“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. CHAPTER XV SAFE AT HOME It was very pleasant in the Douaines’ garden that lovely September afternoon, and so Gretel thought, as she lay back in her steamer-chair, under the big apple-tree, and gazed out across the wide stretch of lawn to the broad Potomac, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. She had been reading, but her book had fallen unheeded into her lap, and her thoughts were busy with many things. She was a very pale, fragile-looking Gretel, a mere shadow of the rosy-cheeked girl who had waved good-bye to her friends at the New London station, a little more than two months earlier. The long nervous illness, which had followed that terrible week of imprisonment, had told cruelly upon her strength. All that love and care could do had been done, but for days the poor child had lain in an only half-conscious condition, varied by fits of hysteria, very painful to witness.