For Von Lertz had striven to take her in his arms and was pressing his lips toward hers. As she half struggled with him the German smiled in apology and dropped his arms. "I just wanted one teeny-weeny little kiss," he announced. "I thought--well, I just thought----" "I'm not in a habit of being kissed," answered Dixie Mason, pouting. Von Lertz straightened. "Goo' little girl!" he praised her. "Goo' little girl! I am now more fashinated than ever! Good night!" "Good day," echoed Dixie Mason, glancing at the light of dawn without. Then as Heinric von Lertz strode forth, she turned quickly to one side. Hurriedly she opened a little memorandum book that she had extracted from the pocket of the German plotter while she had struggled with him to prevent the kiss that he had sought to implant on her lips. Quickly she scanned the pages, finally to start forward, an involuntary cry breaking from her lips. She glanced hastily down the street toward where Von Lertz's machine was fading in the distance, then ran toward a taxi stand at the corner. "Follow that machine that just left here!" she ordered, as she hurried into the car. Then, taking out her secret service commission and passing it before the eyes of the chauffeur, she admonished: "The safety of the Atlantic fleet depends on us! Don't lose sight of that machine for an instant! Where it goes--we're going--and the man who is in it must not know we're following!" "Don't worry, Lady," came the quiet answer of the chauffeur. "I'll keep him in sight." Dixie Mason leaned back in the machine again. Once more she brought forth the note book. Again she looked at the line which had burned itself into her brain; a line that read: "Examine torpedo before fleet sails." A half hour later, Von Lertz's machine was on the ferry, crossing to Staten Island, while Von Lertz himself dozed in the tonneau, little knowing that just behind him, on the same ferry was another machine containing a person very much awake, Dixie Mason, determined to learn just exactly where he was going and who he intended to see there. So much for the Ally who was working for the said Harrison Grant. And in the meantime, the person upon whom he had really counted was having his difficulties. Far over on Staten Island, the spy whom Dick Stewart had trailed from the Criminology Club had turned into thick underbrush, circled, seen the man behind him, lain in wait, and then, with one powerful blow, felled him, hurrying on toward the shack and workers on the torpedo.