How long she had lived in that dark, stifling little room and slept on that hard mattress on the floor, Gretel had no idea. Was it days, months or years? Sometimes she felt as if it must be years, but she had ceased to count time. She had almost ceased wondering whether she was ever going to be set free. At first she had lived in constant terror, but as time dragged on, and nothing happened, and as the close air and confinement began to tell more and more upon her, she had sunk into a kind of dull stupor, which made her indifferent to most things. Sometimes she would wake up with a sudden feeling of terror, and then for a little while she would be very miserable, thinking of Percy and Barbara, and how they must be suffering on her account, but as she grew physically weaker, even the thought of home and friends grew less painful, and she lay most of the time with closed eyes, thinking of nothing in particular, and only longing for a breath of fresh air, or a drink of cold water.

Several times each day Mrs. Becker appeared with food, from which she generally turned with loathing, but she was always glad of a drink of milk, and would occasionally take a few spoonfuls of soup. Mrs. Becker always looked worried, and as if she had been crying, but she never talked much, and was always careful to lock the door again when she went away. Sometimes Mr. Becker came and looked at her, but he never spoke. Once she had ventured to glance at his face, but its expression had frightened her so much that for hours afterwards she had shivered and moaned, in a renewal of all the old terrors of the beginning of her imprisonment.

Would they keep her there until she died? That was the one thought which occasionally pierced through her half-benumbed faculties. She was so weak and her head ached so, she did not think she would mind dying very much. Perhaps God would let her go to her father, and they would be happy again, as they used to be in the old studio days. How happy those days were, when Mrs. Lippheim and Fritz came to tea, and she was allowed to make the toast. But that was so long ago, and now Fritz was—was—her confused thoughts would wander off into a feverish dream, in which she and Stephen Cranston seemed to be dancing together, only mingled with the gay dance music she could always hear Ada Godfrey’s voice talking about loyalty to one’s country.

She had been dreaming a queer, confused dream, all about Ada and Stephen and Fritz Lippheim, when she was roused by the sound of Mrs. Becker’s voice, and opened her eyes to find the woman standing beside her with a cup of soup in her hand.

“You must take this,” Mrs. Becker said, in a tone of unusual decision. “My husband says you are to take it. He will be angry if you refuse.”

Gretel turned her face to the wall. “I am not hungry,” she said, impatiently. “Please go away. I want to go to sleep again.”

“But you must not sleep all the time,” Mrs. Becker protested. “You must get up after you have taken the soup. Rudolph wants to talk to you.”

Gretel lifted her head with more animation than she had shown in days.

“Is he going to let me go home?” she demanded eagerly.

Mrs. Becker shook her head.

“You know he cannot do that,” she said, crossly. “Your friends would ask questions, and you would tell them things that must not be told. It is very hard for Rudolph; he had no wish to keep you here. You should have obeyed him and he would have let you go at once. Rudolph is not a wicked man. He is so worried that he cannot sleep at night. You have brought awful trouble upon us.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Gretel, wearily, pressing her hot hand to her aching forehead. “I couldn’t swear not to tell. It would have been disloyal to my country. I am an American.”

“You are a fool, that is what you are!” burst out Mrs. Becker angrily. “We are all in terrible trouble. If you are found here what will be done to us? And yet how can we let you go? You are to blame for everything, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Gretel said nothing. There did not seem to be any use in talking, and she felt so very tired and confused. She only wanted to be left alone. But Mrs. Becker’s next words aroused her completely.

“Besides, what good have you done by being so obstinate? You might as well have obeyed Rudolph, since your friends think you have run away on purpose.”

“My friends think I have run away on purpose?” repeated Gretel, incredulously. “But they don’t; they couldn’t think such a thing.”

“Very well, come and look at the paper Rudolph has to show you. But first you must drink this good soup. I have taken great trouble in making it for you.” Gretel took the cup and hastily swallowed a portion of the contents. She was trembling with weakness and excitement, but she suddenly felt wide awake.

“I can’t swallow any more,” she said, setting the half-emptied cup on the floor. “May I go to your husband now?”

“Yes, he is waiting for you in the sitting-room.”

Gretel rose feebly. She was so weak that she almost fell against the wall, and was forced to clutch Mrs. Becker’s arm for support. The woman looked a little frightened.

“That comes because you will not eat,” she said, reproachfully. “I have told you that it is necessary to eat.” But she put her arm round the trembling girl not unkindly and led her along the narrow hall to the room where she had taken coffee with the Beckers on that afternoon, which seemed such ages ago.

It was the first time that Gretel had been allowed to leave her prison, and the sudden change from the dark little trunk-room to the sunlit parlor made her so giddy that she instinctively closed her eyes and leaned more heavily on Mrs. Becker’s arm.

“She is going to faint,” she heard a voice say, which sounded as if it came from somewhere a long way off, and then she found herself lying on the sofa with Mrs. Becker bathing her forehead, and Mr. Becker looking down at her, with stern, angry eyes.

“Do you feel better?” Mrs. Becker inquired anxiously.

“I—I think so,” faltered Gretel, sitting up, and pushing the wet hair out of her eyes. She was dimly conscious of being very untidy and dishevelled. She had never undressed since that day, ages ago, when she left New London; neither had her hair been combed or brushed.

“She needs more air,” Mrs. Becker said to her husband in German. “The air in there is stifling.”

“I know it,” returned her husband, “but it cannot be helped.” Then, turning to Gretel, he added:

“Did my wife tell you why I wished to see you?” Gretel shook her head.

“It was because I thought you might enjoy reading the morning paper,” said the man, with a disagreeable laugh. “There is something in it that I am sure will interest you.”

Gretel was silent. The better air was beginning to revive her a little, but she still felt very dizzy and confused. Mr. Becker picked up a newspaper from the table, and held it out to her.

“You can find it easily,” he said. “What I want you to read is on the front page.”

Gretel took the paper and sat gazing blankly at it. She could make nothing of the letters that danced before her eyes.

“Shall I read it to you?” Mr. Becker asked, and without waiting for a reply, he began reading in the same sneering, disagreeable voice.

“It is now generally believed that Gretel Schiller, the fifteen-year-old girl, whose mysterious disappearance on July fifth has caused such widespread interest and excitement, left her home voluntarily to join some German friend or friends. She is known to have been seen in earnest conversation with a man, supposed to have been a German, in New London, about ten days previous to her disappearance. The girl was at that time visiting in New London, and her friends, Mr. and Mrs. Paul Chester, well known in this city, admit that she never mentioned this clandestine meeting, although Mrs. Chester was in the town at the same time, and they had only separated for a few minutes. This evidence is likely to throw an entirely new light upon the affair, and it is said that Miss Schiller’s own family are now inclined to believe that her disappearance was a voluntary act.”

Mr. Becker paused. Gretel was staring at the paper with wild, horrified eyes.

“It isn’t true,” she gasped. “I don’t believe it. Percy and Barbara would never think such a thing.”

“Read for yourself,” said Mr. Becker, pushing the paper towards her. But Gretel did not read. She only covered her face with her hands and burst into an agony of tears. They were the first she had shed in days.

“It can’t be true, oh, it can’t be true!” moaned the poor child. “They know I wouldn’t; everybody knows it.”

“You are a German,” said Mr. Becker, coldly. “People will believe anything against a German in these days. Is it true that you talked to a man in the street, and did not mention the fact to your friends?”

“It was only for a moment with Fritz Lippheim,” sobbed Gretel. “He was one of Father’s oldest friends and he was so good to me when I was a little girl.”

“Fritz Lippheim,” repeated Mr. Becker, in a startled tone. “You mean Lippheim the violinist?”

“Yes,” said Gretel. “He and his mother were great friends of ours, but I hadn’t seen him in years till that day in New London. He asked me not to mention having met him, and I didn’t like to refuse. It made me uncomfortable afterwards, but I never dreamed——”

Mr. Becker started to his feet, and began rapidly pacing the floor. It was evident that something had put him out very much.

“I saw that fellow Lippheim in New London myself,” he muttered. “He was at that dance where I—I never thought of it at the time, but I believe he was up to some mischief. Gertrude, take that girl back where she belongs, and lock her in. Her snivelling makes me nervous.”

“But Rudolph,” ventured Mrs. Becker, timidly, “the air in there is so bad. Let the child stay here for a little while. There can be no harm.”

“Do as I tell you,” shouted her husband. “All my nerves are on edge. I cannot stand anything more.”

Mrs. Becker laid a trembling hand on Gretel’s arm.

“Come,” she whispered. “Don’t you see you are making him angry?”

With an effort, Gretel dragged herself to her feet, and allowed Mrs. Becker to lead her back to her prison. Twice she stumbled and almost fell, but the woman’s strong arm supported her until she reached the little dark room, where she dropped on her hard mattress on the floor. In another moment the door was again shut and locked, and she heard Mrs. Becker’s retreating footsteps. She wondered vaguely why the woman was crying. It was not possible Mrs. Becker really cared, and was sorry for her. Nobody cared any more—not even her own family.

With a sharp cry, Gretel started up. They must not think dreadful things about her. They must learn the truth. It was only a wicked newspaper story, of course, but how had people learned of her meeting with Fritz? Some one she knew must have seen them talking together, but she could not remember meeting any one that afternoon until she rejoined Mrs. Chester, and then there was Jimmy Fairfax. Could Jimmy have seen her talking with Fritz? Fritz certainly did look like a German, but if Jimmy had seen them together, why had he not questioned her about it? Oh, she could not die there in that dreadful place, and let people go on thinking she had run away. They would always believe it; not Percy and Barbara, perhaps, or even the Barlows, her oldest friends, but other people—Miss Minton, and the girls at school, and Mrs. Cranston and Stephen. It was Stephen who had vouched for her loyalty the day they went to visit the submarine base. She must get away somehow, and let them know she had not done that dreadful thing. She sprang to her feet, and beat against the door, with a wild, desperate hope of making some one hear. But the only sound she heard was Mr. Becker’s heavy tread coming down the hall. Outside her door the footsteps paused.

“Stop that noise this instant,” the stern voice commanded.

“Let me out,” shrieked Gretel, almost beside herself with terror and despair. “Let me out. I must—I must——” Suddenly her strength failed her, and with a choking cry, she sank back in a little heap on the dusty floor.

Mrs. Becker was sitting in the rocking-chair, crying softly, when her husband returned to the sitting-room. He did not speak at once, but stood looking down at her, his face very dark and stern. Mrs. Becker herself was the first to break silence.

“What are we to do, Rudolph?” she questioned timidly. “The child eats nothing; she cannot go on like this. She will die, and then what will happen to us?”

“Confound the girl!” burst forth the man furiously—both he and his wife spoke in German—“Confound the whole business! I could kill that niece of yours, with her idiotic talk about the girl’s love for Germany. Now listen to me, and don’t let me hear any snivelling, either. Pay attention to every word I say, and mind you do exactly as I tell you.”

“Yes, Rudolph,” murmured Mrs. Becker, obediently.

“I am going away, going away on important business. I want to get off as soon as possible, so go and pack my valise.”

“But, Rudolph, you will not leave me here alone with her? Oh, surely you will not do that! Let me go with you; I will carry the valise. I will not be any trouble.”

“Nonsense! you don’t know what you are talking about. I am sorry to leave you, but it cannot be helped. This is war time, and I am working for my country. You are to do as I say, and if you disobey my orders you will live to regret it. You are not to let the girl out after I am gone, do you understand? You are to let her suppose I am still here. When I have been away two days, you may do as you please. I don’t care what happens then. I shall have accomplished what I have to do, and I can take care of myself after that. The girl may say what she chooses.”

“But what will become of me, Rudolph?” cried Mrs. Becker, piteously. “They will hold me responsible—they——”

“Now, see here, Gertrude,” interrupted her husband in a somewhat milder tone, “I am sorry, very sorry, but, as I said before, it cannot be helped. I am working for a great cause. I cannot have all my work ruined by a silly child. “After all, it was your own niece who caused all the trouble. It is only just that you should suffer something for being the aunt of such an idiot. I would not leave you if it were not absolutely necessary for me to get away just now. Something that girl said has made me uneasy. That man Lippheim that she mentioned; we have been suspicious of him for some time. I saw him myself in New London, swaggering about at that dance I told you of. I had no idea he knew the Schiller girl. If he should track her here—ha! what’s that?”

“It’s the bell, Rudolph,” said Mrs. Becker, wiping her eyes.

Mr. Becker—who had given a violent start, and turned rather pale—pulled himself together with an effort.

“Go to the door,” he said. “If it’s any one to see me, say I’m out. Don’t let any one in, on any account.”

Mr. Becker’s tone was firm, but the color did not return to his face, and while his wife went to obey his commands, he glanced about the room nervously, as if for some means of escape, should occasion require it. There was a moment of silence, while the door was being opened, then a suppressed scream from Mrs. Becker, followed by approaching footsteps, and two men walked quietly into the room.

“You are Rudolph Becker, I believe,” remarked the foremost of the two strangers, and he glanced keenly about the room as he spoke.

“That is my name, certainly. To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr.—Mr. Lippheim, is it not?”

The visitor nodded.

“Quite correct,” he said. “Fritz Lippheim is my name. I suppose you are aware of the fact that, for several months, you have been under suspicion of being in the pay of the German Government?”

Mr. Becker changed color, but his voice, though less steady than usual, was still calm.

“I believe you are a German yourself,” he said, quietly.

“I was born in Germany,” the other answered, without the slightest hesitation, “but my family moved to this country when I was six years old. I am an American citizen, and for the past few months I have been a member of the United States Secret Service. I and my colleagues have been watching you since this country entered the war. We lost track of you for a few days after you left New London, but I was fortunate in learning your address this morning. Now, Becker, there is no use in making a row. Your game is up. There are two policemen waiting for you on the stairs, and as this is the third floor, you have no chance of escaping by the window.”

Whatever Rudolph Becker was, he was no coward. He drew himself up and folded his arms.

“What I have done was for my country,” he said. “I am not ashamed. If I am a spy, so are you, only with a difference. I have been working for Germany, and you—a German born—are in the service of her enemies.”

Fritz Lippheim shrugged his shoulders, and turned to his companion.

“Will you tell those men they may come in, Mr. Douaine?” he said. Mr. Douaine left the room for a moment, and when he returned he was accompanied by two stout policemen. Mrs. Becker was nowhere to be seen. At the first sign of danger, she had fled to her room, and locked herself in.

“Arrest this man,” commanded the secret service agent. The policemen obeyed. Mr. Becker offered no resistance, but stood quietly while the handcuffs were fastened on. He was evidently resigned to the inevitable.

“The next thing is to make a thorough search of the apartment,” said Fritz Lippheim.

For the first time the prisoner showed signs of embarrassment.

“I beg that you will not consider that necessary,” he said. “I have surrendered without a struggle. I am prepared to give up all the papers in my possession.”

“Search the apartment,” ordered Fritz, and began opening table-drawers, while Mr. Douaine and one of the policemen left the room together.

There was a moment of tense silence while Fritz emptied several drawers, and ran his eye hastily over the contents. Then the policeman returned.

“The door of one of the bedrooms is locked, sir,” he announced. “There is a woman in there; we can hear her crying.”

“Order her to come out,” said Fritz, imperturbably. “If she refuses, break in the door.”

“It is my wife,” protested Becker, “my poor, delicate wife. Surely, gentlemen, you will respect her feelings. I will go away quietly with you, but do not disturb my wife.”

But the police officer had already left the room, and in another moment he could be heard knocking at Mrs. Becker’s door.

“I say, ma’am, unlock that door, will you? We’ve got to get in there. We don’t want to use violence, but it may be necessary if you don’t obey the orders of the police.”

There was the sound of a door being flung violently open, and Mrs. Becker, pale and wild-eyed, rushed into the sitting-room and flung herself on her knees at Fritz Lippheim’s feet. “Oh, spare me, spare me!” she implored. “It isn’t my fault. I haven’t done anything, indeed I haven’t. I begged my husband to let the child go, I implored him to do it, but he said it was for the cause, and——”

“Hold your tongue, Gertrude,” shouted Mr. Becker. “No one is going to hurt you. They can all see you are too big a fool to do any harm.”

Mrs. Becker relapsed into low, frightened sobbing. Fritz Lippheim, whose face had suddenly brightened, turned eagerly to the policemen.

“Search every corner of this apartment,” he said. “Break open any door you find locked.”

With a long sigh Gretel opened her eyes. Some one was bending over her, holding strong smelling-salts to her nose, and some one else was trying to force something between her lips. She felt utterly bewildered, and for the first moment had no idea where she was, or what had happened. But as she gazed up into the two anxious faces, remembrance came back with a rush.

“Percy,” she whispered, “is it really you? And—why, it’s Fritz Lippheim, too. Oh, Percy dear, have you come to take me home?”

“Yes, dear,” her brother answered gently. “Don’t try to talk. Just swallow this; it will make you feel better. You are quite safe, and Mr. Lippheim and I have come to take you home to Barbara.”

Gretel swallowed the contents of the spoon Percy was holding to her lips, and though it made her cough and choke, it seemed to revive her, and when she spoke next, her voice was stronger.

“I’m loyal. I’m an American. I didn’t run away on purpose. Oh, Percy, you don’t believe it, even if the paper did say that dreadful thing?”

“Of course, I don’t believe it, dear. You have been a brave loyal little American. We know everything, and I am prouder of you than if you had won the croix de guerre. But you mustn’t talk any more just now. You are not very strong, you know. Lie still till you feel a little better, and then we will go home.”

Gretel gave a great gasp of joy and relief, and then her eyes closed, and she slipped away again into unconsciousness.