“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?”