One sprightly form this story took, which had been whispered in New York and then in Liverpool, was that a certain young lady (identity unknown) had talked with a soldier (identity unknown) in the Grand Central Station in New York, and that the soldier had told her that at his cantonment (cantonment not identified) there was a man in a special branch of the service (branch not mentioned) who was a cousin or a brother or a nephew or a son or something or other to a German general or statesman or something or other, and that he had got into the American army by a pretty narrow squeak. There seemed to be a unanimity of opinion in the lower strata of Uncle Sam's official family in Liverpool that the soldier who had talked with the young lady was coming over on the transport Manchester and it was assumed (no one seemed to know exactly why) that the mysterious and sinister personage would be upon the same ship.
But no soldier had been found upon the Manchester who showed by his appearance that he had chatted with a young lady. Perhaps several of them had done that. It is a way soldiers have.
As for the arch spy or propagandist, he did not come forward and introduce himself as such, and though a few selected suspects of German antecedents were searched and catechised by Mr. Conne and others, no one was held.
Rumors of this kind are always in circulation and the Secret Service people run them down as a matter of precaution. But though you can run a rumor down and stab it through and through you cannot kill it. It now appeared that this German agent had sailed from Mexico and would land at Brest—with a message to some French statesman. Also it appeared that he had stolen a secret from Edison and would land at Dieppe. It had also been reported that someone had attempted to blow up the loaded transport Texas Pioneer on her way over.
And so Mr. Carleton Conne, of the American Secret Service, quiet, observant, uncommunicative, never too sanguine and never too skeptical, had strolled on to the Channel Queen, lighted his cigar, and was now tilted back in his chair outside the Quartermaster's office in Dieppe, not at all excited and waiting for the Texas Pioneer to dock.
He had done this because he believed that where there is a great deal of smoke there is apt to be a little fire. He was never ruffled, never disappointed.
Tom's acquaintance with Mr. Conne had begun on the transport on which he had worked as a steward's boy, and where his observant qualities and stolid soberness had attracted and amused the detective.
"I never thought I'd see you here," said Tom, his face lighting up to an unusual degree. "I'm a dispatch-rider now. I just rode from Cantigny. I got a letter for the Quartermaster, but anyway he's got to turn me over to the Secret Service (Mr. Conne regarded him with whimsical attention as he stumbled on), because there's a plot and somebody—a spy—kind of——"
"A spy, kind of, eh?"