When she recalled how gallantly he had insisted on remaining
to rescue Dean and herself, even before he knew her identity, she was
filled with admiration for him. Yet always matched against all that she
found lovable in him was the knowledge that he was a German, a traitor,
a spy, perhaps a murderer, and at times she felt that she hated him with
a hatred that never could be overcome.
"Well," said Fleck, studying her countenance, "what have you to tell
us?"
"How is Dean?" she asked. "Will he live?"
Fleck and Carter exchanged glances. Was she, they wondered, really
concerned in the handsome young chauffeur's welfare, or had she merely
put the question to gain time in framing what she was going to say?
"I just left him," said Carter, in response to an almost imperceptible
nod from the chief; "he's all right except for a scalp wound and a
broken arm."
"I'm glad," said the girl impulsively.
"What happened to him?" asked Carter.
"Don't you know? The Hoffs' automobile hit us and overturned the
motorcycle."
"The Hoffs' car!" cried Fleck and Carter together.
"Yes, I thought you knew."
"Tell us everything," demanded Fleck. "Where did it happen? Did they
run you down purposely?"
"I don't think so; in fact I am sure they didn't. It was entirely
accidental.
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