ane herself, as she left
his office, aroused by his revelations of the treacherous work of
Germany's spies, and uplifted by his appeal to her patriotism, felt
enthusiastically capable of obeying his instructions. It seemed very
simple, as he had talked about it. All she had to do was to get
acquainted with the young man next door. Yet the further the subway
carried her from Mr. Fleck's office after her second visit there that
morning, the more her heart sank within her, and the fuller her mind
became of misgivings.

In a big city next door in an apartment house is almost the same thing
as miles away. She ransacked her brain, trying to remember some
acquaintance who might be likely to know the Hoffs, but failed utterly
to recall any one. She reviewed all possible means of getting acquainted
but could find none that seemed practical. Never in her life had she
spoken to a man without having been introduced to him--except of course
to Carter and Mr. Fleck, and these men, she told herself, were
government officials, something like policemen, only nicer. At any rate,
she knew them only in a business way, not socially. If she was to be
successful in learning much about the Hoffs--about young Mr. Hoff--she
felt that it was necessary to make them social acquaintances.

She must manage to meet Frederic Hoff in some proper way, but how? She
thought of such flimsy tricks as dropping a handkerchief or a purse in
the elevator some time when he happened to be in it, but rejected the
plan as disadvantageous. "Nice" girls did not do that sort of thing, and
even though she was seeking to entrap her neighbor she did not for a
moment wish him to consider her as belonging to the other sort. It
rather annoyed her to find that she cared what kind of an impression she
made on him. What difference did it make what a German spy thought of
her, especially a murderer? Yet, she argued with herself, the better the
impression she made at first the more likely she would be to gain his
confidence, and that she knew would delight Mr. Fleck. Was Frederic
Hoff, too, really, she wondered, a spy? Her face colored as she recalled
the mental picture she last had had of him, gallantly and admiringly
raising his cup to her as she left the Ritz, not obtrusively or
impudently, but so subtly that she was sure that no one had observed it
but herself. It seemed preposterous to associate the thought of murder
with a man like him.

As she entered the apartment hous