She had thought, of course, of the possibility of someone awaiting her; and she had recognized three contingencies in that case. A man who called for her might be a friend or a relative of Cynthia Gail; this, though difficult enough, would be easiest and least dangerous of all. The man might be a United States agent aware that Cynthia Gail was dead, that her passport had fallen into hostile hands; he therefore would have come to take her as an enemy spy with a stolen passport. The man might be a German agent sent there to aid her or give her further orders or information, if the Germans still were satisfied that they had put the passport into proper hands; if they were not--that is, if they had learned that the beggar had made a mistake--then the man might be a German who had come to lure her away to recover the passport and punish her. The man’s card, with his name--Mr. Hubert Lennon, engraved in the middle--told nothing more about him. “I will be in my room,” Ruth said to the clerk, when she glanced up from the card. “If Mr. Lennon returns or anyone else calls, telephone me.” She moved toward the elevator as quickly as possible; but the room-clerk’s eyes already were attracted toward a number of men entering from the street. “He’s not gone, Miss Gail! Here he is now!” the clerk called. Ruth pretended not to hear; but no elevator happened to be waiting into which she could escape. “Here’s the gentleman for you!” a bellboy announced to Ruth so that she had to turn and face then and there the gentleman who had been waiting for her. CHAPTER III: THE NEW RÔLE The man who advanced from the group which had just entered the hotel, appeared to be about thirty years old; he was tall and sparely built and stooped very slightly as though in youth he had outgrown his strength and had never quite caught up. He had a prominent nose and a chin which, at first glance, seemed forceful; but that impression altered at once to a feeling that here was a man of whom something might have been made but had not. He was not at all dissolute or unpleasant looking; his mouth was sensitive, almost shy, with only lines of amiability about it; his eyes, which looked smaller than they really were because of the thick lenses of his glasses, were gray and good natured and observant. His hair was black and turning gray--prematurely beyond doubt. It was chiefly the grayness of his hair, indeed, which made Ruth suppose him as old as thirty. He wore a dark overcoat and gray suit--good clothes, so good that one noticed them last--the kind of clothes which Sam Hilton always thought he was buying and never procured. He pulled off a heavy glove to offer a big, boyish hand. “How do you do, Cy--Miss Gail?” he greeted her. He was quite sure of her but doubtful as to use of her given name.