“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.”