Several hours later, Nathalie, Nita, Sheila, the three boys, and Mrs. Van Vorst were seated in that lady’s sitting-room on the second floor of the Sunset Hill House, overlooking the roof of the front veranda. Nathalie was nervously tapping the floor with her foot, as, with a perplexed, uneasy expression in her eyes, she watched Mr. Grenoble, the secret-service man, who had been employed to fathom the strange mystery of the many jewelry thefts that had occurred at the hotel within the last few weeks.

She had told her story, not only to the detective, but to the manager of the hotel, explaining how she had come to discover the man digging in the woods the night that Sheila had wandered away. She had told also how they had all dug under the rock, to find the pieces of missing jewelry, and how she and the boys had hid in the woods, and finally had seen the man again digging by the rock. She had verified her story in its details, and, although sharply questioned by the detective and the manager, she had stoutly maintained that the man whom she had seen was Mr. Keating, known as the Count. But her intuition immediately revealed to her that they were not inclined to accept her theory as to the identification of the thief.

The manager immediately protested that she must be mistaken, that his guest was too well known, his position too assured, to identify him in any way with the man at the rock. As the girl realized that her story was doubted, a strange numbness seized her, and she had a paralyzing premonition that not only would her well-founded suspicions prove futile, as well as her long, watchful hours, and her many efforts to clear Philip, but that possibly these things would increase the circumstantial suspicions already directed towards him.

Seeing the apparent uselessness of further conversation the girl rose, oppressed by the dread that if she remained in that room a moment longer she would burst into tears. But no, she would not give up! She would go somewhere and think it all over, to see if there was not some way of ascertaining who the man was. Perhaps she could go again to the woods,—she would try and get behind that rock,—and make sure—

At this moment Sheila, who was standing with Jean by the window, watching the automobiles constantly coming and going in front of the hotel, uttered a sharp cry. As Nathalie turned towards the child as if to still her, she heard her exclaim: “Oh, Jean, there’s the funny ’phone man! See, there he is! Don’t you remember, he’s the man who put the black trumpet on top of his head when he was in the ’phone-box?” Sheila always called the receiver a “black trumpet.”

Nathalie, aroused by the remark, mechanically allowed her glance to follow the direction of the child’s finger, as she pointed towards Mr. Keating, who was coming up the walk leading to the hotel. Unconsciously she bent forward, and with alert eyes watched the man, for she had again seen that peculiar motion of the head that had identified him as the man whom she had seen digging in the woods.

But Sheila’s exclamation had been overheard by the detective, who stepped quickly to the child’s side, crying: “What was that you said, little girl, about a funny ’phone man? Tell me about him.”

The man’s manner was so abrupt and commanding, that Sheila shrank back against Nathalie, and shyly hid her face. But the girl, startled also by Mr. Grenoble’s abruptness, with a quick glance at his face, cried, “Yes, Sheila, tell the gentleman what you saw.” Oh, yes, she remembered now that the two children had told her about this “funny ’phone man” whom they had seen at the hotel one day, but she had paid no attention to their prattle at the time.

Sheila, with a quick upward glance into the girl’s face, as if instantly divining the seriousness of the situation, answered, “Why, that’s the man I saw in the ’phone-box,” again pointing towards the Count, who had stopped to chat with a lady on the walk. “He put the black trumpet right up on top of his head, like this,”—she imitated the man’s motion,—“when he was talking through the ’phone.”

“Did you see him, too?” questioned the detective, turning towards Jean, his eyes suddenly illumined with an odd gleam. Jean nodded silently, and then, seeing that further confirmation was needed, in his odd, hesitating English, repeated the same words, accompanied by the same motion, as the little girl.

The detective nodded absently, still with that odd gleam in his eyes, and then walked hastily towards the door. As he reached it, as if suddenly remembering their former conversation, he turned towards the occupants of the room and, with slow deliberation, said, “Well, ladies, I think our problem is still unsolved; however, I will look into the matter and let you know the result in a few days.” With an abrupt nod he motioned to the manager, whose kindly face was strangely perturbed, as he quickly followed him from the room.

Nathalie and the children, a few mornings after the conference at the Sunset Hill House, were standing in front of the big white Roslinwood barn watching Teddy and Billy, two little black pigs that were the delight of Sheila’s heart. But they were tantalizing joys, for as soon as they caught sight of their admirer, as they peered out of the big barn-door, with their bright, bead-like eyes, they would scurry away as quickly as their round, shiny black bodies would permit, greatly to that young lady’s disappointment.

As Sheila ran to gather a roadside nosegay, and the boys hurried homeward, for Philip had promised to teach them some new military tactics in their soldier-drill at the Liberty Fort, Nathalie, beguiled by the calm stillness of the woods, sat down on the seat under the trees where the sign, “Hit the Trail,” showed that was where the path started that led through Lovers’ Lane.

The woods, aglow with the yellow and reds of the maples, were strangely still that beautiful September morning, save for the occasional chirp of some belated songster, or the loud caw of a crow as he signaled to his mates, who were making a noisy clatter in some leafy retreat of the greenwood.

To Nathalie, the crimson branches of the reddening maples, showing vividly bright from among the green leaves of the spruce, fir, oak, or beech, softened with the glow from the silver poplars as they quivered in the wind, seemed like red banners. As they swayed in undulating motion, to her they were flags, curling and beating the air for that which is every man’s right, liberty.

The girl felt a little depressed at the thought that the summer was over, for the crumpled and autumn-hued leaves, as they fell from the trees, or swept by on the wings of the wind in their dying splendor, seemed to be calling a sad and mournful farewell. Oh, how she would hate to leave these rocky heights that rose in such statuesque grandeur before her, the splendors of the sky with its glory of sunset, the forest gnomes in their crooked and gnarled ugliness, and the green fields, now starred with the yellow beauty of our national flower, the goldenrod!

What an odd summer it had been! So different from what she had expected. How she would miss her beautiful companions on her morning walks, the blue-hazed mountains! And yet she had made friends. Ah, there was the soldier-boy. She wondered if he would write to her. Then there was Janet. Well, she was never going to let her go out of her life, for she was to visit them next winter.

Her eyes saddened as she thought of the Sweet-Pea ladies. Oh, how sorry she would be to bid them good-by, for Miss Whipple seemed to grow frailer every day, and then what would become of poor Miss Mona? And her queer little old friend in the red house? Well, she didn’t suppose that she would ever see her again, for she said that she never wrote to people. Yes, it was depressing to think that you had to meet people you liked, and then go away and just have to forget them, because they passed out of your life.

And the kiddies? She hated to think of their going back to that slum life again. She wondered if any of the country people up in the mountains would like to take them to live with them, for, yes, Tony and Danny could learn to be very useful. But poor Jean—and Sheila! Then she wondered if her trying to make them Sons of Liberty would help them to be good and honorable men. Sometimes it seemed as if she hadn’t accomplished much, and then again she could see how different they were from what they had been when they came to her. O dear! they were problems.

And Philip de Brie? Surely she had made a friend of him, at least he was more than a friend to Janet, who—the perverse thing!—was so careful not to let her know if she really cared for him or not. Perhaps it was on account of Cynthia, for she had overheard that young lady telling Janet that Philip was an impostor, and that he had fooled her the way he had Nathalie Page and her mother. The story of his being a British soldier, and that story, too, about his grandmother, was all folderol.

And poor Janet had meekly made no reply to this tirade, but Nathalie, in imagination, saw the red mount into her cheeks, and knew how humiliated she felt. Well, he was better than that funny little Mr. Buddie anyway. She believed it was just jealousy on Cynthia’s part, for she herself had tried to be very nice to Philip, but somehow he didn’t seem to understand her,—no sensible person could,—and although he had always been very courteous to her, he had never made a friend of her.

Well, she had done her best to clear him of the horrible suspicion that had lost him his pupils; but, alas, she seemed to have made the matter worse, or, at least, she had not done him any good, for when his cabin on the mountain had been burned one night, people had declared that he had set it afire himself to destroy evidences of his guilt.

And then, when the manager of the hotel had the ground dug up, where she and the children had discovered those pieces of jewelry, nothing had been found. And Mr. Keating, alias the Count, had gone, called to Chicago, he claimed, the very night before they dug up around the rock,—the very night, too, that the cabin had been burned. No, Philip had not been arrested, for certainly the evidence was not strong enough to warrant such action. And then the detective had disappeared, although Nathalie had a feeling at times that he was hanging around somewhere near the place, in disguise, perhaps, watching Philip.

And the people who had been so nice to Philip, now acted very queerly whenever they saw him, and Philip, the poor fellow, had said nothing, although Nathalie was afraid that he suspected that something was wrong. Her mother had persuaded him to come down to Seven Pillars after the burning of the cabin, and although he had accepted their kind hospitality for the time being, he chafed under the favors showered upon him, and showed that he was inwardly suffering to have to be placed in such a position, for Janet said he resented charity. Yes, and ten days had passed, and Nathalie had not heard one word from the detective. O dear! the world was a queer place to live in, anyway.

Just after luncheon, as Nathalie and her mother sat knitting on the veranda, a loud “Honk! Honk!” announced the arrival of Nita, who, with her cheeks red with excitement, burst upon the group like a young whirlwind.

“Oh, Blue Robin,” she cried, as she caught sight of Nathalie, “I have the most wonderful news for you.” And then, without waiting to be questioned by her friend, who had risen to her feet in nervous expectancy, she added excitedly, “Philip has been cleared!”

“Oh, Nita, how do you know?” cried Nathalie, her face turning white, as she nervously clutched at her chair.

“The news came this morning from the detective, and the manager told mother. He said Mr. Grenoble got his clew from Sheila. You just come right here, little girl,” broke off Nita abruptly, as she beckoned for Sheila to come to her, “so I can kiss you for a blessed dear.” She seized the somewhat astonished child and began to hug her with excited exuberance.

“But who is the thief?” exclaimed Nathalie breathlessly. “Oh, do tell us!”

“The thief? Why, Mr. Keating, the Count, of course,” laughed Nita gleefully; “and he was caught all through Sheila’s crying out about the funny ’phone man. When she spoke of the man in the booth placing the receiver on his head when telephoning, it gave Mr. Grenoble a big clew. It seems that the detective-bureau had been on the lookout for some time for a gentleman burglar who had the peculiar eccentricity of holding the receiver on the top of his head, as Sheila stated. He was born without any folds to his ears,—no, that isn’t the word; I guess it was ganglion cells. No, that isn’t right—Well, anyway he had something the matter with his auditory nerve, so that his hearing was defective. By placing the receiver on the top of his head, as he had very good bone-conduction,—yes, that’s right,—he could hear better.

“As soon as the detective heard what Sheila said he began to shadow our friend, the Count. He saw him do the same thing that Sheila told about, and that, with certain other clews, led to his arrest. He was not the Mr. Keating from Chicago that he claimed to be, whom the manager asserted had spent a summer at the hotel two years ago. That gentleman died this spring, and this ‘count’ fellow impersonated him, so as to gain a social standing in the hotel. “The manager now admits that at times he had been puzzled by certain changes in Mr. Keating’s appearance, but he attributed it to the fact that he was older, and was now clean-shaven, when two years ago he wore a mustache. The detective thinks that the Count burned the cabin up in the woods so as to deepen the suspicion already fostered in regard to Philip.”

“But he got away with the jewelry,” exclaimed that young gentleman, who, with Janet, had just stepped up to the edge of the veranda, while Nita had been talking.

“But he did not get far,” rejoined Nita, “for when he walked into the New York station a few days ago,—that was just a ruse, talking about being called to Chicago,—he simply walked into the net that the detectives had spread for him, and he is now in jail.”

“I saw that the detective doubted my story,” remarked Nathalie, “and it made me feel unpleasant. But, oh, I am so glad the thief has been caught—and—”

“That Philip is cleared,” interrupted that young man. “Yes, Miss Nathalie, you have added to the store of kind things that you have done for me. But wait,” Philip’s eyes glowed, “some day,—well, perhaps I can repay every one. And little Blue Robin,” he continued, laughingly, “I knew that I was the suspected one, although you were all so careful not to let anything slip out that would tell me, so as to save my sensitiveness, but as I was innocent I knew that things would clear up somehow.”

And then he and Janet returned to their seats under the trees, where Philip had been reading to her, while Nathalie, with a glad light in her eyes, continued to discuss the many details of the affair. As Nita rose to go she suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, there, I forgot to tell you that we are going home in a couple of days. Mother is anxious to get back to the city.”

“Oh, I shall miss you terribly,” cried her friend, as she placed her arm affectionately around the little hunchback; “but then I presume we shall be going soon ourselves. But, Nita,” she added abruptly. “I came very near forgetting to tell you that we have all handed our diaries to Mr. Banker, and I am so glad that irksome task is over, for I hated to have to write in it every day. We are to meet Mr. Banker in the mystery-room to-morrow afternoon. It all sounds very thrilling, doesn’t it? We are all very curious to know what is hidden there.”

“Oh, I am just dying to know, too,” cried Nita. “Well, come over to tea to-morrow, and then perhaps the mystery will be a mystery no longer.”

“But have you selected the valuable thing?” asked the girl laughingly, after she assured her friend that she would surely accept her invitation.

“Why, no, not as yet,” returned Nathalie, “for I am swayed by two loves. But it is all nonsense anyway, so I don’t think it will make much difference what any of us select. Cynthia will probably win the prize, as the kiddies say, for she has chosen a very valuable painting. Janet has selected a most curious thing,—a necklace. It came from China, and has a series or chain of heads; they say every one is a likeness of some old mummified mandarin. When you touch a spring—Janet didn’t know this until mother showed it to her, for she saw this necklace years ago, when Mrs. Renwick brought it home with her from one of her Oriental trips—each one of these mummified Chinamen sticks out his tongue.”

“Well, good-by until to-morrow,” cried Nita, and then she was in her car and a moment later went whizzing along the road towards Sugar Hill village.

Nathalie had just finished putting her boys through their morning drill the following day, and seen them hurry away with Janet to do some weeding and hoeing for her in her garden, when she was joined by Philip. As he finished telling her a bit of war news,—she was industriously trying to finish a sweater for Dick,—his glance was arrested by the little Bible lying on the chair by her side, for Nathalie had continued her Scripture readings to the children.

Picking the book up, he began to turn over its leaves carelessly, almost mechanically, as if his mind was occupied with some other matter, when suddenly Nathalie heard a surprised exclamation, and looked up to see Philip staring at the fly-leaf of the Bible, with an odd, curious expression on his face.

“Where did you get this Bible?” he asked hurriedly, turning towards the girl.

“In one of the upper rooms of the house. I think it must have belonged to Mrs. Renwick’s son, Philip. Why, your name is Philip, too,” she cried smilingly. “Why, I never thought of that before.”

“Yes, my name is Philip, and this Bible belonged to my father—”

“Your father?” repeated the dazed girl. But before Philip could answer her, in a quick revelation she cried, “Why, is your name Renwick?” staring at him with wide-open eyes.

“Yes, Philip de Brie Renwick.”

“And Mrs. Renwick, who used to live here?”

“Was my grandmother!”