In vain she marshalled the circumstances about him, trying to make herself hate him.  He was a German, she told herself.  He was an enemy of her country.  He lived with a man who had been proved to be a spy.  He surreptitiously associated with American naval officers.  The dictograph told her that nightly his uncle and he in the seclusion of their home toasted America’s arch enemy, the German Kaiser.  More than likely, too, her reason told her, he was a murderer.  She ought to hate, to loathe, to despise him, and yet she didn’t.  She liked him.  Whenever he approached she could feel her heart beating faster.  She looked forward after each meeting with him to the time when she would see him again.  What, she wondered, could be the matter with her?  Assuredly she was a good patriotic American girl.  Why couldn’t she hate Frederic Hoff as she knew he ought to be hated?

She was still puzzling over her unruly heart when they reached Getty Square, and Dean brought the motorcycle to a stop in one of the side streets overlooking Broadway.  Dismounting, he looked at his watch and made a pretense of tinkering with the engine, while Jane kept a sharp lookout on the main thoroughfare, by which they expected the Hoffs to approach.  Ten minutes, twenty minutes, more than half an hour they waited, anxiously scanning each car as it passed.

“I can’t understand it,” said Dean.  “They should have been here at least twenty minutes ago.  I am going to ’phone Carter.  He will know what time they started.”

He had hardly entered an adjacent shop before Jane, still keeping watch, saw the Hoffs’ car flash by, going rapidly north.  Quickly she sprang out and ran into the store.  Dean saw her coming and left the telephone booth, his finger on his lips in a warning gesture.

“Don’t bother to ’phone,” cried the girl, misunderstanding his meaning—­and thinking only that he was trying to prevent her naming the Hoffs.  “Come, let’s get started.”

Without speaking he hurried from the store and got the motorcycle under way.

“Have they passed?” he whispered then.

“Just a moment ago.”

Silently he gathered up speed, racing in the direction the Hoffs’ car had gone, not addressing her again until perhaps two miles from Getty Square they caught up with it close enough to identify the occupants, whereupon he slowed down and followed at a more discreet interval.

“Be careful about speaking to me when there’s any one about,” he warned Jane, almost crossly.  “Those clothes make you look like a boy, and your walk is all right, but your voice gives you away.  Did you see that clerk in the store look at you when you spoke to me?  I tried to warn you to say nothing.”

“I’ll be careful hereafter,” said Jane humbly, still depressed by her recent estimate of herself.  “I forgot about my voice.”

Mile after mile they kept up the pursuit without further exchange of conversation.  As they passed through various towns along the road Dean purposely lagged behind for fear of attracting attention, but always on the outskirts he raced until he caught up close enough again to the car to identify it, then let his motorcycle lag back again.  Thus far the Hoffs had given no indication of any intention to leave the main road.