Nothing that she had overheard—and within her heart she felt glad that it was so—in any way as yet incriminated young Hoff. When she dared to think about it, she found herself almost believing, certainly at least wishing, that the nephew was not involved in his uncle’s activities. Most of his time, in fact, was spent out of the apartment. He frequently went out early in the morning, not returning until the early hours of the next morning. The old man, on the contrary, always stayed at home until eleven o’clock. At that hour his telephone would ring. The telephone was located near the dining room, so Jane could easily hear his conversations. Invariably some brief message was given to him, a name, which he repeated aloud as if for verification.
As Jane overheard them she had set them down:
Thursday—“Jones.”
Friday—“Simpson.”
Saturday—“Marks.”
Sunday—“Heilwitz.”
Monday—“Lilienthal.”
Tuesday—“Wheeler.”
As she sat by the hour listening Jane kept pondering over these names. What could they mean? Were they, too, a code of some sort? Always, as soon as this word had come to him, old Hoff went out. Could they be, she wondered, passwords by which he gained access somewhere to government buildings or places where munitions were being made or shipped?
Meanwhile her acquaintance with Frederic Hoff had been progressing rapidly. As she had suggested he had called on her and had been presented to her father, and on the next Saturday they had gone to a matinée together. She had been eager to see what her father thought of him, for Mr. Strong, she knew, was regarded as a shrewd judge of men.
“What does that young Hoff do who was here last night?” her father had asked at the breakfast table.
“He’s in the importing business with his uncle, I think,” she had answered.
“Where’d you meet him?”
“He lives in the apartment next door. Lieutenant Kramer introduced him.”
“He’s German, isn’t he?”