"Do you suppose," Dr. Albert was rummaging in his portfolio, "it could possibly act as a boomerang? America has had its eyes shut, you know. For instance, I think Capt. Von Papen recently reported the burning of several million bushels of wheat in its elevators, as well as a train wreck or two that have so far been classified as accidents. Now, my query is: will the deliberate, pre-arranged killing of Americans and the fore-announced destruction of American property on board the Lusitania, cause this country to open its eyes and inquire about other things that have happened? Or will it--" Capt. Franz von Papen smiled with one corner of his mouth. "If you have ever noticed," he replied, "I have always used the term 'idiotic Yankees.'" Bernstorff laughed. Albert bobbed his head. "Quite so," he said finally. "I yield the point. Now, regarding the Lusitania, when is it destined to sink?" Bernstorff rummaged in some papers, at last to bring forth a code message. "Potsdam plans the sinking for next Wednesday, May 5. It has already ordered medals struck off to commemorate the victory." And while the arch-spies of Imperial Germany continued to plot the murder of American citizens on the high seas, a lithe, dark-eyed girl walked to the stenographer's desk of one of the largest hotels of New York City, with apparently no purpose in life save to be pretty and attractive and likeable. Spirited she was, with a dash of animation which caused people to look at her more than once, with a sparkle in those big eyes which told of a love of life and zest for adventure, a tilt to her chin that spoke of determination, a smooth grace about her which spelled birth and breeding and aristocracy. Time was--and not so very far in the past--when her name had glittered in the electric lights of Broadway. But the love of adventure had been too strong and Dixie Mason, daughter of Brentwell Mason of Sou' Car'lina, sur, had forsaken the stage to take her place as a quietly commissioned captain of women operatives in the Secret Service. And now-- Now she was walking toward the public stenographer's desk, smiling and speaking to friends in the lobby, apparently thinking of nothing in the world, but in reality straining with every nerve to catch the message in the Morse code that the stenographer was ticking off on the space-bar of her typewriter: "This ... is ... the ... man ... I ... spoke ... of.... He ... thinks ... he's ... a ... lady ... killer."