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.
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