“Miss Strong, Jane, Jane,” he implored, “Jane dear, speak to me.”
“Thank God,” he cried. “Jane dear, tell me you are not hurt.”
Stunned though she still was a flush crept into Jane’s cheeks at the unexpected term of endearment, though she still kept her eyes closed. Gently he laid her back on the turf and hastened to the automobile, returning with a flask which he held to her lips. Slowly Jane opened her eyes.
“Thank God,” he cried. “Jane dear, tell me you are not hurt.”
For a moment she lay there, staring wonderingly at him as he bent over her imploringly, the tenderest of anxiety showing in every line of his face. Unprotestingly she let him slip his strong arm once more under her head. In her dazed brain there was a strange conflict of peculiar emotions. He was a German, a spy,—she hated him, and yet it was wonderfully comforting to her to have him there. Under other circumstances she could have loved him. He was so handsome, so masterful and so kind, too. He cared for her. Had he not called her “Jane, dear” in his amazement at finding her lying there? But she must not let herself think of him in that way. It was her duty, her sacred duty to trap him, to thwart his nefarious plans against her country. She must do her duty just as her soldier brother was doing his in far away France.
Still supported by Hoff’s arms she sat up, trying to collect her thoughts and gingerly testing the movement of her arms and limbs.
“Tell me,” he cried again, “Jane, dear, are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” she managed to say.