He turned to the listeners. “Hodges has been injured by an automobile,” he said quietly. “I gather he is unconscious. You are nervous and upset, Frieda, so you'd better retire. Leave this to--” “Is he dead, Davenport?” she asked in a low horror-struck voice. “Run along, Louise,--skip off to bed. I'll get the details and tell you in the morning.” The girl swayed slightly. Her eyes were wide with anguish. “I--I shouldn't have allowed him to go out,” she stammered. “I--Oh, Uncle Dawy!” Mrs. Carstairs put her arm about the girl's waist and led her from the room. Carstairs looked up at his son. “I guess you can stand it, Alfred. He's dead. Instantly killed.” He spoke into the transmitter. “Tell me how it happened, please.” He hung up the receiver a moment or two later. “Run down at the corner of Madison Avenue and 48th Street. There were two witnesses, and both say that he was standing in the street waiting for a car. The automobile was going forty miles an hour. He never knew what hit him. Poor devil! Have you ever heard him mention his family, Alfred? We must notify some one, of course.” “No, sir,” said his son. “He seemed a quiet sort. The other servants may know. Mother says his references were of the highest order,--that's all I know. What a terrible thing to have--” “We must not worry your mother with this tonight, my son. She's had enough for today.” “I should say so,” exclaimed Alfred, clenching his hands. He choked up, and said no more. CHAPTER III |PAUL ZIMMERLEIN was a mining engineer. His offices were off Fifth Avenue, somewhere above 34th Street. He stood well in his profession, he stood high as a citizen. No one questioned his integrity, his ability or his loyalty. He was a good American. At least, a great many good Americans said he was, which amounts to the same thing. One entered his offices through a small antechamber, where a young woman at the telephone-desk made perfunctory inquiries, but always in a crisp, business-like manner. She was the first cog in a smooth-running piece of machinery. Her name was Mildred,--Mildred Agnew, and she had a brother in the British navy, from whom she received infrequent letters of a most unilluminating character,--letters omitting date, place and ship: in which he said he was well and happy and hoped to God the Germans would come out into the open to see what the weather was like. If your business was important, or you had an appointment, you would be conducted by a smart-looking boy into a rather imposing corner room, from whose windows you could look down fourteen storeys to the roof of an eight storey building below. Presently you would be invited into Mr. Zimmerlein's private office. Beyond this snug little office was the drafting room, where several actively studious men of various ages bent over blue-prints and estimate sheets. They all appeared to be good, industrious Americans; you could see them quite plainly through the glass upper half of the intervening door.