Notwithstanding the unusually late hours of the night before, the Chester household was astir early the next morning. Mr. Chester and Gretel were to take the eight-thirty train for New York, which meant an early breakfast for everybody, for it had been decreed that they should all go to the station to see them off.

“I just can’t tell you how I hate to have you go,” Molly declared, hovering over Gretel, as she put the last things into her suit-case. “I wish you would come back and make us another visit later in the season. They say Washington is frightfully hot in August.”

“I know it is,” said Gretel, “but if Percy and Barbara can stand the heat, I guess I can. It’s dear of you to want me, though, and I’ve had a perfectly beautiful time. It doesn’t seem as if I could have been here more than two weeks.”

“I do wish you could have waited till Monday, and gone down with Jerry and me,” grumbled Geraldine. “It’s perfectly dreadful to think I shan’t see you again till we come to Washington in September. Jerry and I wouldn’t mind the heat a bit if Mrs. Douaine could have us in August instead.”

Gretel laughed, and said she would speak to Barbara on the subject, and then they all hurried away to the waiting automobile.

“Good-bye, dear,” Mrs. Cranston said, kissing Gretel affectionately. “I shall never forget the pleasure your music has given me. You must be sure to come and see me in New York next winter.”

Then Mrs. Chester kissed her, and told her how much they should all miss her, and Paul and Frank shook hands, and little Daisy—who was devoted to her—began to cry, and was only comforted when Gretel promised to come and tell her more fairy tales next winter.

The four girls and Jerry crowded into the automobile, and the ride to the station was a very merry one. The train was a few minutes late, and it was while they were standing chatting on the platform, awaiting its arrival, that Gretel caught another glimpse of Fritz Lippheim. He came sauntering through the station, smoking a cigar, and carrying a suit-case, and was evidently, like themselves, waiting for a train. At sight of her old friend, Gretel could not resist a little involuntary start, and Geraldine—who was standing close beside her—inquired curiously:

“What’s the matter, Gretel? You look as if you were scared about something.”

“There isn’t anything the matter,” answered Gretel. “I was only—oh, there’s a whistle; the train must be coming.”

The train was coming, and in another moment it had thundered into the station. Gretel had one more glimpse of Fritz Lippheim getting into one of the coaches, as she and Mr. Chester mounted the steps of the parlor car.

“Good-bye, Gretel, good-bye!” cried her friends in chorus, as the train began to move. “Be sure to write as soon as you get to Washington.”

And Gretel returned the good-byes, and promised to write to everybody, and kept her head craned out of the car window till the platform, with the group of familiar faces on it, had disappeared from sight. Then she sank back in her chair, with a little sigh that was half regret and half relief.

“It has been a lovely visit,” she said to herself. “I wonder when I shall see them all again.”

The train was crowded, but Mr. Chester had secured seats in advance so that he and Gretel were very comfortable. Gretel felt a little uneasy at first, and glanced anxiously about, in quest of her German friend, but she did not see him again, and there was a good deal of amusement in watching her fellow-passengers. Mr. Chester was very kind and talked pleasantly to her for more than an hour, before going away to the smoking-car, after providing his charge with an interesting book. Gretel tried to read, but found it impossible to fix her attention on the story, and finally gave it up in despair, and took out her knitting instead. Several ladies were also knitting, and as her fingers flew, Gretel’s thoughts were very busy. They had nearly reached New York before she had finally come to a decision, which proved a great relief to her.

“I shall tell Percy about Fritz to-night,” she told herself, and she suddenly felt happier than she had felt since the evening before. She opened the bag of pop-corn Jerry had thrust into her hand just as the train was starting, and was placidly munching a ball when Mr. Chester returned.

It was noon when they reached the Grand Central. Mr. Chester hailed a taxi and in it they drove to the Douaines’. Gretel had suggested going home by herself, but her companion refused to leave her until he had seen her safely inside her brother’s door.

“The house looks rather deserted,” Mr. Chester said, as the cab stopped, and the driver ran up the steps to ring the bell.

“There is a caretaker,” Gretel explained, “and some of the rooms up-stairs are open. Percy spends his nights here when he is in New York. He goes out for his meals, as all the servants are in Washington.”

“I am afraid you will have a rather dull day by yourself,” said Mr. Chester, regretfully. “I wish I could take you somewhere to lunch, but I must hurry downtown.”

Gretel thanked him, but assured him she would not be at all dull, and by this time the door was opened by a stout, good-natured looking Irish woman, who greeted Gretel with a broad, welcoming smile. Mr. Chester hurried away in his taxi, quite satisfied that his charge was in safe hands, and Gretel sat down on the hall chair to read a note her brother had left for her.

It was only a hasty line to say that Percy expected to be very busy all day, but had secured reservations on the night train for Washington, and would call for her at about seven and take her out to dinner.

“I have told Mrs. Murphy to give you some lunch,” he added. “I am sorry to leave you alone all the afternoon, but it cannot be helped.”

The house felt cool and comfortable, and Gretel wandered from one room to another, rather enjoying the quiet and the unusualness of everything. She decided that she would stay indoors till late in the afternoon, when it would be cooler, and then go to see Mrs. Barlow. At one o’clock Mrs. Murphy called her to luncheon.

The caretaker was an old acquaintance, who often came to the house to do extra work, and Gretel had many questions to ask her about the family of grandchildren, of whom Mrs. Murphy was extremely proud. Gretel was a great favorite with all the servants, and Mrs. Murphy babbled on all the time she was eating her simple luncheon. Her youngest son was at a training camp, and she had a great deal to say about “them dirty Germans,” having apparently no idea that Gretel was in any way connected with the enemy race.

“There’s no end to their wickedness,” she declared, “and the slyness of them, even the American ones. My Jim says they caught a feller the other day trying to put a bomb under a train full of soldiers, and he’d lived in this country since he was eight years old. What do you think of that?”

“It is very terrible,” Gretel admitted, “but there are some loyal German-Americans,” she added, timidly.

“Maybe there is, and maybe there ain’t. I wouldn’t trust one of them, I know that. Have some more raspberries, do, now. They’re real good, and I bought the cream on purpose.”

Gretel allowed Mrs. Murphy to fill her plate for a second time, but the Irish woman’s talk had rather added to her uneasiness, and she was thankful that she had decided to tell Percy about her meeting with Fritz Lippheim.

After luncheon she went into the drawing-room, and, opening the piano, practised dutifully for the next two hours. There had been little time for practising in New London, and she was anxious not to fall behind with her music during the vacation. But the afternoon was hot and sultry, and by half-past three Gretel began to feel decidedly tired and sleepy.

“I’ll lie down for a little while,” she decided, “and then I’ll go to see Mrs. Barlow. I don’t believe late hours agree with me.”

Accordingly, she curled herself up comfortably on the library sofa, and in a very few minutes had fallen into a comfortable nap.

How long she had slept Gretel did not know, but she was aroused by the sharp ringing of the telephone bell.

“It’s probably Percy,” she told herself, as she rubbed her eyes and rose to answer the summons.

It was evident that Mrs. Murphy had not heard the bell, for there was no sound of approaching footsteps, and the house was very still. Gretel took down the receiver, and began the conversation with the customary “Hello!”

“Is Miss Gretel Schiller there?” inquired a man’s voice, certainly not her brother’s, for it had a decidedly foreign accent.

“I am Gretel Schiller.” Gretel did not know why her heart was beating so fast, or why her voice trembled.

“Ah, that is good. I have a message from my niece, Anna Sieling.”

Gretel gave a little gasp of relief. It was only FrÄulein, after all, not Fritz.

“Is FrÄulein there?” she asked. “Does she want to speak to me?”

“She is here, but she cannot come to the telephone. She is very ill.”

“Very ill!” repeated Gretel, in a tone of real distress. “Oh, I am so sorry! Is there anything I can do for her?”

“If you could come to see her this afternoon? She is most anxious to see you. She is to undergo a serious operation, and fears she may never recover.”

“I’ll come, of course; I’ll come right away,” cried Gretel. “But—but how did you know I was in town?”

“We did not know; we only hoped. You wrote my niece that you would probably leave New London on the fifth, and we thought you might be remaining over a few hours in New York. There could be no harm in inquiring. Anna has been asking for you all day.”

Gretel’s face was very grave as she hung up the telephone, after obtaining FrÄulein’s address, for, somewhat to her surprise, she learned that the family had moved during the past week. They were now occupying an apartment on the upper East Side, FrÄulein’s uncle told her, whereas their former home had been on the West Side, not far from Central Park. It seemed a little odd that FrÄulein should not have written her of this change of address, but at the moment Gretel had only one thought; poor, dear FrÄulein—who had always been so kind to her—was ill, and longing to see her. How thoughtless and unkind she had been to forget her engagement of two weeks ago. FrÄulein had never answered her letter of apology, and Gretel had feared her friend’s feelings had really been hurt.

It was only just four o’clock, and without a moment’s hesitation Gretel ran up-stairs for her hat. There would be plenty of time to see FrÄulein and be back again before her brother arrived. Mrs. Murphy was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the sound of voices in the kitchen, Gretel decided that the caretaker must be entertaining company. Going to the top of the basement stairs, she called to the Irish woman that she was going out for a little while, to which information Mrs. Murphy responded with a cheerful:

“All right, dearie; have a nice time.”

Two minutes later Gretel had closed her brother’s front door behind her and was walking rapidly down the street.

The address FrÄulein’s uncle had given was much further uptown, as well as being farther east, and Gretel, anxious not to lose time, decided to take a car, and, having pushed her way on board a crowded open trolley, she was soon being carried rapidly to the upper part of the great city. She felt very anxious about FrÄulein, but found some comfort in the recollection that her friend was apt to make a good deal of slight illnesses. Perhaps, after all, things were not quite as bad as FrÄulein’s uncle had represented. A ride of fifteen minutes brought her to a part of the city with which she was quite unfamiliar, and, alighting at a corner of a rather shabby street, she turned her face eastward. She was not at all afraid of not finding her way. She had been accustomed to going about the city by herself since she was a little girl, although of late years Percy and Barbara had insisted on having a maid accompany her when going any distance from home. She walked on briskly for several blocks, the neighborhood growing shabbier and more squalid as she proceeded. There was no doubt that this was a poorer part of the city than where FrÄulein’s family had lived before. She was afraid her uncle must have met with business reverses lately. Poor FrÄulein, how she must hate this neighborhood; she was so fond of luxury and comfort.

The sidewalks were swarming with shabbily dressed children, who screamed and shouted, and at times impeded her progress.

She paused at last before a dingy apartment house, and going up the steps began looking for the name she wanted. Yes, there it was: “R. Becker; third floor back.” Gretel rang Mr. Becker’s bell, and waited. In a moment the latch clicked, and Gretel—who knew the way of apartment houses—pushed open the door and stepped into a dark, narrow hall. There was no one to be seen, but a mingled odor of onions and cabbage proved that the house was inhabited, and Gretel made her way up the steep, not very clean stairs to the third floor.

She had reached the top of the first flight, when a voice inquired over the banisters:

“Is it Mees Schiller?”

“Yes,” said Gretel. “Is that you, Mrs. Becker?”

“It ess. Come right up, if you please.”

Gretel quickened her steps, and in another moment was shaking hands with a stout, middle-aged woman, whom she at once recognized as FrÄulein’s aunt.

“Mr. Becker telephoned me,” she explained, “and I came as quickly as I could. I am so sorry about FrÄulein. Is she suffering a great deal?”

“Come in,” said Mrs. Becker, and she led the way to her apartment, the door of which stood open.

Gretel followed her down the narrow hall to the parlor, a small room, furnished in very bad taste.

“Sit down,” said the hostess, motioning to the plush-covered sofa, but Gretel did not sit down.

“I haven’t long to stay,” she apologized. “Couldn’t I see FrÄulein now?”

Mrs. Becker heaved a deep sigh.

“Our dear Anna is not here,” she said, solemnly; “they have taken her away to the hospital.”

“Oh,” cried Gretel, “is she really so ill as that? Mr. Becker said she was to have an operation, but I didn’t think it was to be this afternoon. He said she wanted to see me. Did she get worse after he telephoned?”

“Our dear Anna is very ill,” said Mrs. Becker, speaking as if she were repeating a lesson. “They have taken her to the hospital. Will you not sit down and take coffee with us? I will bring it in at once.”

“You are very kind,” said Gretel, “but I don’t think I can wait. Perhaps I might be able to see FrÄulein at the hospital. Mr. Becker said she was so very anxious to see me, and I am going to Washington with my brother to-night.”

“You cannot go to the hospital,” said Mrs. Becker, in the same dull voice; “it would not be allowed. Even I, Anna’s aunt, cannot go. My husband will explain.” And once more motioning towards the plush-covered sofa, Mrs. Becker left the room.

Gretel sat down on the edge of the sofa. There seemed nothing else to do, but she was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. She was afraid her old friend must be very ill, Mrs. Becker spoke and looked so strangely. Perhaps FrÄulein had died suddenly, and they did not like to tell her. There was a moment of silence; then the sound of approaching footsteps, and FrÄulein’s uncle came into the room. “I beg a thousand pardons for bringing you here under false pretenses,” he said, apologetically, “but when I telephoned an hour ago my dear niece—what is it, my dear young lady—are you not well?”

With a little inarticulate cry, Gretel had sunk back on the sofa, and every particle of color had left her face. As the light from the one window fell on Mr. Becker’s face, she recognized it. She knew now why the face of that waiter at the New London hotel had seemed so familiar. That waiter was FrÄulein’s uncle!