"I think that man's been following me ever since I landed from the ferry."
"I have," answered the sergeant, stepping briskly forward and saluting. "You are a stranger on the Rock. You come here from"
"From Paris, by motor, to the town across the bay; then over here on the ferry," the girl answered promptly. "What about it?"
"Your name?"
"Jane Gerson. Yes, yes, it sounds German, I know. But that's not my fault. I'm an American—a red-hot American, too, for the last two weeks."
The sergeant's face was wooden.
"Where are you going?"
"To New York, on the Saxonia, just as soon as I can. And the British army can't stop me."
"Indeed!" The sergeant permitted himself a fleeting smile. "From Paris by motor, eh? Your passports, please."
"I haven't any," Jane retorted, with a shade of defiance. "They were taken from me in Spain, just over the French border, and were not returned."
