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The stranger smiled in approval, but shook his head.

“You’re warm,” he said, “but it’s more serious than manoeuvres. It’s the Real Thing.” From his pocketbook he took a visiting card and laid it on the table. “I’m ‘Sherry’ McCoy,” he said, “Captain of Artillery in the United States Army.” He nodded to the hand telephone on the table.

“You can call up Governor’s Island and get General Wood or his aide, Captain Dorey, on the phone. They sent me here. Ask THEM. I’m not picking out gun sites for the Germans; I’m picking out positions of defense for Americans when the Germans come!”

Van Vorst laughed derisively.

“My word!” he exclaimed. “You’re as bad as Jimmie!”

Captain McCoy regarded him with disfavor.

“And you, sir,” he retorted, “are as bad as ninety million other Americans. You WON’T believe! When the Germans are shelling this hill, when they’re taking your hunters to pull their cook-wagons, maybe, you’ll believe THEN.”

“Are you serious?” demanded Van Vorst. “And you an army officer?”

“That’s why I am serious,” returned McCoy. “WE know. But when we try to prepare for what is coming, we must do it secretly–in underhand ways, for fear the newspapers will get hold of it and ridicule us, and accuse us of trying to drag the country into war. That’s why we have to prepare under cover. That’s why I’ve had to skulk around these hills like a chicken thief. And,” he added sharply, “that’s why that boy must not know who I am. If he does, the General Staff will get a calling down at Washington, and I’ll have my ears boxed.”

Van Vorst moved to the door.

“He will never learn the truth from me,” he said. “For I will tell him you are to be shot at sunrise.”

“Good!” laughed the Captain. “And tell me his name. If ever we fight over Westchester County, I want that lad for my chief of scouts. And give him this. Tell him to buy a new scout uniform. Tell him it comes from you.”

But no money could reconcile Jimmie to the sentence imposed upon his captive. He received the news with a howl of anguish. “You mustn’t,” he begged; “I never knowed you’d shoot him! I wouldn’t have caught him, if I’d knowed that. I couldn’t sleep if I thought he was going to be shot at sunrise.” At the prospect of unending nightmares Jimmie’s voice shook with terror. “Make it for twenty years,” he begged. “Make it for ten,” he coaxed, “but, please, promise you won’t shoot him.”

When Van Vorst returned to Captain McCoy, he was smiling, and the butler who followed, bearing a tray and tinkling glasses, was trying not to smile.

“I gave Jimmie your ten dollars,” said Van Vorst, “and made it twenty, and he has gone home. You will be glad to hear that he begged me to spare your life, and that your sentence has been commuted to twenty years in a fortress. I drink to your good fortune.”

“No!” protested Captain McCoy, “We will drink to Jimmie!”

When Captain McCoy had driven away, and his own car and the golf clubs had again been brought to the steps, Judge Van Vorst once more attempted to depart; but he was again delayed.

Other visitors were arriving.

Up the driveway a touring-car approached, and though it limped on a flat tire, it approached at reckless speed. The two men in the front seat were white with dust; their faces, masked by automobile glasses, were indistinguishable. As though preparing for an immediate exit, the car swung in a circle until its nose pointed down the driveway up which it had just come. Raising his silk mask the one beside the driver shouted at Judge Van Vorst. His throat was parched, his voice was hoarse and hot with anger.

“A gray touring-car,” he shouted. “It stopped here. We saw it from that hill. Then the damn tire burst, and we lost our way. Where did he go?”

“Who?” demanded Van Vorst, stiffly, “Captain McCoy?”

The man exploded with an oath. The driver with a shove of his elbow, silenced him.

“Yes, Captain McCoy,” assented the driver eagerly. “Which way did he go?”

“To New York,” said Van Vorst.

The driver shrieked at his companion.

“Then, he’s doubled back,” he cried. “He’s gone to New Haven.” He stooped and threw in the clutch. The car lurched forward.

A cold terror swept young Van Vorst.

“What do you want with him?” he called “Who are you?”

Over one shoulder the masked face glared at him. Above the roar of the car the words of the driver were flung back. “We’re Secret Service from Washington,” he shouted. “He’s from their embassy. He’s a German spy!”

Leaping and throbbing at sixty miles an hour, the car vanished in a curtain of white, whirling dust.