“Perfectly right!” said Mr. De Lorme absently as he slid a paper tube inside a small brass cylinder—and with the utmost care and a touch delicate as a jeweler’s proceeded to cap it. A heavy, thick pad of fluffy thick cotton batting covered the table and he held the cylinder close to it. Mr. De Lorme did not like to take unnecessary risks.
Zip took off his coat and arrayed himself in a tight jumper. He filled several retorts with queer-looking liquids, and fell to work. There was much to be done. The thirteenth was nearly at hand!
The whistles sounded for noon.
Up at Bill’s Ernest was rapidly outlining his part of the plans for the capture of the dynamiters. At the Aviation Field, at Camp Taylor, his little plane was “parked” ready for action. Safe in the Provost Marshal’s office, near a couple burly M.P.’s, Dee, well guarded, was waiting for the next act in his life.
At the L. & N. Station a fast express was drawing in. Among the throngs that hurried from the cars came a young clergyman, a traveling man loaded with sample cases, a couple of enlisted men, and a laborer in his blue overalls. These five lost themselves in the crowds and were gone. That they were Secret Service men picked for the difficult task of taking a dangerous gang and breaking up a lot of dynamiters, the crowd with whom they mingled did not guess, nor would they have believed if they had been told.
Up on Confederate Place the usual afternoon began with just a few variations. An understudy took Eddie’s place on the tennis courts. Frank’s father, Mr. Wolfe, drove to his office in Frank’s little flivver, and left at the curb in its stead his own powerful touring car, and Frank was engaged in his pet recreation of “tuning her up.”
Eddie and Ernest, taking a trolley, were well on their way to Camp where they expected to await developments at the Aviation Field.
Bill, whose easiest job was collecting an admiring circle of girls, went down to the Crowleys, next door to the De Lorme house, and proceeded to fascinate Elizabeth Crowley, a delicate little blonde beauty, and Virginia Rowland, whose big black eyes sparkled and whose merry laugh tinkled out at the least of Bill’s rare sallies of wit. At intervals—and of course this was part of the plan—Bill whistled lustily and once or twice yelled, “Hey, Dee!”
In the Park sat a couple of enlisted men, young fellows who soon started a bantering conversation with two girls passing. The four had a jolly time. It was not hard for the secret service men to “jolly” and keep hawk-eyes on the De Lorme house at the same time.
At the extreme point of the Park, facing the monument, was the wreck of a beautiful drinking fountain which had been shattered by a runaway automobile. The pieces of broken stone were being gathered in a pile by a workman who seemingly had no eyes for anything but his work. His overalls were roomy and loose; otherwise someone might have noticed the bulging pockets underneath where he carried two big revolvers and handcuffs, as well as heavy shackles for stubborn ankles. At the station a man with two suitcases sat patiently reading the paper, while close to his elbow a meek-looking young clergyman watched the crowds or looked at a long railroad ticket which he held in his hand.