Slowly Jane opened
her eyes.
"Thank God," he cried. "Jane dear, tell me you are not hurt."
For a moment she lay there, staring wonderingly at him as he bent over
her imploringly, the tenderest of anxiety showing in every line of his
face. Unprotestingly she let him slip his strong arm once more under her
head. In her dazed brain there was a strange conflict of peculiar
emotions. He was a German, a spy,--she hated him, and yet it was
wonderfully comforting to her to have him there. Under other
circumstances she could have loved him. He was so handsome, so masterful
and so kind, too. He cared for her. Had he not called her "Jane, dear"
in his amazement at finding her lying there? But she must not let
herself think of him in that way. It was her duty, her sacred duty to
trap him, to thwart his nefarious plans against her country. She must do
her duty just as her soldier brother was doing his in far away France.
Still supported by Hoff's arms she sat up, trying to collect her
thoughts and gingerly testing the movement of her arms and limbs.
"Tell me," he cried again, "Jane, dear, are you hurt?"
"I don't think so," she managed to say.
With his assistance she got up on her feet and walked uncertainly to
the car, shuddering as she looked at Dean's crumpled senseless body.
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