"I got him," was her simple announcement. "Hit him on the head with the butt of my revolver. I was afraid to shoot—you both were so close together."
"Good little Dixie!" Grant pressed her hand, then hurried to the fight again.
But the fight was over. The bomb-planters had been subdued. Outside there sounded the clanging of a patrol wagon. That afternoon, on the deck of the Frederik VIII, Bernstorff and Albert watched in vain for the sight of explosion or of fire. Germany's last great destructive plot against America had failed.
Weeks later, Harrison Grant and Dixie Mason stood on the balcony of the Criminology Club, looking down into the street below. Here, there, everywhere, newsboys were shouting the news of the declaration of war. From far away, came the sound of a military band. Then, marching down the street, their files straight and clean, their arms shining brightly in the sun, their strong, sturdy forms showing the sleek-muscled strength that only American fighters possess, marched the crack Seventh Regiment of New York on its spring parade. Harrison Grant watched, his eyes gleaming happily.
"Dixie," he said at last, "I never saw anything to give me so much happiness—and yet, so much sorrow."
"And why the sorrow?" She looked at him quickly.
"Because, now that we have finished our work for the safety of America at home, we must part. I received this morning my Commission as a captain in the Army Intelligency. My work will be abroad."
"And mine will be abroad also," said Dixie quietly.
"Abroad? You——?"
"In the Red Cross."