“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 matinee 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.