The newcomer was Jane Gerson, Hildebrand's buyer, at the end of her gasoline flight from Paris. Cool, capable, self-reliant as on the night she saw the bastions of the capital's outer forts fade under the white spikes of the search-lights, Jane strode up the desk to face the smiling Almer. "Is this a fortress or a hotel?" she challenged. "A hotel, lady, a hotel," Almer purred. "A nice room--yes. Will the lady be with us long?" "Heaven forbid! The lady is going to be on the first ship leaving for New York. And if there are no ships, I'll look over the stock of coal barges you have in your harbor." She seized a pen and dashed her signature on the register. The Shermans had pricked up their ears at the newcomer's first words. Now Henry J. pressed forward, his face glowing welcome. "An American--a simon-pure citizen of the United States--I thought so. Welcome to the little old Rock!" He took both the girl's hands impulsively and pumped them. Mrs. Sherman, Kitty and Willy Kimball crowded around, and the clatter of voices was instantaneous: "By auto from Paris; goodness me!" "Not a thing to eat for three days but rye bread!" "From Strassburg to Luneville in a farmer's wagon!" Each in a whirlwind of ejaculation tried to outdo the other's story of hardship and privation. The front doors opened again, and the sergeant and guard who had earlier carried off Fritz, the barber, entered. Again gun butts thumped ominously. Jane looked over her shoulder at the khaki-coated men, and confided in the Shermans: "I think that man's been following me ever since I landed from the ferry." "I have," answered the sergeant, stepping briskly forward and saluting. "You are a stranger on the Rock. You come here from----" "From Paris, by motor, to the town across the bay; then over here on the ferry," the girl answered promptly. "What about it?" "Your name?" "Jane Gerson. Yes, yes, it sounds German, I know. But that's not my fault. I'm an American--a red-hot American, too, for the last two weeks." The sergeant's face was wooden. "Where are you going?" "To New York, on the _Saxonia_, just as soon as I can. And the British army can't stop me." "Indeed!" The sergeant permitted himself a fleeting smile. "From Paris by motor, eh? Your passports, please." "I haven't any," Jane retorted, with a shade of defiance. "They were taken from me in Spain, just over the French border, and were not returned." The sergeant raised his eyebrows in surprise not unmixed with irony. He pointed to the two big osier baskets, demanding to know what they contained. "Gowns--the last gowns made in Paris before the crash. Fashion's last gasp. I am a buyer of gowns for Hildebrand's store in New York." Ecstatic gurgles of pleasure from Mrs. Sherman and her daughter greeted this announcement. They pressed about the baskets and regarded them lovingly. The sergeant pushed them away and tried to throw back the covers.