“Don’t you really think, Geraldine, that you could manage to sit still for at least five minutes?”

Mrs. Barlow’s tone was plaintive, as she lifted her head from the sofa cushions in her darkened bedroom. Geraldine turned from the open window, where she had been trying to peep through the closed blinds, and came over to her mother’s side.

“I’m sorry I bother you, Mummy,” she said. “I really am trying to keep quiet, but it’s so hard to settle down to anything. I suppose I’m nervous.”

“Nervous!” repeated Mrs. Barlow, with a sigh; “I should think you were! We are all nervous, for that matter, and who can wonder at it. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since it happened, and if it were not for the bromide Dr. Trevor gives me, I’m sure I don’t know where I should be now. As it is, my head is splitting.”

“Let me bathe it with cologne,” proposed Geraldine, eager for any occupation, “or else let me fan you.”

“The scent of the cologne makes me ill, but you may fan me if you like. This heat is frightful. I am sure the thermometer must be up to ninety. Don’t you want to go and look?”

“Where’s the use? You’ll only feel worse if you know how hot it is. It’s cooler in this room than anywhere else. The sun doesn’t come here till afternoon. Then you can go into the library.”

“I’d rather stay here. The noise in the front of the house drives me frantic. I was never in town at this season before in my life. If it doesn’t get cooler in a day or two, I shall have to persuade your father to take us to the shore.”

“You wouldn’t go away now, Mother, would you?—not before Gretel is found.” Mrs. Barlow sighed again, and passed her hand wearily across her forehead.

“If there were only a chance of the dear child’s being found,” she murmured, “but it all seems so hopeless. A week yesterday since she disappeared, and not the faintest clue yet. Oh, Geraldine, darling, just think, it might have happened to you!”

“Well, it didn’t happen to me, Mother,” said Geraldine, a little impatiently. “Of course they’ll find Gretel; they’ve got to find her.” Geraldine’s voice broke in a quickly suppressed sob.

“There you go again,” moaned her mother, reproachfully. “I can’t say a word without your beginning to cry. I don’t care what your father says; I shall insist on giving you a dose of bromide to-night. Your nerves are completely unstrung.”

“I’m all right, Mummy,” said Geraldine, tremulously; “don’t bother about me. I’ll fan you, and if you lie still, perhaps you’ll fall asleep. I’m sure a nap will do you good.”

“I dare say it would,” her mother admitted, “but it seems as if I couldn’t sleep. Every time I drop off I have such frightful dreams. I can’t get the thought of that poor child out of my mind for a moment. It’s so horrible to think that no one knows what has become of her. Sometimes I almost wish I could believe she had run away of her own accord.”

“Mother!” cried Geraldine, indignantly. “How can you say such a thing? You know Gretel wouldn’t run away. She loved us all dearly; she wouldn’t have worried her brother for the world. Oh, Mother, how can you?” Geraldine’s voice shook ominously.

“There, there, dear,” Mrs. Barlow said, soothingly, “of course I know she didn’t. Gretel is a dear child; she always was. I only mean that almost anything would be better than this terrible suspense.”

“Mother,” said Geraldine, abruptly, “do you suppose any one believes Gretel went away on purpose?”

“My dear child, how should I know? Whom have I seen, shut up here all this week? Not a living soul except your father and you children. Of course, your father says there has been some talk, which is only natural, under the circumstances. It was unfortunate that Gretel’s father should have been a German, but no one who really knew the child could possibly believe a word against her.”

Geraldine sprang to her feet.

“I’m going away for a few minutes,” she said, hurriedly. “You won’t mind, will you, Mummy? I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, no, I won’t mind,” her mother answered, languidly. “I think perhaps I might drop off to sleep if I were alone. Go and try to amuse yourself. You were going to do so much knitting for the soldiers, and you haven’t taken a stitch in a week.”

“Would you mind if I went out for a little while?” Geraldine asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Out in this awful heat! How can you? But if you want to go, I suppose you can. Be sure to keep in the shade, though, and don’t stir one step without Eugenie. I shall never let you go out by yourself again. I suppose you want to go to the Douaines’.”

“I should like to if I may, just for a few minutes. They might have heard something this morning.”

“Don’t deceive yourself with false hopes,” her mother advised. “Barbara Douaine will let us know the moment there is any news. But if it comforts you to go there I have no objection. Give my love to Barbara, and tell her I would come myself if I were able to lift my head.”

Geraldine hurried away, thankful for any occupation that would keep her moving. The past week had been the saddest of her bright young life, and as the dreadful days dragged on, bringing no relief—no news of the absent Gretel—the girl had grown perceptibly thinner and paler. To-day was the worst day of all, for Jerry, her constant comfort and standby, had gone up the Hudson with his father, who had Government business to transact at West Point. Geraldine herself had been urged to make one of the party, but had refused so decidedly that her father had deemed it useless to persist. Jerry would have remained at home, too, but that she would not allow.

“Jerry loves Gretel almost as much as I do,” she told herself, as she mounted the stairs to her own room, “but boys are different from girls. They’ve got to have something to do. They can’t stand just sitting still and waiting for things to happen. I’m glad Jerry can enjoy himself, but I couldn’t have a good time anywhere in the world just now.”

Ten minutes later Geraldine, accompanied by Eugenie, the French maid, was hurrying along the sun-baked streets in the direction of the Douaines’. Eugenie, who, of course, knew all about Gretel’s disappearance, was both voluble and sympathetic.

“Has Mademoiselle seen the morning paper?” she wanted to know. Geraldine said she had not looked at it.

“There is a picture of Mademoiselle Gretel on the front page,” Eugenie informed her. “Any one would know her; the likeness is perfect.”

Geraldine swallowed a lump in her throat, and asked a question.

“What do people think has become of Miss Gretel, Eugenie?”

Eugenie lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper.

“They think the Boche have something to do with it,” she said.

“The Boche?” repeated Geraldine. “Oh, you mean the Germans. But Gretel isn’t a German, she is an American.”

“Her father was a German,” said Eugenie, “and it is said she had German friends.”

“Who says so?” demanded Geraldine, and she spoke so sharply that the maid looked rather frightened.

“I know nothing,” she murmured apologetically, “nothing whatever. My friends know nothing. I only repeat what I read in the papers.”

“The papers!” repeated Geraldine, incredulously. “You mean the papers say the Germans took Gretel away?”

“They do not say that exactly, but they think it possible. The young lady was seen talking with a Boche—I mean a German—one day about a week before she was lost. It was in New London. Those Germans will stop at nothing that is wicked.”

Geraldine stamped her foot impatiently.

“That little wretch Archie Davenport made up the story,” she said, indignantly. “There isn’t a word of truth in it. Gretel didn’t know any Germans, and if one had spoken to her, she would have told me about it. We always tell each other everything. Oh, wouldn’t I like to wring that boy’s neck? Jerry gave him a black eye, and made his nose bleed, for saying that same thing, but that wasn’t half punishment enough. I suppose he has gone on talking, and now the newspapers have gotten hold of it. Father says they get hold of everything they can. Oh, it’s too awful!” Geraldine checked a rising sob, and did not speak again till they reached the Douaines’. The house was no longer closed, as it had been on the morning of Gretel’s return from New London. Many of the blinds and windows were open, and in answer to Geraldine’s ring, the door was opened, not by Mrs. Murphy, but by a young woman with red eyes.

“Why, Dora,” cried Geraldine in surprise, “I didn’t know you were here. When did you come up from Washington?”

“Last night, Miss Geraldine,” the girl answered. “Maggie came, too. Mr. Douaine sent for us. They think we may be needed, especially if Miss Gretel should be ill when they find her.”

“When they find her,” the words made Geraldine’s heart leap with sudden hope.

“Have they any news?” she demanded, breathlessly.

Dora shook her head and began to cry.

“Oh, Miss Geraldine, isn’t it awful?” she sobbed. “Whatever can have happened to her? It’s the most dreadful thing that ever was. It just breaks my heart to look at Mr. and Mrs. Douaine. If those wicked Germans had anything to do with it, I hope they’ll be killed, every one.”

“The Germans had nothing to do with it,” said Geraldine, impatiently. “Is Mrs. Douaine up-stairs? Do you think I could see her?”

“Yes, Miss, she’s in the library, writing letters, and I’m sure she’d be glad to see you. Mr. Douaine is out most of the time, working with the police, and she hardly sees any one. Those newspaper reporters keep calling up on the telephone about every hour, and Mrs. Douaine always answers them so patiently. Do go up and see her, Miss Geraldine. Maybe you can cheer her up a little.”

Leaving Eugenie in the hall with Dora, Geraldine hurried up-stairs to the library, where she and Gretel had spent so many pleasant hours together. Mrs. Douaine was writing at her desk, but on the visitor’s entrance she laid down her pen, and rose.

“I am so glad you have come, dear,” she said, kissing Geraldine. “I thought you would be here this morning. How is your mother?”

“Just about the same. She says she can’t sleep, and her head aches all the time. Oh, dear, dear Mrs. Douaine, isn’t there any news yet—not the very slightest clue?”

“I am afraid not yet, dear, but we must try and be patient. The detectives say there is every reason to hope that something may be discovered this week. Come and sit down, and let me have a good cry on your shoulder. I try to keep up before Percy—he has enough to bear himself, poor fellow—but I think it does me good to break down once in a while.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” cried Geraldine, throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, and they clung to each other in silent grief.

“Mrs. Douaine,” said Geraldine, abruptly, when they were both calmer, and were sitting together on the sofa, “did you see Gretel’s picture in the Times this morning?”

“No, dear, but Percy told me about it.”

“Eugenie told me,” said Geraldine, “and she says—she says there is something else, too. Some people think Gretel may have run away on purpose. You don’t believe any such nonsense, do you?”

“Certainly not,” Gretel’s sister-in-law answered, with so much decision that Geraldine’s face brightened perceptibly.

“I knew you didn’t,” she said in a tone of relief, “but it’s ever so comforting to hear you say it.”

“It is all a great mystery,” said Mrs. Douaine, sadly, “but of one thing Percy and I are absolutely certain, and that is that Gretel was not to blame in any way. She is as true as steel, and devoted to us all. Something terrible must have happened, but it was through no fault of hers.”

“Then you don’t believe that silly story about talking with a strange man in the street?”

“I think there was probably some mistake. The man may merely have stopped to ask Gretel a question. I am sorry such a story should have been started, for, of course, people will talk. There is such a strong feeling against all Germans just now, and poor Gretel’s German name tells against her, but I am sure that none of the child’s friends will ever believe anything wrong about her. I have had several such dear letters from the schoolgirls. I was just answering a beautiful one from Miss Minton herself. We had no idea what a favorite Gretel was; she was so gentle and modest, and never put herself forward in any way. I have kept all the letters, thinking you might like to read them.”

“I should love to,” said Geraldine, “but—but, Mrs. Douaine, there is something that I think perhaps I ought to tell you first. I am afraid something did happen to Gretel one afternoon in New London.”

Mrs. Douaine looked very much startled.

“Why do you think so?” she asked. “Oh, Geraldine, you haven’t been keeping anything back that might have helped us, have you, dear?”

Geraldine hid her face on her friend’s shoulder.

“I don’t think it could have helped,” she whispered. “I had forgotten all about it till this morning, when Eugenie told me what was in the paper. It was one day when Gretel went shopping with Mrs. Chester. I was in our room when she came home, and she seemed rather queer and excited. She cried about the war, and kept saying how terrible it was, and that night I heard her crying, too. I thought some one had hurt her feelings by saying something about her being German. But she wouldn’t tell me when I asked her, and I was a little provoked because we always tell each other everything. She seemed all right again the next day, but I spoke to Jerry about it and he thought, as I did, that some one had been rude or unkind. Afterwards we both forgot about it, and I don’t suppose I should ever have remembered it again if it hadn’t been for that horrid story. There was a horrid little boy—a cousin of Ada Godfrey’s—who said something about Gretel having run off with the Germans, but nobody paid any attention to him, and Jerry punched his head for telling such stories. You don’t suppose it could have been a German she met that day, and that he could have carried her off and shut her up somewhere, do you?”

Mrs. Douaine hesitated.

“I scarcely think it likely,” she said. “What possible object could any German have in doing such a thing? I will tell Percy when he comes in, though, and he will do what he thinks best about informing the police. We must not keep anything back that may prove a possible clue. Of course, it is possible that Gretel might have met some old German friend of her father’s, and not mentioned the fact to any one, but I don’t for a moment believe it had the slightest connection with what has happened.”

“I suppose we shall have to tell everything,” sighed Geraldine, “but I can’t bear to have people saying and thinking horrid things about Gretel.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Douaine, gently, “when we know a thing to be untrue ourselves, why should we mind what foolish people may say? We know positively that Gretel did not go away on purpose, that whatever happened was through no fault of hers, so let us try to forget all the unkind things people may say, and just keep on hoping and praying all the time. What is it, Dora?”

“A lady to see you, ma’am,” announced Dora in the doorway. “I told her you couldn’t see anybody, but she seems awful upset and says she must see either you or Mr. Douaine. I think”—lowering her voice—“I think she’s German.”

“Show her up,” said Mrs. Douaine, with sudden eagerness. “It may be a clue,” she added to Geraldine, as Dora left the room.

There was a moment of silence; then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“I’ll go and meet her,” Mrs. Douaine said, rising, but before she could reach the door, the visitor was already on the threshold.

“FrÄulein!” cried Geraldine, springing to her feet, “why, it’s FrÄulein.” And she hurried forward, both hands outstretched.

FrÄulein it was, but a FrÄulein so changed—so pale and agitated that it really was surprising that Geraldine should recognize her in that first moment.

But the German woman scarcely noticed her old pupil. Pushing past Geraldine, she rushed to Mrs. Douaine, and, to that lady’s utter astonishment, suddenly dropped on her knees.

“Oh, I have heard!” she cried, “I have heard the terrible news! I knew nothing until this morning. I never read your American newspapers now, but this morning the family where I am living were talking at the breakfast table, and I caught the name. I nearly fainted, and afterwards I read what was in the paper. Oh, it is too horrible—too horrible!” And FrÄulein began to sob hysterically.

“I came as fast as I could,” she gasped; “I took the very first train. I am living in New Jersey, and it took some time, but I did not lose a moment.”

“I am sure you did not,” said Mrs. Douaine, kindly. “I know how fond you and Gretel were of each other. We have been trying to find you, but we did not know your address. I hoped you would come when you heard. Oh, do try to control yourself a little. I am afraid you will be ill. Geraldine dear, bring FrÄulein a glass of water.”

“German sentimentality,” muttered Geraldine to herself, as she hurried away to the pantry. “I don’t believe she cares half as much as the rest of us do, and yet by the way she goes on, one might think she was Gretel’s own mother.”

FrÄulein sipped the water, and was induced to rise from her knees, but she still continued to sob, and clung convulsively to Mrs. Douaine’s hand.

“I am not to blame, indeed I am not!” she declared between sobs. “It is not my fault that this frightful thing has happened. It is not my fault!”

“Of course it is not your fault,” Mrs. Douaine assured her. “No one has ever thought for a moment of blaming you in any way. The only reason we have been trying to find you was that we thought it just possible that you might have communicated with Gretel that day, and that she might have been on her way to see you when—when it happened.”

FrÄulein shook her head.

“I had nothing to do with it,” she said. “I was not here. I have been governess to a family in New Jersey for the past month. She was coming one day, before she went to New London, but she forgot. She wrote to apologize to me for forgetting, and I thanked God on my knees that she had not come.”

Geraldine gave a little gasp of astonishment, and the color faded from Mrs. Douaine’s face.

“Why were you glad she had not come?” Gretel’s sister-in-law asked, sharply. “Why were you so thankful?”

FrÄulein did not answer; she only moaned, and wrung her hands dramatically.

“I loved the child,” she wailed; “you may not believe me, but it is true, I loved her dearly. I could not bear that any harm should come to her through my fault.”

“And why did you fear that harm might have come to the girl through your fault?”

It was not Mrs. Douaine who asked the question. In their excitement, none of them had heard approaching footsteps, and now Mrs. Douaine and Geraldine turned with a start, and discovered Gretel’s brother and another man standing in the doorway. It was Mr. Douaine’s companion who had spoken. He was a quietly dressed man, with a strong, clever face, and Geraldine noticed with surprise that he spoke with a slightly foreign accent. As for FrÄulein, at sight of the two gentlemen, she uttered a little frightened scream, and collapsed in a heap on the sofa.

The stranger waited a moment, and then repeated his question.

“And why did you fear that harm might come to the girl through your fault?”

“Who—who is he?” inquired FrÄulein, in a tremulous whisper.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Douaine. “The other gentleman is my husband. This is Gretel’s friend, Percy, FrÄulein Sieling; you remember her.”

She glanced anxiously at her husband, but Mr. Douaine did not seem to notice either the words or the glance. His eyes were fixed steadily on his companion’s face.

“Do you know this lady, Mr. Douaine?” the stranger asked.

“I have only met her once, but my sister knew her well. She was the German teacher at the girls’ school in Connecticut, which Gretel has been attending for the past two winters.”

“Ah, I see. Well, FrÄulein, perhaps you have something to tell us, which may be of service to us in this sad business?”

“No, indeed, indeed I have not!” cried FrÄulein, with a fresh burst of tears. “I would give all I have in the world to be able to help you, for the child is as dear to me as if she were my own sister. But my uncle, he is a great patriot. He asked me to do something to help my dear country, and there was so little I could do. I knew how dear Gretel had adored her father, and I thought—I thought, perhaps for his sake, and for the sake of the Fatherland, that she might—she might——” Choking sobs finished the sentence. “You mean you thought my sister might be of service to your uncle?” Mr. Douaine asked sternly.

FrÄulein nodded.

“He only asked me to give him the opportunity of speaking to her,” she moaned. “I—I asked her to come that afternoon, but she did not come, and my heart was full of thankfulness. I never dreamed of harm coming to her until this morning, when I heard that terrible news.”

Mr. Douaine and his companion exchanged glances.

“Then,” said the stranger, quietly, “you mean us to understand that you know nothing of what has happened since Miss Gretel went to New London?”

“Nothing, nothing whatever,” declared FrÄulein, and there was a ring of sincerity in her tone that they could not doubt. “I would give my life to find her.”

“In that case,” said the man in the same quiet voice, “you will certainly have no objection to answering any questions we may ask. In the first place, will you please give us your uncle’s name and address?”

FrÄulein started violently and covered her face with her hands.

“I cannot do that,” she protested, trembling. “My uncle is a German patriot. It might not be safe for him if his address were known. Besides, he has nothing to do with the child’s disappearance—I am sure he has not.”

“If he has not, he will have nothing to fear from his address being known to us,” the stranger said, reassuringly. “You say you love this poor girl. Is it possible that you will refuse to do all in your power to help us to find her?”

“I have said that I would give my life to find her,” affirmed FrÄulein, indignantly, and she lifted her tear-swollen face from her hands.

“We are not asking for your life; we are only asking for your uncle’s name and address. He may have no more to do with the affair than you have, but in this terrible business we must leave no stone unturned. Come, FrÄulein, you are a good woman, I am sure, and want to help us all you can. If your uncle is innocent, there can be no objection to our interviewing him.”

For a moment longer the woman continued to struggle against her better nature. Then she said slowly:

“He is not my own uncle; he is only the husband of my aunt. Yes, I will tell you his name. It is Rudolph Becker, and he lives——” she murmured an address.

“Rudolph Becker,” repeated the stranger, and although his voice was still quiet, there was a note of suppressed excitement in it, which caused Mrs. Douaine’s heart to leap with sudden hope. “Thank you, FrÄulein, that is all I shall require of you.” And without another word, he turned and left the room, followed by Gretel’s brother.

“What have I done?—Oh, what have I done?” wailed FrÄulein, wringing her hands, and rocking herself back and forward in her distress. “My uncle had nothing to do with Gretel’s disappearance, I would swear he had not, but there are other things—he is a patriot.”

“You have done nothing wrong, my dear,” said Mrs. Douaine, gently, “and you may have done good. If anything you have said proves a help in finding our dear little girl, we shall love you, and be grateful to you all our lives.”