They were having a merry evening at the Chesters’. Stephen Cranston and Jimmy Fairfax had come to dinner, and later, Ada Godfrey and her friends, including the objectionable Archie, had strolled over, in response to a telephone message from hospitable Molly. They had sat on the piazza for a while, the girls comparing notes about last evening’s dance, the boys discussing the latest German air raid, and then Stephen—who was generally the chief mover in every party—had suggested impromptu charades.

“We won’t have to dress up, or anything like that,” he exclaimed. “We’ll just divide, and one side will act out a word, while the other side guesses it.”

Several words had been successfully acted and guessed, and the audience was puzzling over the second syllable of “July,” represented by Jerry lying flat on his back, while Paul and Geraldine used their united efforts in an endeavor to raise him, when a servant appeared with a whispered message to Mrs. Chester, who immediately rose and went indoors.

“It can’t be ‘Mule,’” said Molly, still intent on the word, “though Jerry certainly does act like one, lying there, and falling back every time they try to make him get up. I’m sure the first syllable was ‘Stingy’ or ‘Mean,’ but then that wouldn’t make sense. What do you think the word is, Aunt Dulcie? You generally guess everything.”

“Wait till we see the next syllable,” said Mrs. Cranston. “I never commit myself too soon.”

The actors had gone into the house to prepare for the acting of the whole word, and at that moment Stephen appeared in the doorway.

“Hurry up, Steve,” called Molly. “We’re all waiting.” “Aunt Molly wants to speak to you, Mother,” said Stephen, and, to everybody’s surprise, his voice sounded grave and a little startled as well. “She would like to speak to you, too, Molly.”

Mrs. Cranston and her niece rose hurriedly, and went into the house. Stephen also disappeared, and the others were left to form their own conjectures.

“What do you suppose has happened?” questioned Kitty, anxiously. “I hope it isn’t bad news for any of us. My family were all right this morning when Mother telephoned, but things do happen so suddenly sometimes.”

“I don’t believe it’s anything important,” said Ada, cheerfully. “Perhaps it’s a message from Mrs. Cranston’s publisher, offering her an enormous price for her next book.”

Everybody laughed at this suggestion, and Jimmy said he had never heard of publishers sending communications to their clients at night. “It’s probably a message from Mr. Chester. I hope the Germans haven’t sunk another ship.” Just then Jerry and Paul appeared, and Kitty inquired, eagerly:

“Is anything the matter?”

“I don’t know,” said Jerry. “They’ve all gone into the library, and shut the door. I heard Mrs. Chester talking on the ’phone, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. We’ve decided not to act the rest of the word till they come out. Here comes Molly now. Is it all right, Molly? Shall we go on?”

But one glance at Molly’s pale, startled face was sufficient to convince them all that it was not all right. Without answering Jerry’s question, she hurried across the piazza and seized Kitty by the arm.

“Something dreadful has happened,” she gasped. “Gretel is lost.”

“Lost!” cried several voices, in a tone of incredulous amazement. And Ada added, impatiently:

“What on earth are you talking about, Molly?”

“It’s true,” said Molly, in a low, frightened voice. “She went out early this afternoon, and hasn’t come back yet. Nobody knows where she is. Her brother has been telephoning everywhere, and now Father has called up here to find out if any of us heard her say what she intended doing. Geraldine says she asked Gretel to go and see her mother, but they’ve telephoned the Barlows, and they don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t been there at all. Come in, Kitty. Geraldine’s in an awful state.”

The two girls hurried away, followed by Jerry, and the others sat looking at each other in silent astonishment. It seemed as if a pall had suddenly fallen on the merry little party.

“It’s the most awful thing I ever heard in my life!” declared Ada’s friend, Betty Ross, in a tone of mingled horror and excitement. “Why, it’s after nine o’clock. Think of a girl staying out till this time and not letting her family know where she is. She’s German, isn’t she?”

“Her father was,” said Ada, “but her brother is an American. He is doing Government work in Washington, and Gretel was to go home with him on to-night’s train. Oh, I hope nothing dreadful has happened to her.” And Ada—who was really not a hard-hearted girl—looked very much distressed.

“Perhaps she’s a spy, and gone off to tell the Germans things she’s found out here in New London.” The words made every one jump. They were uttered in Archie Davenport’s shrill, aggressive voice, and that objectionable small boy—who had been a rather bored spectator of the charades—now made himself heard for the first time.

“Hush, Archie; for shame!” cried his cousin, indignantly. But Archie was not to be easily put down.

“Things like that do happen,” he maintained stoutly. “I was reading a book the other day, all about a girl spy, and she wasn’t any older than this one, either. So why——”

“Archie, hold your tongue, I tell you.” In the excitement of the moment, Ada quite forgot that she was a young lady, and brought her foot down on the piazza floor with a decided stamp. “He reads such trashy books, he gets his head full of nonsense,” she added by way of explanation to the others. “People we know don’t do things of that kind. Besides, Gretel isn’t really German herself. She doesn’t even know——”

Ada paused abruptly. She had suddenly remembered something. Jimmy Fairfax also remembered, and the two exchanged a startled glance. Neither spoke, however, and in a few minutes Ada rose and walked away to the end of the piazza, where she was quickly joined by her indignant cousin.

“I don’t see what makes you so cross,” complained the injured Archie. “I didn’t say anything I oughtn’t to. You know there are a lot of German spies, just as well as I do, and you said the other day you were surprised they let the Schiller girl go to the naval station with the others, because of her German name.”

“I never said Gretel was a spy,” snapped Ada. “I never thought of such a thing. You mustn’t talk about such dreadful possibilities. Gretel is a friend of mine.”

“I wouldn’t have a German friend,” began Archie, patriotically, but he got no further, for at that moment Jimmy Fairfax joined them, and he deemed it prudent to keep his ideas to himself, remembering Stephen Cranston’s remarks on a similar occasion. Jimmy was looking both grave and troubled.

“May I speak to you for a moment alone?” he asked Ada, in a rather low voice.

“Certainly. Run away, Archie; I want to talk to Mr. Fairfax. Go and see what they are doing about Gretel. They may have heard something more.”

Archie retired obediently, but he did not join the rest of the party. Neither did he go as far away as Ada expected.

“I’m a good deal worried about what I told you last night,” Jimmy began, as soon as Ada’s small cousin was supposedly out of hearing. “Of course, the man I saw talking to Gretel Schiller may not have been a German, or even if he were one, Mrs. Chester may know all about the matter. But if the girl has really disappeared, do you think it is my duty to tell Mrs. Chester what I saw that day?” Ada hesitated. She did not want to injure Gretel, and yet Gretel was a German, and there were so many strange stories going about.

“I think perhaps we’d better wait a little while,” she compromised. “Gretel may come home all right, and everything be explained. But if she really has disappeared, I suppose we shall have to tell all we know.” Ada’s voice was solemn, but she was not quite free from a little thrill of excitement at the prospect of possibly being the means of unearthing some deep-laid German plot.

“It’s a horribly uncomfortable position,” said Jimmy, regretfully. “I hate to tell tales, and yet what I saw might furnish a clue. Besides, our duty as loyal Americans——”

“Of course, it will be our duty to tell, if Gretel isn’t found this evening,” interrupted Ada. “We must think of our country before everything else in these days, you know. I wish the Chesters hadn’t taken Gretel to visit the submarine base. No German is allowed near the place, but they felt so sure she was a loyal American, and Stephen vouched for her. You don’t suppose she could have found out any important secrets, do you?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“I don’t see how that could be possible,” he said. “She might imagine she had found out something, though. Oh, I dare say it’s all perfectly right and we shall hear in a few minutes that Miss Gretel has been to see a friend, and stayed later than she intended. Such scares generally end in nothing.”

“Let’s go in and find out what is happening,” suggested Ada, and the two moved away towards the front door. Neither of them noticed a small figure standing in the shadow of one of the windows, or heard a malicious chuckle from Archie as they passed his hiding-place.

The scene in the library was anything but reassuring. Molly and Geraldine were both crying; Kitty was twisting her handkerchief into knots and looking decidedly frightened, and Mrs. Chester, Mrs. Cranston and Stephen were talking together in low, anxious voices. “She’s been run over and killed, I know she has,” wailed Geraldine. “She was run over once before, when she was a little girl, but she got well that time. Now it’s different. Oh, Gretel, Gretel, it’s too dreadful!” And poor Geraldine broke down completely, and sobbed on Molly’s shoulder.

Mrs. Cranston left her sister and her son and put a protecting arm round the trembling girl.

“Don’t, dear,” she said, soothingly. “Things may not be as bad as you think; Gretel may soon be found. We must all try to have a little patience. Mr. Douaine and Mr. Chester are doing all they can.”

“Does any one know what happened?” Jimmy Fairfax asked Stephen, in a low voice.

“Nothing beyond the fact that Gretel went out alone early in the afternoon, and has not come home since. She left no message beyond telling the caretaker that she was going out for a little while. Mr. Douaine reached home a little before seven, and when he found his sister had not come in, he telephoned to every place where he thought it possible she could have gone. He finally succeeded in getting my uncle, who told him he had left Gretel at home about noon. They thought it possible she might have mentioned to some one here how she intended spending the afternoon, but it seems the only thing she spoke of doing was calling at the Barlows’, and she never turned up there.”

Jimmy looked very grave.

“Is there anything we can do?” he asked.

Stephen shook his head.

“Uncle Paul has promised to call us up again in an hour,” he said, “to let us know if anything has been discovered. I shall stay here till then. You can take the car back to the station, if you like. I don’t mind walking.”

“I think I will wait, too,” said Jimmy, quietly.

The hour that followed was a very trying one for everybody. No one even remembered the unfinished charade. Ada and her friends went home, after exacting a promise from Molly to call up the moment there was any news, and the others sat on the piazza in the starlight and waited. Geraldine had stopped crying, but sat close to Mrs. Cranston, holding her hand, as if finding comfort in the mere fact of being near one so kind and sensible as Stephen’s mother. Paul and Frank were sent to bed, but Jerry refused to go and sat on the steps at his twin sister’s feet, perhaps finding more comfort there than he would have cared to admit. Jerry was not a demonstrative boy, but he loved Geraldine better than any one else in the world, and Gretel also held a very warm place in his heart. Molly and Kitty whispered together in the hammock and Stephen and his aunt walked up and down the piazza, arm in arm.

“It’s ten o’clock!” exclaimed Geraldine, as the chiming of the grandfather’s clock on the stairs fell upon their ears. “It’s more than an hour since Mr. Chester telephoned.”

“We shall hear something in a few minutes, I am sure,” Mrs. Cranston said. “It often takes some time to get long distance, you know. Ah, I thought so. There’s the telephone now.”

It was Stephen who reached it first, and was talking when the others entered the library.

“Is that you, Uncle Paul? Yes, I can hear you all right. Any news?”

There was a breathless pause while Mr. Chester talked at the other end of the wire. Then Stephen hung up the receiver. One glance at his face was enough to tell them there was no good news.

“They haven’t found her yet,” he said. “They don’t think she has met with an accident, though, for Mr. Douaine has telephoned all the hospitals, and no one answering her description has been brought in. Mr. Douaine has put the case in the hands of the police. Uncle Paul says he will call up again early in the morning.”

“Mrs. Chester, may I speak to you a moment?”

Mrs. Chester—who had been trying to soothe the hysterical Geraldine—turned at the sound of the voice, and found Jimmy Fairfax standing by her side.

“Certainly,” she said, and followed the young man out into the empty hall.

“I have something to tell you which may possibly throw some light on this affair,” Jimmy said, hurriedly. “Do you happen to know whether Miss Gretel had any German friends here in New London?”

“I know she had not,” Mrs. Chester answered positively. “Gretel had no German friends whatever. Would you mind telling me what you have to say as quickly as possible? I am afraid Geraldine is getting hysterical.”

When Mrs. Chester returned to the library, she was looking more puzzled and perplexed than ever, and there were two bright red spots burning in her cheeks.

There was little sleep for any one at the Chesters’ that night. The two young men were obliged to return to the naval station, but Mrs. Cranston promised to telephone her son the moment there was any news. Then Mrs. Chester insisted on their all going to bed. Nothing could be gained by sitting up, she said, and they were not likely to hear anything more before morning.

“There is a telephone switch in my room,” she added, “and if a message should come during the night I will let you know at once.”

Geraldine—who still clung passionately to Mrs. Cranston—begged not to be left alone, and Stephen’s mother readily promised to come and sleep with her. Molly and Kitty went quietly away to their room, and Jerry stumbled up-stairs to the third floor, devoutly hoping that no one would notice the tears, which, big boy though he was, refused to be kept back any longer.

Mrs. Cranston was in her room, preparing for the night, when there was a tap at the door, and her sister came in.

“I want to speak to you, Dulcie,” she said. “That Fairfax boy has been telling me a story, which has made me very uncomfortable. It seems he saw Gretel talking with a man—he is sure he was a German—in New London one afternoon. It was the day you came and Gretel and I went to the station to meet you. We both had shopping to do, and she left me to buy some wool. I had to wait a few minutes for her, and Jimmy Fairfax joined me. We were talking when Gretel came back. She apologized for keeping me waiting, but did not mention having met any one she knew. Young Fairfax says she seemed to be talking very earnestly with this man, and before he could speak to her they had turned down one of the side streets together. Now, Molly has told me that Gretel had no German friends. It seems rather strange, don’t you think so? Do you think we ought to mention this story? It might possibly throw some light on the child’s disappearance.”

“I imagine the whole thing is mere nonsense,” declared Mrs. Cranston, decidedly. “Probably the man was not a German at all. Even if he were, nothing will ever make me believe that girl has done anything wrong or deceitful. I should as soon think of doubting Steve as doubting her.” Mrs. Chester looked very much relieved.

“I am glad you feel that way,” she said. “I cannot doubt Gretel either, she is so honest and straightforward about everything, but I thought she might possibly have met some old German friend, and——”

“Well, so she may have done. It is even possible that he may have asked her not to mention the meeting, though I scarcely think that likely. But whatever happened, I am sure the child was not to blame, and I do not believe it has any connection with her disappearance. Of course, it may become necessary to tell her brother what we have heard. We have no right to keep anything back under the circumstances, but I always trust my instincts, and I liked Gretel from the first moment I saw her. I am positive that girl is not in any way to blame for what has happened.”

More than once Mrs. Cranston repeated those words to herself during the hours of the long, wakeful night. Geraldine cried herself to sleep at last, but her companion lay awake for hours, thinking with an aching heart of the girl she had grown to love, over whose disappearance there hung such a dark curtain of mystery.

Geraldine was awake again almost as soon as it was light, begging to be allowed to get up and go down-stairs.

“Mr. Chester promised to telephone the first thing in the morning,” she pleaded feverishly, “and I want to be there when the message comes.”

Mrs. Cranston, seeing the uselessness in trying to keep the girl in bed, yielded to her persuasions, and Geraldine was on her way down-stairs when the clocks were striking five. But early as she was, some one else was before her, for on entering the library she found Jerry curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

At Geraldine’s exclamation of surprise, her twin sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Hello!” he said, staring about him sleepily. “Oh, it’s you, Geraldine. I must have just dropped off for a minute.”

“How long have you been down here?” his sister inquired. “I don’t know exactly,” answered Jerry, with a yawn. “I kept waking up all the time, and I got tired of listening to Paul snore, so thought I might as well get up and come down here, just in case the telephone should ring, you know.”

Geraldine sat down on the sofa and laid her head on her brother’s shoulder.

“That’s what I came for, too,” she said. “It’s only just five, but Mrs. Cranston said I might get up if I liked. After all, I remember there is a telephone switch in Mrs. Chester’s bedroom, but I’m glad I came, anyway, now you’re here, too. Oh, Jerry dear, I’m so terribly unhappy. Gretel is my best friend, and I’m sure something dreadful has happened to her.”

Jerry and Geraldine were not the only people in the house who listened anxiously for the sound of the telephone bell, but it was eight o’clock before the long-expected message came, and then, alas! it brought no good news. The police had been working on the case all night, but as yet they had found no clue. Indeed, there was very little to go upon. It seemed as if Gretel had been swallowed up in the earth. Sorely against her will, but feeling it the only thing to be done under the circumstances, Mrs. Chester repeated to her husband the story Jimmy Fairfax had told her.

“Neither Dulcie nor I believe one word against the child,” she finished, “but it is just possible she may have met some old German friend and been ashamed to mention the fact to us.”

Mr. Chester said that he would tell Gretel’s brother, but agreed with his wife in the opinion that the story was not likely to throw much light upon the girl’s mysterious disappearance.

The effect of Mr. Chester’s message was very depressing. Geraldine begged to be allowed to go home at once.

“I can’t stay here till Monday,” she told Mrs. Chester. “It will seem nearer to Gretel if I am in New York. Jerry wants to go, too.”

Mrs. Chester and her sister talked the matter over and it was decided that if the twins wanted to go, it would be best to let them have their way. It was quite impossible that they could enjoy themselves any longer in New London. So a telegram was dispatched to Mrs. Barlow, and Geraldine went up to her room to pack, accompanied by Molly, who was only a trifle less miserable than herself. They were in the midst of folding dresses when Kitty appeared, with the announcement that Ada Godfrey had come over to inquire for news.

“She’s on the piazza,” she added, “talking to Mrs. Cranston, and that horrid Davenport boy is with her.”

“I hate that boy,” declared Molly. “I should think Ada would know enough to keep him away from here. Do you remember how rude he was to Gretel that Sunday afternoon? Tell Ada I’ll be right down. You won’t want to come, I know, Geraldine.”

“I don’t think I could talk to Ada to-day,” said Geraldine, “and as for that Davenport boy, I hope he’ll go home before Jerry sees him. Jerry wanted to punch his head before, for being horrid to Gretel. If they should meet to-day I don’t know what would happen.”

Molly and Kitty departed, leaving Geraldine to finish her packing, with the assistance of Mrs. Chester’s maid. They found Ada on the piazza, but Archie Davenport was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s your cousin?” Molly asked, mindful of Geraldine’s fears.

“Gone off somewhere to look for the boys, I think,” Ada answered indifferently. “Oh, girls, isn’t it terrible about Gretel? What do you suppose has become of her?”

Before either Molly or Kitty could answer, they were all startled by the sound of shouting, and little Frank Chester came running round the corner from the stable, flushed and breathless from haste and excitement.

“Oh, come, come quick!” he implored. “Jerry’s killing Archie Davenport. He’s got him down on the ground, and he’s rolling him over and over and pummelling him like everything.”

With an exclamation of horror, the three girls sprang to their feet, and at the same instant Stephen Cranston’s “Ford” came dashing up to the front door, and that young gentleman himself sprang out.

“Any news?” he demanded eagerly, but nobody answered him. Molly seized his arm.

“Come, Steve,” she cried, “don’t wait to ask any questions. Jerry is beating Archie Davenport, and we’ve got to stop them before Archie is killed.”

Archie was not killed, but he presented a very forlorn-looking appearance when the party arrived at the scene of action. Covered with dust, one eye closed and blood pouring from his nose, he sat ignominiously on the ground, while Jerry—his own nose bleeding profusely—towered above him, his eyes blazing with wrath.

“Apologize,” Jerry commanded, “apologize this minute, or I’ll do it again!”

“I—I apologize,” faltered Archie, beginning to cry. “You’re a wicked boy, though, and I’ll have you arrested for treating me like this, see if I don’t.” “What was the trouble, Jerry?” Stephen inquired, while Ada fell upon her cousin with a torrent of mingled sympathy and reproach.

“He said something he had no business to,” returned Jerry. “I’d rather not repeat it, if you don’t mind. It was a lie, and that’s enough for anybody to know.”

“Archie, you didn’t say anything horrid about Gretel!” cried Ada, indignantly. “If you did I’m not a bit sorry he made your nose bleed.”

“I only said——” began Archie, but Jerry cut him short.

“None of that now, do you hear? You say one more word, and you’ll get something more from me. I’d kill any fellow who dared say a word against Gretel, even if he were twice my size.”

“Jerry, you’re a trump!” cried Stephen, giving the boy a sounding slap on the back. “I honor you. Now go into the house and wash your face. As for you, you little cad,” he added, turning to the crestfallen Archie, “you deserve ten times more than you’ve got, and I hope I shall never see you on this place again.” And, quite regardless of Ada’s reproachful glances, he turned and followed Jerry back to the house.