"My life," she cried wildly, "my life is at stake. Oh--help me,
help me! Unless I commit a murder to-night, I shall be killed
myself!"

The words sounded so doubly strange from a girl of her evident
refinement that I watched her narrowly, not sure yet but that we
had a plain case of insanity to deal with.

"A murder?" repeated Kennedy incredulously. "YOU commit a murder?"

Her eyes rested on him, as if fascinated, but she did not flinch
as she replied desperately, "Yes--Baron Kreiger--you know, the
German diplomat and financier, who is in America raising money and
arousing sympathy with his country."

"Baron Kreiger!" exclaimed Kennedy in surprise, looking at her
more keenly.

We had not met the Baron, but we had heard much about him, young,
handsome, of an old family, trusted already in spite of his youth
by many of the more advanced of old world financial and political
leaders, one who had made a most favorable impression on
democratic America at a time when such impressions were valuable.

Glancing from one of us to the other, she seemed suddenly, with a
great effort, to recollect herself, for she reached into her
chatelaine and pulled out a card from a case.

It read simply, "Miss Paula Lowe."