“Why don’t you knit as all the other girls are doing?” was her father’s constant suggestion every time she asserted her desire to be doing something in the war.

“There’s no thrill in knitting,” she would answer.  “Fix it, Dad, so that I can go to France as a Red Cross nurse or as an ambulance driver, won’t you?  I want some excitement.”

Always he had refused to consent to her going, insisting that France in wartime was no place for an untrained girl.

“If I can’t go myself, I certainly am not going to send any knitting,” she would spiritedly answer, but several times recently the sight of such charming looking knitting bags had tempted her into almost breaking her resolution.

Inside the shop she found nothing that appealed to her, and contented herself with buying some toilet articles.  As she made her purchases she noticed, almost subconsciously, a man standing near, talking with one of the shopgirls—­a middle-aged man with a dark mustache.

“The address, please,” said the girl, who had been waiting on her.

“Miss Strong,” she answered, giving the number of the apartment house on Riverside Drive.

She recalled afterward that as she mentioned the number the man standing there had turned and looked sharply at her, but she thought nothing of it.  Her father’s name was well known and he had many acquaintances in the city.  More than likely, she supposed, this man was some friend of her father who had recognized the name.

She lingered a few moments at some of the other counters, aimlessly inspecting their offerings, and at last, with ten minutes left to reach the Ritz, emerged from the store.  She was amazed to see the man who had been inside now standing near the entrance, and something within warned her that he had been waiting to speak to her.  As she attempted to pass him quickly, he stepped in front of her, blocking her path, but raising his hat deferentially.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Strong,” he said, “may I have a word with you?”

Compelled to halt, she looked at him both appraisingly and resentfully.  There was nothing offensive nor flirtatious in his manner, and he seemed far too respectably dressed to be a beggar.  He was almost old enough to be her father, and besides there was about him an indefinable air of authority that commanded her attention.  She decided that, unusual as his request appeared, she would hear what he had to say.

“What is it?” she asked, trying to assume an air of hauteur but without being able wholly to mask her curiosity.

“You are an American, aren’t you?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course.”

“A good American?”

“I hope so.”  She decided now that he must be one of the members of some Red Cross fund “drive,” or perhaps an overenthusiastic salesman for government bonds.  “But I don’t quite understand what it is that you wish.”

“I can’t explain,” said her questioner, “but if you really are a good American and you’d like to do your country a great service—­an important service—­go at once to the address on this card.”