“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?”