying past on strange and
unwonted errands.
From the friendly shadow of a boulder Dixie looked down upon the
will-o'-the-wisp lights of the camp and the greater glow of the windows
of the main camp building. The shadowy outlines of wagons against the
darkness of the night, rumbling into the camp yard, the silhouettes of
men at the loading doors, carrying the long boxes filled with rifles
for Germany's army in America!
A lump rose in Dixie's throat and she clenched her hands in a passion
of earnestness.
"Make Grant get here in time!" she prayed. "He must get here in time!"
The thought brought to her the need of being on the alert at the
station for messages. She rose quickly and leaving the lights of the
camp hurried back over the dark road to the little station. She let
herself into the little office and seated herself before the telegraph
instrument, signalling for the relay station at Buffalo. She waited
impatiently for a moment and then heard the answering call.
She tapped her message.
"Anything for Ex-x?" The long silence that followed was finally broken
by the clatter of the instrument.
"Nothing."
Dixie sank back in the chair. Her message had gone through hours
before, certainly by this time Grant should have received it and
answered.
But the instrument was clicking again--calling for Exeter.
"Ex--ex--exexexex--ex--exexex."
"O.K. Ex--go ahead," Dixie tapped in an agony of impatience. The
sounding key snapped back.
"Hello Ex--thought I'd tell you--wire trouble between here and New
York. Ought to clear up soon."
The instrument ceased its clatter. Dixie settled back, hopeful--and yet
hopeless. Now there was no means of knowing. Her communication had been
cut off. She could only wait--wait--with the teeth of anxiety gnawing
at her heart. Wait, while all through the northern states, Imperial
Germany's reservists were hurrying to their stations. Wait--while out
at the main camp, Heinric von Lertz and Madam Stephan were giving
orders that would cause rebellion to flare at the first word from Von
Papen.
But Dixie brightened a bit as she caught at the cheerful thought
that Von Papen's message could not come through until the wires were
opened--still when the wires were opened, Von Papen's wire might come
through and Grant would not be there to stop the resultant activity.
Hour by hour dragged endlessly as the night wore on. Dixie sat by the
telegraph key, waiting. Call after call sent through Buffalo brought
back the answer:
"Wire not clear yet. Working on it."
The moon dimmed, and the chill air of night made her huddle closer in
the chair and shiver. Would the night never end and the call she was
waiting for come?
As the dawn lightened the dingy interior of the station it showed Dixie
Mason with tumbled, towsled head fallen sleepily on one shoulder.
The staccato clicking of the telegraph sounder broke into the quiet of
the room. It started Dixie from her sleep. For one bewildered moment
she glanced at the instrument before her and then on the alert reached
for the key to answer the call that was coming through for Exeter.
"O.K. Ex." She waited tensely for the answer.
Suddenly a shadow fell across the doorway and Dixie started violently.
"Here you! What're you doing at that telegraph instrument?" The rough
voice of the station agent sent a chill of fear through her. "You don't
know nothing about them things. Get out of here!"
He pushed her roughly aside and seated himself at the table to take the
message that in spite of nervousness and sudden fright seemed to burn
itself into her brain. It was for Heinric von Lertz!
"Proceed at once!"
"F.V.P."
Von Papen! Dixie clutched at the station agent's arm as he started for
the door with the message.
"Don't deliver that!" she begged. "Please--don't deliver it yet."
"Don't deliver a telegram?" the agent glared at her uncomprehendingly.
"What's the matter with you? Want me to lose my job?"
"But if that telegram meant trouble--if it meant danger for our
country?"
"It's a telegram and it's got to be delivered," he answered stubbornly.
Dixie's hand reached for her Secret Service Commission, then dropped.
She had seen the station agent with Von Lertz and Dollings on various
occasions. If he were an accomplice--which was very likely--her
commission would profit her nothing and probably would work harm to her
cause. She turned with an effort and laughed.
"I was just fooling," she apologized.
"Poor way to fool," grumbled the station agent, and slammed the door.
Dixie watched him shuffle across the dusty road and intercept Von
Lertz and Madam Stephan as they left the hotel. She saw a hurried
conference over the yellow slip of paper follow. As she watched them
the telegraph instrument began to clatter once more. The station agent
was across the street. This time she would not be thwarted.
"O.K. Ex," she signalled rapidly, and the answer came through.
"Randolph Bruce,
"Exeter--(delayed).
"Arriving 6:40
"Grant."
Dixie dragged herself weakly out of the office and sat down for a
moment. Grant was coming at six forty! It was six ten now. She jumped
to her feet. There was no time for unnecessary rejoicing. There was too
much to be done.
The station agent shuffled into the station again and seating himself
at the table began to take the orders that were clattering in over the
wire. Dixie waited no longer.
The town boasted one garage. The garage owner, industriously cleaning
a thick veneer of dust from a car, started suddenly at a light touch
on his shoulder. The boyish figure standing in the doorway was very
business-like.
"I want every car you have got."
The garage owner stared, "What for?"
"There's a special train coming in at six forty with a lot of men and
they will have to have cars." Dixie slipped a hand into a pocket and
brought out her Secret Service Commission.
"Here's the reason," she said. "And listen to me, because I want you
to get this straight." For a few moments she conversed with him in low
tones.
"It's all right. I'll have them there," he assured her finally and
Dixie hurried away on the road leading to the camp.
The special train bearing Grant and his men slid into the station
and came to a smooth standstill, and as the first men jumped to the
platform, the garage owner stepped up to them.
"I have a message for Harrison Grant." Grant was pointed out to him.
"Mr. Grant," he said, stepping over to where the detective stood, "A
Secret Service man gave me an order a little while ago, he wasn't any
more'n a boy. He says to be sure to raid that undertaking shop across
the way and then go on to the main camp in the gorge."
Thanking his informant Grant called his men around him and issued
quick, incisive orders. Leaving Cavanaugh and Stewart to oversee the
raiding of the undertaking shop, he selected his men and loaded them
into the waiting machines. Soon the streets of Exeter resounded with
the roar of speeding automobiles, whirling through in a cloud of dust
to the mountains beyond and the camp that lay in the gorge.
Time was too short for the Secret Service to catch up all the tangled
threads of this plot. While the waiting automobiles whirled Grant's
men to the camp in the gorge, the station master was telephoning
frantically to Von Lertz. And a short half hour later their big
automobile was grinding its way southward carrying Madam Stephan and
her partner in intrigue away from the scene of the _fiasco_.
Up on the Canadian border, mounted troops, summoned from twenty
barracks by the Chief and Grant, rushed to protect the passes, tunnels
and bridges, and throw a line of soldiery along the frontier.
Out at the camp the headquarters were suddenly surrounded and under
cover of guns in the hands of Grant's men the reservists were herded
together and placed under arrest. Leaving them in the hands of his men,
Grant started out to look about the camp. He found the powder house and
supply depots hidden deep in the gorge, and as he stood and wondered at
the hugeness of this plot which had been foiled just in time, his gaze
wandered from one object to another. Suddenly it centered on a little
figure lying just below him beside a boulder. It was a boy deep in the
sleep of sheer exhaustion. He stepped down the hillside and stopped
beside the boulder.
"Poor youngster," he muttered, "I'd better take him in, it's damp here."
As he stooped and lifted the sleeping form, the cap slipped from the
boyish head and a mop of curly hair waved loose. Grant gasped. The
sleepy dark eyes opened and looked into his. Suddenly a hand sought
to pull the coat which had fallen open together. But it was too late.
Grant had caught sight of the Secret Service star.
"Dixie Mason!" Grant breathed. "In the Service? Oh Dixie--" and his
arms closed about her a little tighter than was necessary although
Dixie Mason lay still.
While Harrison Grant stood holding Dixie Mason in his arms with the
cares of the world, the troubles, the strain, slipping away from him,
in the great relief of his discovery, many, many miles away the first
seeds were being sown for a plot that equalled the one they had just
quelled.
In the interior of a fortune telling emporium in Hopewell, Va., sat
a woman in the garb of a gipsy fortune teller. Her features were cold
and heavy, her eyes piercing, and her voice when she spoke, belied with
guttural accents the garb of the southern people she had donned.
"Minna," she called, and as the tapestries that hung the room were
pushed aside by a maid, she spoke quickly:
"Telegraph Von Papen to send me a good man at once for dangerous work."
The maid bowed.
"Yes, Baroness," she answered, and disappeared.