“There’s no end to their wickedness,” she declared, “and the slyness of them, even the American ones. My Jim says they caught a feller the other day trying to put a bomb under a train full of soldiers, and he’d lived in this country since he was eight years old. What do you think of that?”
“It is very terrible,” Gretel admitted, “but there are some loyal German-Americans,” she added, timidly.
“Maybe there is, and maybe there ain’t. I wouldn’t trust one of them, I know that. Have some more raspberries, do, now. They’re real good, and I bought the cream on purpose.”
Gretel allowed Mrs. Murphy to fill her plate for a second time, but the Irish woman’s talk had rather added to her uneasiness, and she was thankful that she had decided to tell Percy about her meeting with Fritz Lippheim.
After luncheon she went into the drawing-room, and, opening the piano, practised dutifully for the next two hours. There had been little time for practising in New London, and she was anxious not to fall behind with her music during the vacation. But the afternoon was hot and sultry, and by half-past three Gretel began to feel decidedly tired and sleepy.
“I’ll lie down for a little while,” she decided, “and then I’ll go to see Mrs. Barlow. I don’t believe late hours agree with me.”
Accordingly, she curled herself up comfortably on the library sofa, and in a very few minutes had fallen into a comfortable nap.
How long she had slept Gretel did not know, but she was aroused by the sharp ringing of the telephone bell.
“It’s probably Percy,” she told herself, as she rubbed her eyes and rose to answer the summons.
It was evident that Mrs. Murphy had not heard the bell, for there was no sound of approaching footsteps, and the house was very still. Gretel took down the receiver, and began the conversation with the customary “Hello!”