Android Studio Arctic Fox Essentials Java

Edition Developing Android Apps Using Android

Studio 2020 31 and Java Neil Smyth pdf download

https://ebookmeta.com/product/android-studio-arctic-fox-
essentials-java-edition-developing-android-apps-using-android-
studio-2020-31-and-java-neil-smyth/

Download more ebook from https://ebookmeta.com

We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit ebookmeta.com
to discover even more!

Android Studio Electric Eel Essentials Java Edition

Developing Android Apps Using Android Studio 2022 1 1
and Java Neil Smyth

https://ebookmeta.com/product/android-studio-electric-eel-
essentials-java-edition-developing-android-apps-using-android-
studio-2022-1-1-and-java-neil-smyth/

Android Studio Electric Eel Essentials Kotlin Edition

Developing Android Apps Using Android Studio 2022 1 1
and Kotlin Neil Smyth

https://ebookmeta.com/product/android-studio-electric-eel-
essentials-kotlin-edition-developing-android-apps-using-android-
studio-2022-1-1-and-kotlin-neil-smyth/

Building Android Apps in Python Using Kivy with Android

Studio: With Pyjnius, Plyer, and Buildozer 1st Edition
Ahmed Fawzy Mohamed Gad

https://ebookmeta.com/product/building-android-apps-in-python-
using-kivy-with-android-studio-with-pyjnius-plyer-and-
buildozer-1st-edition-ahmed-fawzy-mohamed-gad/

Fit Feet for Life Marco Montanez

https://ebookmeta.com/product/fit-feet-for-life-marco-montanez/
The New Environmental Governance 1st Edition Cameron
Holley Neil Gunningham Clifford Shearing

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-new-environmental-
governance-1st-edition-cameron-holley-neil-gunningham-clifford-
shearing/

Abracastabra Hex Falls Paranormal Cozy Mystery 4 Rachel

Rivers

https://ebookmeta.com/product/abracastabra-hex-falls-paranormal-
cozy-mystery-4-rachel-rivers/

Microwave Chemistry 1st Edition Giancarlo Cravotto

https://ebookmeta.com/product/microwave-chemistry-1st-edition-
giancarlo-cravotto/

Material Science and Metallurgy 44th Edition V.D

Kodgire

https://ebookmeta.com/product/material-science-and-
metallurgy-44th-edition-v-d-kodgire/

The Routledge Handbook of Property, Law and Society 1st

Edition Nicole Graham

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-routledge-handbook-of-property-
law-and-society-1st-edition-nicole-graham/
Jewish Women in the Medieval World 500 1500 CE Seminar
Studies 1st Edition Ifft Decker

https://ebookmeta.com/product/jewish-women-in-the-medieval-
world-500-1500-ce-seminar-studies-1st-edition-ifft-decker/
Android Studio Arctic Fox
Essentials
Java Edition
Android Studio Arctic Fox Essentials – Java Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-951442-36-1
© 2021 Neil Smyth / Payload Media, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
is book is provided for personal use only. Unauthorized use, reproduction
and/or distribution strictly prohibited. All rights reserved.
e content of this book is provided for informational purposes only.
Neither the publisher nor the author o ers any warranties or representation,
express or implied, with regard to the accuracy of information contained in
this book, nor do they accept any liability for any loss or damage arising
from any errors or omissions.
is book contains trademarked terms that are used solely for editorial
purposes and to the bene t of the respective trademark owner. e terms
used within this book are not intended as infringement of any trademarks.
Rev: 1.0
Table of Contents
1. Introduction
1.1 Downloading the Code Samples
1.2 Feedback
1.3 Errata
2. Setting up an Android Studio Development Environment
2.1 System Requirements
2.2 Downloading the Android Studio Package
2.3 Installing Android Studio
2.3.1 Installation on Windows
2.3.2 Installation on macOS
2.3.3 Installation on Linux
2.4 e Android Studio Setup Wizard
2.5 Installing Additional Android SDK Packages
2.6 Making the Android SDK Tools Command-line Accessible
2.6.1 Windows 8.1
2.6.2 Windows 10
2.6.3 Linux
2.6.4 macOS
2.7 Android Studio Memory Management
2.8 Updating Android Studio and the SDK
2.9 Summary
3. Creating an Example Android App in Android Studio
3.1 About the Project
3.2 Creating a New Android Project
3.3 Creating an Activity
3.4 De ning the Project and SDK Settings
3.5 Modifying the Example Application
3.6 Modifying the User Interface
3.7 Reviewing the Layout and Resource Files
3.8 Adding Interaction
3.9 Summary
4. Creating an Android Virtual Device (AVD) in Android Studio
4.1 About Android Virtual Devices
 4.2 Creating a New AVD
4.3 Starting the Emulator
4.4 Running the Application in the AVD
4.5 Running on Multiple Devices
4.6 Stopping a Running Application
4.7 Supporting Dark eme
4.8 Running the Emulator in a Tool Window
4.9 AVD Command-line Creation
4.10 Android Virtual Device Con guration Files
4.11 Moving and Renaming an Android Virtual Device
4.12 Summary
5. Using and Con guring the Android Studio AVD Emulator
5.1 e Emulator Environment
5.2 e Emulator Toolbar Options
5.3 Working in Zoom Mode
5.4 Resizing the Emulator Window
5.5 Extended Control Options
5.5.1 Location
5.5.2 Displays
5.5.3 Cellular
5.5.4 Battery
5.5.5 Camera
5.5.6 Phone
5.5.7 Directional Pad
5.5.8 Microphone
5.5.9 Fingerprint
5.5.10 Virtual Sensors
5.5.11 Snapshots
5.5.12 Record and Playback
5.5.13 Google Play
5.5.14 Settings
5.5.15 Help
5.6 Working with Snapshots
5.7 Con guring Fingerprint Emulation
5.8 e Emulator in Tool Window Mode
 5.9 Summary
6. A Tour of the Android Studio User Interface
6.1 e Welcome Screen
6.2 e Main Window
6.3 e Tool Windows
6.4 Android Studio Keyboard Shortcuts
6.5 Switcher and Recent Files Navigation
6.6 Changing the Android Studio eme
6.7 Summary
7. Testing Android Studio Apps on a Physical Android Device
7.1 An Overview of the Android Debug Bridge (ADB)
7.2 Enabling ADB on Android-based Devices
7.2.1 macOS ADB Con guration
7.2.2 Windows ADB Con guration
7.2.3 Linux adb Con guration
7.3 Testing the adb Connection
7.4 Summary
8. e Basics of the Android Studio Code Editor
8.1 e Android Studio Editor
8.2 Splitting the Editor Window
8.3 Code Completion
8.4 Statement Completion
8.5 Parameter Information
8.6 Parameter Name Hints
8.7 Code Generation
8.8 Code Folding
8.9 Quick Documentation Lookup
8.10 Code Reformatting
8.11 Finding Sample Code
8.12 Live Templates
8.13 Summary
9. An Overview of the Android Architecture
9.1 e Android So ware Stack
9.2 e Linux Kernel
 9.3 Android Runtime – ART
9.4 Android Libraries
9.4.1 C/C++ Libraries
9.5 Application Framework
9.6 Applications
9.7 Summary
10. e Anatomy of an Android Application
10.1 Android Activities
10.2 Android Fragments
10.3 Android Intents
10.4 Broadcast Intents
10.5 Broadcast Receivers
10.6 Android Services
10.7 Content Providers
10.8 e Application Manifest
10.9 Application Resources
10.10 Application Context
10.11 Summary
11. An Overview of Android View Binding
11.1 Find View by Id
11.2 View Binding
11.3 Converting the AndroidSample project
11.4 Enabling View Binding
11.5 Using View Binding
11.6 Choosing an Option
11.7 View Binding in the Book Examples
11.8 Migrating a Project to View Binding
11.9 Summary
12. Understanding Android Application and Activity Lifecycles
12.1 Android Applications and Resource Management
12.2 Android Process States
12.2.1 Foreground Process
12.2.2 Visible Process
12.2.3 Service Process
12.2.4 Background Process
 12.2.5 Empty Process
12.3 Inter-Process Dependencies
12.4 e Activity Lifecycle
12.5 e Activity Stack
12.6 Activity States
12.7 Con guration Changes
12.8 Handling State Change
12.9 Summary
13. Handling Android Activity State Changes
13.1 New vs. Old Lifecycle Techniques
13.2 e Activity and Fragment Classes
13.3 Dynamic State vs. Persistent State
13.4 e Android Lifecycle Methods
13.5 Lifetimes
13.6 Foldable Devices and Multi-Resume
13.7 Disabling Con guration Change Restarts
13.8 Lifecycle Method Limitations
13.9 Summary
14. Android Activity State Changes by Example
14.1 Creating the State Change Example Project
14.2 Designing the User Interface
14.3 Overriding the Activity Lifecycle Methods
14.4 Filtering the Logcat Panel
14.5 Running the Application
14.6 Experimenting with the Activity
14.7 Summary
15. Saving and Restoring the State of an Android Activity
15.1 Saving Dynamic State
15.2 Default Saving of User Interface State
15.3 e Bundle Class
15.4 Saving the State
15.5 Restoring the State
15.6 Testing the Application
15.7 Summary
16. Understanding Android Views, View Groups and Layouts
16.1 Designing for Di erent Android Devices
16.2 Views and View Groups
16.3 Android Layout Managers
16.4 e View Hierarchy
16.5 Creating User Interfaces
16.6 Summary
17. A Guide to the Android Studio Layout Editor Tool
17.1 Basic vs. Empty Activity Templates
17.2 e Android Studio Layout Editor
17.3 Design Mode
17.4 e Palette
17.5 Design Mode and Layout Views
17.6 Night Mode
17.7 Code Mode
17.8 Split Mode
17.9 Setting Attributes
17.10 Transforms
17.11 Tools Visibility Toggles
17.12 Converting Views
17.13 Displaying Sample Data
17.14 Creating a Custom Device De nition
17.15 Changing the Current Device
17.16 Layout Validation (Multi Preview)
17.17 Summary
18. A Guide to the Android ConstraintLayout
18.1 How ConstraintLayout Works
18.1.1 Constraints
18.1.2 Margins
18.1.3 Opposing Constraints
18.1.4 Constraint Bias
18.1.5 Chains
18.1.6 Chain Styles
18.2 Baseline Alignment
18.3 Con guring Widget Dimensions
 18.4 Guideline Helper
18.5 Group Helper
18.6 Barrier Helper
18.7 Flow Helper
18.8 Ratios
18.9 ConstraintLayout Advantages
18.10 ConstraintLayout Availability
18.11 Summary
19. A Guide to Using ConstraintLayout in Android Studio
19.1 Design and Layout Views
19.2 Autoconnect Mode
19.3 Inference Mode
19.4 Manipulating Constraints Manually
19.5 Adding Constraints in the Inspector
19.6 Viewing Constraints in the Attributes Window
19.7 Deleting Constraints
19.8 Adjusting Constraint Bias
19.9 Understanding ConstraintLayout Margins
19.10 e Importance of Opposing Constraints and Bias
19.11 Con guring Widget Dimensions
19.12 Design Time Tools Positioning
19.13 Adding Guidelines
19.14 Adding Barriers
19.15 Adding a Group
19.16 Working with the Flow Helper
19.17 Widget Group Alignment and Distribution
19.18 Converting other Layouts to ConstraintLayout
19.19 Summary
20. Working with ConstraintLayout Chains and Ratios in Android
Studio
20.1 Creating a Chain
20.2 Changing the Chain Style
20.3 Spread Inside Chain Style
20.4 Packed Chain Style
20.5 Packed Chain Style with Bias
 20.6 Weighted Chain
20.7 Working with Ratios
20.8 Summary
21. An Android Studio Layout Editor ConstraintLayout Tutorial
21.1 An Android Studio Layout Editor Tool Example
21.2 Creating a New Activity
21.3 Preparing the Layout Editor Environment
21.4 Adding the Widgets to the User Interface
21.5 Adding the Constraints
21.6 Testing the Layout
21.7 Using the Layout Inspector
21.8 Summary
22. Manual XML Layout Design in Android Studio
22.1 Manually Creating an XML Layout
22.2 Manual XML vs. Visual Layout Design
22.3 Summary
23. Managing Constraints using Constraint Sets
23.1 Java Code vs. XML Layout Files
23.2 Creating Views
23.3 View Attributes
23.4 Constraint Sets
23.4.1 Establishing Connections
23.4.2 Applying Constraints to a Layout
23.4.3 Parent Constraint Connections
23.4.4 Sizing Constraints
23.4.5 Constraint Bias
23.4.6 Alignment Constraints
23.4.7 Copying and Applying Constraint Sets
23.4.8 ConstraintLayout Chains
23.4.9 Guidelines
23.4.10 Removing Constraints
23.4.11 Scaling
23.4.12 Rotation
23.5 Summary
24. An Android ConstraintSet Tutorial
24.1 Creating the Example Project in Android Studio
24.2 Adding Views to an Activity
24.3 Setting View Attributes
24.4 Creating View IDs
24.5 Con guring the Constraint Set
24.6 Adding the EditText View
24.7 Converting Density Independent Pixels (dp) to Pixels (px)
24.8 Summary
25. A Guide to using Apply Changes in Android Studio
25.1 Introducing Apply Changes
25.2 Understanding Apply Changes Options
25.3 Using Apply Changes
25.4 Con guring Apply Changes Fallback Settings
25.5 An Apply Changes Tutorial
25.6 Using Apply Code Changes
25.7 Using Apply Changes and Restart Activity
25.8 Using Run App
25.9 Summary
26. An Overview and Example of Android Event Handling
26.1 Understanding Android Events
26.2 Using the android:onClick Resource
26.3 Event Listeners and Callback Methods
26.4 An Event Handling Example
26.5 Designing the User Interface
26.6 e Event Listener and Callback Method
26.7 Consuming Events
26.8 Summary
27. Android Touch and Multi-touch Event Handling
27.1 Intercepting Touch Events
27.2 e MotionEvent Object
27.3 Understanding Touch Actions
27.4 Handling Multiple Touches
27.5 An Example Multi-Touch Application
 27.6 Designing the Activity User Interface
27.7 Implementing the Touch Event Listener
27.8 Running the Example Application
27.9 Summary
28. Detecting Common Gestures Using the Android Gesture Detector
Class
28.1 Implementing Common Gesture Detection
28.2 Creating an Example Gesture Detection Project
28.3 Implementing the Listener Class
28.4 Creating the GestureDetectorCompat Instance
28.5 Implementing the onTouchEvent() Method
28.6 Testing the Application
28.7 Summary
29. Implementing Custom Gesture and Pinch Recognition on Android
29.1 e Android Gesture Builder Application
29.2 e GestureOverlayView Class
29.3 Detecting Gestures
29.4 Identifying Speci c Gestures
29.5 Installing and Running the Gesture Builder Application
29.6 Creating a Gestures File
29.7 Creating the Example Project
29.8 Extracting the Gestures File from the SD Card
29.9 Adding the Gestures File to the Project
29.10 Designing the User Interface
29.11 Loading the Gestures File
29.12 Registering the Event Listener
29.13 Implementing the onGesturePerformed Method
29.14 Testing the Application
29.15 Con guring the GestureOverlayView
29.16 Intercepting Gestures
29.17 Detecting Pinch Gestures
29.18 A Pinch Gesture Example Project
29.19 Summary
30. An Introduction to Android Fragments
30.1 What is a Fragment?
 30.2 Creating a Fragment
30.3 Adding a Fragment to an Activity using the Layout XML File
30.4 Adding and Managing Fragments in Code
30.5 Handling Fragment Events
30.6 Implementing Fragment Communication
30.7 Summary
31. Using Fragments in Android Studio - An Example
31.1 About the Example Fragment Application
31.2 Creating the Example Project
31.3 Creating the First Fragment Layout
31.4 Migrating a Fragment to View Binding
31.5 Adding the Second Fragment
31.6 Adding the Fragments to the Activity
31.7 Making the Toolbar Fragment Talk to the Activity
31.8 Making the Activity Talk to the Text Fragment
31.9 Testing the Application
31.10 Summary
32. Modern Android App Architecture with Jetpack
32.1 What is Android Jetpack?
32.2 e “Old” Architecture
32.3 Modern Android Architecture
32.4 e ViewModel Component
32.5 e LiveData Component
32.6 ViewModel Saved State
32.7 LiveData and Data Binding
32.8 Android Lifecycles
32.9 Repository Modules
32.10 Summary
33. An Android Jetpack ViewModel Tutorial
33.1 About the Project
33.2 Creating the ViewModel Example Project
33.3 Reviewing the Project
33.3.1 e Main Activity
33.3.2 e Content Fragment
33.3.3 e ViewModel
 33.4 Designing the Fragment Layout
33.5 Implementing the View Model
33.6 Associating the Fragment with the View Model
33.7 Modifying the Fragment
33.8 Accessing the ViewModel Data
33.9 Testing the Project
33.10 Summary
34. An Android Jetpack LiveData Tutorial
34.1 LiveData - A Recap
34.2 Adding LiveData to the ViewModel
34.3 Implementing the Observer
34.4 Summary
35. An Overview of Android Jetpack Data Binding
35.1 An Overview of Data Binding
35.2 e Key Components of Data Binding
35.2.1 e Project Build Con guration
35.2.2 e Data Binding Layout File
35.2.3 e Layout File Data Element
35.2.4 e Binding Classes
35.2.5 Data Binding Variable Con guration
35.2.6 Binding Expressions (One-Way)
35.2.7 Binding Expressions (Two-Way)
35.2.8 Event and Listener Bindings
35.3 Summary
36. An Android Jetpack Data Binding Tutorial
36.1 Removing the Redundant Code
36.2 Enabling Data Binding
36.3 Adding the Layout Element
36.4 Adding the Data Element to Layout File
36.5 Working with the Binding Class
36.6 Assigning the ViewModel Instance to the Data Binding Variable
36.7 Adding Binding Expressions
36.8 Adding the Conversion Method
36.9 Adding a Listener Binding
36.10 Testing the App
 36.11 Summary
37. An Android ViewModel Saved State Tutorial
37.1 Understanding ViewModel State Saving
37.2 Implementing ViewModel State Saving
37.3 Saving and Restoring State
37.4 Adding Saved State Support to the ViewModelDemo Project
37.5 Summary
38. Working with Android Lifecycle-Aware Components
38.1 Lifecycle Awareness
38.2 Lifecycle Owners
38.3 Lifecycle Observers
38.4 Lifecycle States and Events
38.5 Summary
39. An Android Jetpack Lifecycle Awareness Tutorial
39.1 Creating the Example Lifecycle Project
39.2 Creating a Lifecycle Observer
39.3 Adding the Observer
39.4 Testing the Observer
39.5 Creating a Lifecycle Owner
39.6 Testing the Custom Lifecycle Owner
39.7 Summary
40. An Overview of the Navigation Architecture Component
40.1 Understanding Navigation
40.2 Declaring a Navigation Host
40.3 e Navigation Graph
40.4 Accessing the Navigation Controller
40.5 Triggering a Navigation Action
40.6 Passing Arguments
40.7 Summary
41. An Android Jetpack Navigation Component Tutorial
41.1 Creating the NavigationDemo Project
41.2 Adding Navigation to the Build Con guration
41.3 Creating the Navigation Graph Resource File
41.4 Declaring a Navigation Host
Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shot With
Crimson
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Shot With Crimson

Author: George Barr McCutcheon

Illustrator: Frederic Rodrigo Gruger

Release date: February 3, 2017 [eBook #54099]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Widger from page images generously

provided by the Internet Archive

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHOT WITH

CRIMSON ***
SHOT WITH CRIMSON
By George Barr McCutcheon
Illustrated by F. R. Gruger
New York: Dodd, Mead And Company

1918
CONTENTS
SHOT WITH CRIMSON
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
SHOT WITH CRIMSON
 CHAPTER I

F
OR thirty seconds no one moved.
An odd sort of paralysis seemed to have gripped every one
in the room,—paralysis of the mind as well as of the body.
Then puzzled, wondering looks were exchanged.
A man sitting near the fireplace glanced sharply, apprehensively at
the huge beams in the ceiling and muttered:
“What was it! Sounded as though something had smashed in the
roof. There's a tremendous wind. It may have got that big tree at
the corner of the locker room.”
“It couldn't have been thunder,—not at this time of the year,” said
one of the women, sending a nervous, frightened look at her
husband who sprawled ungracefully in a big Morris chair at the end
of a table littered with newspapers and magazines.
“'Gad, did you feel the house rock?” exclaimed he, sitting up
suddenly, his eyes narrowing as with pain. “Like an earthquake.
“It couldn't have been an earthquake,” interrupted his wife,
starting up from her chair.
“Why couldn't it?” he demanded crossly, and then glanced around
at the other occupants of the room,—ten or a dozen men and
women seated in a wide semi-circle in front of the huge logs blazing
in the fireplace. “What do you think it was, Zimmie?”
“We'll find part or all of the roof gone,” answered the man
addressed. As he spoke, he rose quickly and started across the room
in the direction of the door leading to the steward's pantry. “I'll have
a look from the back of the—”
 He stopped short. The dull, ripping crash that had startled them
was repeated, this time a little louder and more prolonged than
before. The club-house shook. Several of the men sprang to their
feet in alarm. A look of comprehension shot among them.
“By Gad! An explosion!” cried one of them. “The damned beasts!”
“The Reynolds Works!” cried another, gripping the back of his chair
with tense fingers. “Sure as you're alive! It's only a few miles from
here. Nothing else could have—”
“Let's go home, Ned. The children—something may have
happened—you never can tell—”
“Don't get excited, Betty,” cried the man in the Morris chair. She
was shaking his arm. “The children are in New York, twenty miles
away. They're all right, old girl. Lord! What a smash it was!”
The group was silent, waiting with bated breath for the third and
perhaps more shocks to come.
The club steward came into the room, bearing a tray of bottles
and glasses. His face was ashen; there was a set expression about
it, as one who controls his nerves with difficulty.
“Did you hear it, Peter?” was the innocuous inquiry of one of the
men, a dapper young fellow in corduroys.
“Yes, Mr. Cribbs. I thought at first it was the roof, sir. The chef said
it was the big chimney—”
“Never mind the drinks, Peter,” said a tall, greyish man as the
steward placed the glasses on the table. “We've lost what little thirst
we had. Where are the Reynolds Works from here?”
Peter looked surprised. “South, sir,—beyond the hills. About five
miles, I should say, Mr. Carstairs.”
“And which way is south?” inquired one of the women. “I am
always turned around when I am in the country.” She was a
singularly pallid, clear-featured woman of perhaps forty-five. One
might surmise that at twenty she had been lovely, even exquisite.
 “This way, Mrs. Carstairs,” said the steward, starting toward the
windows at the lower end of the lounge.
The man who had been addressed as Zimmie was already at one
of the broad windows, peering out into the black, windy night.
“Can't see a thing,” he said, as the others crowded about him.
“The shops are off there in a direct line with the home green, I
should say.”
“I happen to know that the Allies have a fifteen million dollar
contract with the Reynolds people,” said Carstairs, looking hard into
the blackness.
“If they'd string up a few of these infernal—There! See the glow
coming up over the hill? She's afire! And with this wind,—'gad, she'll
go like waste paper! My God, I wish the whole German Army was
sitting on top of those buildings right now.” It was little Mr. Cribbs
who spoke. He was shaking like a leaf.
“I'd rather see a million or two of these so-called German-
Americans sitting there, Cribbs,” said Carstairs, between his teeth.
“There'd be some satisfaction in that.”
His wife nudged him sharply. He turned and caught the warning
look in her eye and the slight movement of her head in the direction
of the man called Zimmie.
“Oh, that's all right,” cried Carstairs carelessly. “You needn't punch
me, dear. Zimmie 's as good an American as any of us. Don't think
for a moment, Zimmie, old chap, that I include you in the gang I'd
like to see sitting on that pile of shells over there.”
The man at the window turned, and smiled affably.
“Thanks, old man. Being, as you say, as good an American as any
of you, I may be permitted to return the compliment. I shouldn't like
to see Mrs. Carstairs sitting on that pile of shells.”
Carstairs flushed. An angry light leaped to his eyes, but it was
banished almost instantly. Mrs. Carstairs herself replied.
 “I can't imagine anything more distasteful,” she drawled.
“But Mrs. Carstairs isn't a German,” put in little Mr. Cribbs,
somewhat tartly for him.
“You're always saying the wrong thing, Cribbs,—or the right thing
at the wrong time,” said Carstairs. “Mrs. Carstairs is not German. Her
father and mother were, however. She's in the same fix as
Zimmerlein, and she isn't ashamed of it any more than Zimmie is.”
“I had—er—no idea that Mrs. Carstairs was—”
“What were your parents, Mr. Cribbs?” asked Mrs. Carstairs calmly.
“Nebraskans,” said Cribbs, stiffening. “My grandfather was a
Welshman.”
“And so you have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with,”
said she. “How fortunate in these days.”
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Carstairs, if I—”
“I was born in the United States,” she said, without a trace of
annoyance, “but not in Nebraska. You have the advantage of me
there, I fear. And of poor Mr. Zimmerlein, too. He was born in
Boston,—were you not?”
“In Marlborough Street,” said Zimmerlein, drily. “My father was
Irish, as you can tell by me name, and me poor mither was Irish too.
Her name before marriage was Krausshof.” Mr. Cribbs's face was
scarlet. To cover his confusion, he wedged his way a little closer to
the windows and glared at the dull red light that crept slowly out of
the darkness off to the south. The crests of the hills were beginning
to take shape against a background shot with crimson.
“Just the same,” he muttered, “I'd like to see the men who are
responsible for that fire over there burning in hell.”
“I think we can agree on that point, at least, Mr. Cribbs,” said
Zimmerlein, with dignity.
“Who wants to run over there with me in my car?” cried the other,
excitedly. “It's only a few miles, and it must be a wonderful sight. I
can take six or seven—”
“Stay where you are, Cribbs,” said Carstairs sharply. “When those
shells begin to go off—Why, man alive, there's never been anything
on the French front that could hold a candle to it. Don't forget what
happened when Black Tom pier was blown up. Pray do not be
alarmed, ladies. There isn't the slightest danger here. The shells
they are making at the Reynolds plant are comparatively small.
We're safely out of range.”
“What size shells were they making, Carstairs?” inquired one of
the men.
“Three inch, I believe—and smaller. A lot of machine-gun
ammunition, too. Cox, the general manager, dined with us the other
night. He talked a little too freely, I thought,—didn't you, Frieda?”
“He boasted, if that is what you mean,” said Mrs. Carstairs.
“Well,” said a big, red-faced man on the outer edge of the group,
“it's time some of these blooming fools learned how to keep their
mouths shut. The country's full of spies,—running over with 'em. You
never know when you're talking to one.”
Silence followed his remark. For some time they all stood watching
the crimson cloud in the distance, an ever-changing, pulsing shadow
that throbbed to the temper of the wind.
They represented the reluctant element of a large company that
had spent the afternoon and early evening at the Black Downs
Country Club,—the element that is always reluctant to go home.
There had been many intimate little dinner parties during the
evening. New York was twenty miles or more away, and there was
the Hudson in between. The clock above the huge fireplace had
struck eleven a minute or two before the first explosion took place.
Chauffeurs in the club-garage were sullenly cursing their employers.
All but two or three waiters had gone off to the railway station not
far away, and the musicians had made the 10:30 up-train. Peter, the
steward, lived on the premises with the chef and several house
employes.
 The late-staying guests were clad in sport clothes, rough and
warm and smart,—for it was one of the smartest clubs in the
Metropolitan district.
A fierce October gale was whining, cold and bitter and relentless,
across the uplands; storm-warnings had gone out from the Weather
Bureau; coast-wise vessels were scurrying for harbours and farmers
all over the land had made snug their livestock against the uncertain
elements.
If it turned out to be true that the vast Reynolds munitions plant
had been blown up, the plotters could not have chosen a more
auspicious night for their enterprise. No human force could combat
the flames on a night like this; caught on the wings of the wind
there would be no stopping them until the ashes of ruin lay wet and
sodden where the flight had begun.
Mrs. Carstairs was the first to turn away from the windows. She
shuddered a little. A pretty, nervous young wife sidled up to her, and
laid a trembling hand on her arm.
“Wouldn't it be dreadful if there were a lot of people at work over
there when—when it happened?” she cried, in a tense, strained
voice. “Just think of it.”
“Don't think about it, Alice dear. Think of what they are going
through in France and Belgium.”
“But we really aren't fighting them yet,” went on the other,
plaintively. “Why should they blow up our factories? Oh, these
dreadful, terrible Germans.” Then suddenly, in confusion: “I—I beg
your pardon.”
Mrs. Carstairs smiled pleasantly. “That's all right, my dear. A good
many of us suffer for the sins of the fathers. Besides, we are in the
war, and have been for six months or more.”
“We all hate the Kaiser, don't we?” pleaded the younger woman.
Mrs. Carstairs pressed her arm. “None more so than those of us
whose parents left Germany to escape such as he.”
 “I'm glad to hear you say that.”
“Beg pardon,” said Peter the steward, at Mrs. Carstairs' elbow. “I
think this is yours. You dropped it just now.”
“Thank you, Peter,” said she, taking the crumpled handkerchief he
handed her. “I shan't drop it again,” she went on, smiling as she
stuffed it securely in the gold mesh bag she was carrying.
“Peter is such a splendid man, isn't he?” said her young
companion, lowering her voice. “So much more willing and
agreeable than old Crosby. We're all so glad the change was made.”
“He is most efficient,” said Mrs. Carstairs.
The admirable Peter approached Mr. Carstairs and Zimmerlein,
who were pouring drinks for themselves at the table.
“Preparedness is the word of the hour,” Carstairs was saying, as he
raised his glass. “It's a long, cold ride home.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen, shall I call up Central at Bushleigh and
see if they can give us any news!” asked Peter.
“You might try. I don't believe you can get a connection, however.
Everything must be knocked galley-west over on that side of the
ridge.”
“I think your wife is signalling you, Carstairs,” said Zimmerlein,
looking over the other's shoulder.
Carstairs tossed off the contents of the glass, and reached out his
hand for the check. Zimmerlein already had it in his fingers.
'“I'll sign it, old chap,” he said. “Give me your pencil, Peter.”
“None of that, Zimmie. I ordered the—”
“Run along, old man, your wife—He's coming, Mrs. Carstairs,”
called out Zimmerlein.
As Carstairs turned away, Zimmerlein scratched his name across
the check, and handed it back to the steward.
 “Under no circumstances are you to call up Bushleigh,” fell in low,
distinct tones from his lips. “Do you understand?”
Peter's hand shook. His face was livid.
“Yes, sir,” he muttered. “What shall I say to Mr. Carstairs?”
“Say that no one answers,” said the other, and walked away.
The company had recovered its collective and individual power of
speech. Every one was talking,—loudly, excitedly, and in some cases
violently. Some were excoriating the Germans, others were bitterly
criticizing the Government for its over-tenderness, and still others
were blaming themselves for not taking the law in their own hands
and making short work of the “soap-boxers,” the “pacifists,” and the
“obstructionists.” Little Mr. Cribbs was the most violent of them all.
He was for organizing the old-time Vigilantes, once so efficacious in
the Far West, and equipping them with guns and ropes and plenty of
tar and feathers.
“Nothing would please me more than to lead such a gang,” he
proclaimed. “Lead 'em right into these foul nests where——What's
that, Judge?”
“I repeat—How old are you, Cribbs?”
“Oh, I guess I'm old enough to shoot a gun, or pull a rope or carry
a bucket of tar,” retorted the young man.
“I'll put it the other way. How young are you?”
“I'm twenty-nine.”
“I see. And how did you escape the draft?”
“They haven't reached my number yet,” said Mr. Cribbs, with
dignity.
“Well, that's good. There's still hope,” said the Judge, grimly.
“They need just such fire-eaters as you over there in France with
Pershing.”
 Carstairs turned to Zimmerlein, who was being helped into his fur-
coat by one of the attendants.
“Can't we take you to the city, Zimmerlein? There is plenty of
room in the car.”
“No, thank you, Carstairs. I'm going in by train. Mr. and Mrs. Prior
will drop me at the station. Good night. Oh, here's Peter. What did
you hear?”
“I could get no answer, Mr. Zimmerlein,” said the steward steadily.
“Wires may be down, sir.”
“Good night, Mrs. Carstairs.” Zimmerlein held out his hand. She
hesitated an instant, and then took it. Her gaze was fixed, as if
fascinated, on his dark, steady eyes.
 CHAPTER II

H
OARSE, raucous-voiced newsboys were crying the “extras”
soon after midnight. They were doing a thriving business.
The destruction of the great Reynolds plant, more spectacular
and more appalling than any previous deed perpetrated by the
secret enemies of the American people, was to drive even the most
sanguine and indifferent citizen to a full realizaton of the peril that
stalked him and his fellow-man throughout the land. Complacent
security was at last to sustain a shock it could not afford to scorn.
Up there in the hills of Jersey a bombardment had taken place that
rivalled in violence, if not in human toll, the most vivid descriptions
of shell-carnage on the dripping fronts of France.
Huge but vague headlines screamed into the faces of quick-
breathing men and wide-eyed women the first details of the great
disaster across the River.
Night-farers, threading the streets, paused in their round of
pleasure to gulp down the bitter thing that came up into their
throats—a sick thing called Fear. From nearly every doorway in the
city, some one issued forth, bleak-eyed and anxious, to hail the
scurrying newsboys. The distant roar of the shells had roused the
millions in Manhattan; windows rattled, the frailer dwellings rocked
on thin foundations. It was not until the clash of heavy artillery
swept up to the city on the wind from the west that the serene,
contemptuous denizens of the greatest city in the world cast off their
mask of indifference and rose as one person to ask the vital
question: Are the U-Boats in the Harbour at last?
An elderly man, two women, and a sallow-faced man of thirty sat
by the windows at the top of a lofty apartment building on the Upper
West Side. For an hour they had been sitting there, listening, and
looking always to the west, out over the dark and sombre Hudson.
Father, mother, daughter and son. The first explosion jarred the
great building in which they were securely housed.
“Ah!” sighed the old man, and it was a sigh of relief, of
satisfaction. The others turned to him and smiled for the first time in
hours. The tension was over.
Farther down-town two men in one of the big hotels silently shook
hands, bade each other a friendly good-night for the benefit of
chance observers, and went off to bed. The waiting was over.
Two night watchmen met in front of one of the biggest office
buildings in New York, within hearing of the bells of Trinity and
almost within sound of the sobbing waters of the Bay. Their faces,
rendered almost invisible behind the great collars that protected
them from the shrill winds coming up the canyons from the sea,
were tense and drawn and white, but their eyes glittered brightly,
fiercely, in the darkness. They too had been waiting.
In a dingy apartment in Harlem, three shifty-eyed, nervous men,
and a pallid, tired, frightened woman rose suddenly from the
lethargy of suspense and grinned evilly, not at each other but at the
rattling, dilapidated window looking westward across the sagging
roofs of the squalid district. One of the men stretched forth a
quivering hand and, with a hoarse laugh of exultation, seized in his
fingers a strange, crudely shaped metallic object that stood on the
table nearby. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it! Then he put it
down, carefully, gingerly,—with something like fear in his eyes.
Scraps of tin, pieces of iron and steel, strands of wire, wads of
cotton and waste, and an odd assortment of tools littered the table.
Harmless appearing cans, and bottles, and dirty packages, with a
mortar and pestle, a small chemist's scales, funnels and graduates
stood in innocent array along a shelf attached to the wall, guarded,
—so it seemed,—by sinister looking tubes and retorts.
The woman, her eyes gleaming with a malevolent joy that
contrasted strangely with the dread that had been in them a
moment before, lifted her clenched hands and hissed out a single
word:
“Christ!”
They, too, had been waiting.
Thousands there were in the great city whose eyes glistened that
night,—thousands who had not been waiting, for they knew nothing
of the secret that lay secure and safe in the breasts of the few who
were allowed to strike. Thousands who rejoiced, for they knew that
a great and glorious deed had been done! They only knew that
devastation had fallen somewhere with appalling force,—it mattered
not to them where, so long as it had fallen in its appointed place!
Many a glass, many a stein, was raised in stealthy tribute to the
hand that had rocked the city of New York! And in the darkness of
the night they hid their gloating faces, and whispered a song without
melody.
Rich man, poor man, beggar-man, thief! In spirit, at least, they
touched hands and thrilled with a common exaltation!
It was after one o'clock when the Carstairs' motor crept out of the
ferry-house at 130th Street, and whirled up the hill toward the Drive.
A rough-looking individual who loitered unmolested in the lee of the
ferry-house, peered intently at the number of the car as it passed,
and jotted it down in a little book. He noted in the same way the
license numbers of other automobiles. When he was relieved hours
afterward, he had in his little book the number of every car that
came in from Jersey between half past eleven at night and seven
o'clock in the morning. It was not his duty to stop or question the
occupants of these cars. He was merely exercising the function of
the mysterious Secret Eyes of the United States Government.
Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs were admitted to their Park Avenue
apartment by a tall, beautiful girl, who threw open the door the
instant the elevator stopped at the floor.
 “Thank goodness!” she cried, a vibrant note of relief in her voice
“We were so dreadfully—”
“What are you doing up, Louise?” cried Mrs. Carstairs quickly. Her
husband frowned, as with annoyance.
“Where is Hodges?” he demanded. He stood stock-still for a
moment before following his wife into the foyer.
“He went out some time ago to get an 'extra.' The boys were in
the street calling new ones. He asked if he might go out. How—how
terrible it is, Uncle Dawy. And it was so near the Club, I—I—oh, I
was dreadfully worried. The papers say the shells fell miles away—
Why, I couldn't go to bed, Aunt Frieda. We have been trying for
hours to get the Club on the telephone.” She was assisting Mrs.
Carstairs in removing her rich chinchilla coat. Carstairs studied the
girl's white face with considerable anxiety as he threw off his own
fur coat. The worried frown deepened.
“Could you hear the explosions over here, Louise?” he asked.
“Hear them? Why, Uncle dear, we all thought the city was being
bombarded by warships in the river, it sounded so near and so
terrible. Alfie and I ran to the windows. It was just after eleven, I
think. He called up Central at once, but the girl was so frightened
she could hardly speak. She didn't know what had happened, but
she was sure the Germans were destroying the city. She said
another girl had seen the Zeppelins. Alfie went out at once. Oh,
dear, I am so glad you are home. I was so anxious—”
“My dear child, you should be in bed,” began her uncle, taking her
hand in his. He laid his other hand against her cheek, and was
relieved to find it cool. “You say Alfred went out—at eleven?”
“A few minutes after eleven. He waited until all the noise had
ceased. I assured him I was not the least bit nervous. He had been
working so hard all evening in your study over those stupid physics.”
“And he hasn't returned? Confound him, he shouldn't have gone
off and left you all alone here for two solid hours—”
 “Don't be angry with him, Uncle Dawy,” pleaded the girl. “He was
so excited, poor boy, he simply couldn't sit here without knowing
what had happened. Besides, Hodges and two of the maids were up,
—so I wasn't all alone.” She followed them into the brilliantly lighted
drawing-room. “Here are the first extras. The doorman sent them up
to me.”
Mrs. Carstairs dropped heavily into a chair. Her face was very
white.
“How terrible,” she murmured, glancing at the huge headlines.
“I say, Frieda,” exclaimed her husband; “it's been too much for
you. A drop of brandy, my dear,—”
“Nothing, thank you, Davenport. I am quite all right. The shock,
you know. We were so near the place, Louise,—don't you see?
Really, it was appalling.”
“What beasts! What inhuman beasts they are!” cried the girl, in a
sort of frenzy. “They ought to be burned alive,—burned and tortured
for hours. The last extra says that the number of dead and mutilated
is beyond—”
“Now, now!” said Carstairs, gently. “Don't excite yourself, child. It
isn't good for you. You've been too ill, my dear. Run along to bed,
there's a sensible girl. We'll have all the details by tomorrow,—and,
believe me, things won't be as bad as they seem tonight. It's always
the case, you know. And you, too, Frieda,—get to bed. Your nerves
are all shot to pieces,—and I'm not surprised. I will wait for—”
A key grated in the door.
“Here he is now. Hello, Alfred,—what's the latest?”
His son came into the room without removing his overcoat or hat.
His dark eyes, wet from the sharp wind without, sought his mother's
face.
“Are you all right, Mother? I've been horribly worried—thank the
Lord! It's a relief to see that smile! You're all right? Sure?”
 He kissed his mother quickly, feverishly. She put her arm around
his neck and murmured in his ear.
“I am frightfully upset, of course, dear. Who wouldn't be?”
He stood off and looked long and intently into her eyes. Then he
straightened up and spoke to his father.
“I might have known you wouldn't let anything happen to her, sir.
But I was horribly worried, just the same. Those beastly shells went
everywhere, they say. The Club must have been—”
“Nowhere near the Club, so far as I know,” said his father
cheerfully. “We were all perfectly safe. Have they made any arrests?
Of course, it wasn't accidental.”
“I've been downtown, around the newspaper offices,” said the
young man, throwing his coat and hat on a chair. “There are all sorts
of wild stories. People are talking about lynchings, and all that sort
of rot. Nothing like that ever happens, though. We do a lot of
talking, and that's all. It all blows over as soon as the excitement
dies down. That's the trouble with us Americans.”
“America will wake up one of these days, Alfred,” said his father
slowly, “and when she does, there will be worse things than
lynchings to talk about.”
“Are your feet cold, Alfred dear?” inquired his mother, a note of
anxiety in her voice. “You've been tramping about the streets, and
—— You must have a hot water bottle when you go to bed. There is
so much pneumonia—”
“Always mothering me, aren't you, good Frieda?” he said, lovingly.
He pronounced it as if it were Friday. It was his pet name for her in
the bosom of the family. “Warm as toast,” he added. He turned to
Louise. “You didn't mind my running away and leaving you, did you,
Louise?”
“Not a bit, Alfie. I tried to get Derrol on the long distance, but they
said at the Camp it was impossible to call him unless the message
was very important. I—I—so I asked the man if there had been any
kind of an accident out there and he said no, there hadn't. I—asked
him if Captain Steele was in bed, and he said he should hope so.
Don't laugh, Alfie! I know it was silly, but—but it might have been an
ammunition depot or something at the Camp. We didn't know—”
“Ammunition, your granny! They haven't sufficient ammunition in
that Camp,—or in any of 'em, for that matter,—to make a noise loud
enough to be heard across the street. How can you expect me to
keep a straight face when you suggest an explosion in an Army
Camp?”
“It's high time we stopped talking about explosions and went to
bed,” said Carstairs, arising. He put his arm across his wife's
shoulders. “We've had all the explosions we can stand for one night,
haven't we, dear? Come along, everybody. Off with you!”
“Hodges should be back any moment with the latest 'extra,'” said
Louise. “Can't we wait just a few minutes, Uncle Dawy? He has been
gone over an hour.”
The telephone bell in Mr. Carstairs' study rang. So taut were the
nerves of the four persons in the adjoining room that they started
violently. They looked at each other in some perplexity.
“Probably Hodges,” said Alfred, after a moment. “Shall I go, dad?”
“See who it is,” said Carstairs.
“Wrong number, more than likely,” said his wife, wearily. “Central
has been unusually annoying of late. It happens several times every
day. The service is atrocious.”
Young Carstairs went into the study and snatched up the receiver.
Moved by a common impulse, the others followed him into the room,
the face of each expressing not only curiosity hut a certain alarm.
“Yes, this is Mr. Carstairs' residence.... What?... All right.” He sat
down on the edge of the library table and turned to the others.
“Must be long distance. They're getting somebody.”
 Alfred Carstairs was a tall, well-built young fellow of twenty. He
bore a most remarkable, though perhaps not singular, resemblance
to his mother. His eyes were dark, his thick hair a dead black,
growing low on his forehead. The lips were full and red, with a
whimsical curve at the corners denoting not merely good humour
but a certain contempt for seriousness in others. He was handsome
in a strong, hold way despite a strangely colourless complexion,—a
complexion that may be described as pasty, for want of a nobler
word. His voice was deep, with the guttural harshness of youth;
loud, unmusical, not yet fixed by the processes of maturity. A big,
dominant, vital boy making the last turn before stepping into full
manhood. He was his mother's son,—his mother's boy.
His father, a Harvard man, had been thwarted in his desire to have
his son follow him through the historic halls at Cambridge,—as he
had followed his own father and his grandfather.
Sentiment was not a part of Alfred's makeup. He supported his
mother when it came to the college selection. Together they agreed
upon Columbia. She frankly admitted her selfishness in wanting to
keep her boy at home, but found other and less sincere arguments
in the protracted discussions that took place with her husband. She
fought Harvard because it was not democratic, because it bred
snobbishness and contempt, because it deprived the youth of this
practical age of the breadth of vision necessary to success among
men who put ability before sentiment and a superficial distinction.
She urged Columbia because it was democratic, pulsating, practical.
In the end, Carstairs gave in. He wanted to be fair to both of
them. But he was not deceived. He knew that her chief reason,
though spoken softly and with almost pathetic simpleness, was that
she could not bear the separation from the boy she loved so fiercely,
so devotedly. He was not so sure that filial love entered into Alfred's
calculations. If the situation had been reversed, he was confident,—
or reasonably so,—that Alfred would have chosen Harvard.
He had the strange, unhappy conviction that his son opposed him
in this, as in countless other instances, through sheer perversity. His
mother's authority always had been supreme. She had exercised it
with an iron-handed firmness that not only surprised but gratified
the father, who knew so well the tender affection she had for her
child. Her word was law. Alfred seldom if ever questioned it, even as
a small and decidedly self-willed lad. Paradoxically, she both indulged
and disciplined him by means of the same consuming force: her
mother-love.
On the other hand, Carstairs,—a firm and positive character,—
received the scantiest consideration from the boy on the rare
occasions when he felt it necessary to employ paternal measures.
Alfred either sulked or openly defied him. Always the mother
stepped into the breach. She never temporized. She either promptly
supported the father's demand or opposed it. No matter which point
of view she took, the youngster invariably succumbed. In plain
words, it was her command that he obeyed and not his father's.
As time went on, Carstairs came to recognize the resistless
combination that opposed him, and, while the realization was far
from comforting, his common-sense ordered him to accept the
situation, especially as nothing could be clearer than the fact that
she was bringing her son up with the most rigid regard for his
future. She had her eyes set far ahead; she was seeing him always
as a man and not as a boy. That much, at least, Carstairs conceded,
and was more proud of her than he cared to admit, even to himself.
He watched the sturdy, splendid, earnest development of his boy
under the influence of a force stronger than any he could have
exercised.
Sometimes he wondered if it was the German in her that made for
the rather unusual strength which so rarely rises above the
weakness of a mother's pity. Once he laughingly had inquired what
she would have done had their child been born a girl.
“I should have been content to let you bring her up,” said she,
with a twinkle in her eye.
 While she was resolute, almost unyielding in regard to her growing
son, her attitude toward her husband was in all other respects
amazingly free from assertiveness or arrogance. On the contrary, she
was submissive almost to the point of humility. He was her man. He
was her law. A simple, unwavering respect for his strength, his
position, his authority in the home of which he was the head,
rendered her incapable of opposing his slightest wish. An odd
timidity, singularly out of keeping with her physical as well as her
mental endowments, surrounded her with that pleasing and,—to all
men,—gratifying atmosphere of femininity so dear to the heart of
every lord and master. She made him comfortable.
And she was, despite her social activities, a good and capable
house-wife,—one of the old-fashioned kind who thinks first of her
man's comfort and, although in this instance it was not demanded,
of his purse. He was her man; it was her duty to serve him.
As her boy merged swiftly,—almost abruptly into manhood,—her
long-maintained grip of iron relaxed. Carstairs, noting the change,
was puzzled. He was a long time in arriving at the solution. It was
very simple after all: she merely had admitted another man into her
calculations. Her boy had become a man,—a strong, dominant man,
—and she was ready, even willing, to relinquish the temporary power
she had exerted over him.
She was no longer free to command. Alfred had come into his
own. He was a man. She was proud of him. The time had come for
her to be humble in the light of his glory, and she was content to lay
aside the authority with which she had cloaked her love and
ambition for so long. His word had become her law. She had two
men in her family now. Slowly but surely she was giving them to
understand that she was their woman, and that she knew her place.
She had been for twenty-two years the wife of one of them, and for
twenty years the mother of the other.
Carstairs was rich. He was a man of affairs, a man of power and
distinction in the councils of that exalted class known as the leaders
of finance. He represented one of the soundest vertebrae in the
back-bone of the nation in these times of war. With a loyalty that
incurred a tremendous amount of self-sacrifice, he had offered all of
his vital energy, all of his heart, to the cause of the people. He was
on many boards, he was in touch with all the great enterprises that
worked for the comfort, the support and the encouragement of
those who went forth to give their lives if need be in the turmoil' of
war. Davenport Carstairs stood for all that was fine and strong in
practical idealism, which, after all, is the basis of all things truly
American.
As he stood inside the study door, watching with some intensity
the face of his son, he was suddenly conscious of a feeling of dread,
not associated with the recent grave event, but something new that
was creeping, as it were, along the wire that reached its end in the
receiver glued to Alfred's ear. He glanced at his wife. She suddenly
exhaled the breath she was holding and smiled faintly into his
concerned eyes.
“Yes,—” said Alfred, impatiently, after a long pause,—“Yes, this is
Mr. Carstairs' home.... I am his son.... What?... Yes, he's here, but
can't you give me the message?... Who are you?... What?...
Certainly I'll call him, but... Here, father; it's some one who insists
on speaking to you personally.”
He set the receiver down on the table with a sharp bang, and
straightened up to his full height as if resenting an indignity.
 Carstairs took up the receiver. He realized that his hand trembled.
He had never known it to happen before, even in moments of great
stress.
“Yes, this is Davenport Carstairs. Who are you, please?” He started
slightly at the crisp, business-like reply. “Bellevue Hospital? Police
surgeon—What? Just a moment, please. Now, go ahead.” He had
seated himself in the great library chair at the end of the table. “Yes;
my butler's name is Hodges.... An Englishman.... What?... What has
happened, officer?... Good God!... I—Why, certainly, I shall come
down at once if necessary. I—can identify him, of course.... Yes,
tomorrow morning will suit me better.... Hold the wire a moment,
please.”
 He turned to the listeners. “Hodges has been injured by an
automobile,” he said quietly. “I gather he is unconscious. You are
nervous and upset, Frieda, so you'd better retire. Leave this to—”
“Is he dead, Davenport?” she asked in a low horror-struck voice.
“Run along, Louise,—skip off to bed. I'll get the details and tell
you in the morning.” The girl swayed slightly. Her eyes were wide
with anguish.
“I—I shouldn't have allowed him to go out,” she stammered. “I—
Oh, Uncle Dawy!”
Mrs. Carstairs put her arm about the girl's waist and led her from
the room. Carstairs looked up at his son.
“I guess you can stand it, Alfred. He's dead. Instantly killed.” He
spoke into the transmitter. “Tell me how it happened, please.”
He hung up the receiver a moment or two later.
“Run down at the corner of Madison Avenue and 48th Street.
There were two witnesses, and both say that he was standing in the
street waiting for a car. The automobile was going forty miles an
hour. He never knew what hit him. Poor devil! Have you ever heard
him mention his family, Alfred? We must notify some one, of course.”
“No, sir,” said his son. “He seemed a quiet sort. The other servants
may know. Mother says his references were of the highest order,—
that's all I know. What a terrible thing to have—”
“We must not worry your mother with this tonight, my son. She's
had enough for today.”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Alfred, clenching his hands. He
choked up, and said no more.
 CHAPTER III

P
AUL ZIMMERLEIN was a mining engineer. His offices were off
Fifth Avenue, somewhere above 34th Street. He stood well in
his profession, he stood high as a citizen. No one questioned
his integrity, his ability or his loyalty. He was a good American. At
least, a great many good Americans said he was, which amounts to
the same thing.
One entered his offices through a small antechamber, where a
young woman at the telephone-desk made perfunctory inquiries, but
always in a crisp, business-like manner. She was the first cog in a
smooth-running piece of machinery. Her name was Mildred,—Mildred
Agnew, and she had a brother in the British navy, from whom she
received infrequent letters of a most unilluminating character,—
letters omitting date, place and ship: in which he said he was well
and happy and hoped to God the Germans would come out into the
open to see what the weather was like.
If your business was important, or you had an appointment, you
would be conducted by a smart-looking boy into a rather imposing
corner room, from whose windows you could look down fourteen
storeys to the roof of an eight storey building below. Presently you
would be invited into Mr. Zimmerlein's private office. Beyond this
snug little office was the drafting room, where several actively
studious men of various ages bent over blue-prints and estimate
sheets.
They all appeared to be good, industrious Americans; you could
see them quite plainly through the glass upper half of the
intervening door.
You were at once aware of an impression that this was not the
place to come if you were engaged in a secret or shady enterprise,—