Mr. Hamlin looked into his drawer and saw the lost documents, then he passed his hand over his forehead.  “I don’t understand,” he muttered.  “Do you mean that, instead of the actual papers, you saved me by substituting blank papers for these valuable ones?  Then your friend did try to sell her country’s secrets, and you saved her and me.  I shall never cease to be grateful to you to the longest day I live.  For your sake I will spare your friend.  But she must leave my house in the morning.  I do not wish ever to look upon her again.”

“Bab did not sell your papers, Uncle,” Ruth protested passionately.  “You shall not make such accusations against her.  It was she who saved you.  I did only what she told me to do.  I did substitute the papers, but it was Barbara who thought of it.”

“Then who, in Heaven’s name, is guilty of this dreadful act?” Mr. Hamlin cried.

Neither Ruth nor Bab answered.  Bab still sat with her face covered with her hands, in order to hide her hot tears.  She cried partly for poor Harriet, and partly because of her sympathy for Mr. Hamlin.  Ruth gazed at her uncle, white, silent and trembling.

“Who, Ruth?  I demand to know!” Mr. Hamlin repeated.

“I shall not tell you,” Ruth returned, with a little gasp.

“Send for my daughter, Harriet.  She may know something,” Mr. Hamlin ejaculated.  Then he rang for a servant.

The two girls and the one man, who had grown old in the last few minutes, waited in unbroken silence.  The girls had a strong desire to scream, to cry out, to warn Harriet.  She must not let her father know of her foolish deed while his anger was at its height.

It seemed an eternity before the butler returned to Mr. Hamlin’s study.

“Miss Hamlin is not in her room,” he reported respectfully.

“Not in her room?  Then look for her through the house,” Mr. Hamlin repeated more quietly.  He had gained greater control of himself.  But a new fear was oppressing him, weighing him down.  He would not give the idea credence even in his own mind.

Three—­four—­five minutes passed.  Still Harriet did not appear.

“Let me look for Harriet, Uncle,” Ruth implored, unable to control herself any longer.

At this moment Mollie came innocently down the stairs.  “Is Mr. Hamlin looking for Harriet?” she inquired.  “Harriet left the house ten minutes ago.  She had on her coat and her hat, but she would not stop to say good-bye.  I think her maid went with her.  Mary had just a shawl thrown over her head.  I am sure they will be back in a few minutes.  Harriet must have gone out to post a letter.  I thought she would have come back before this.”

Imagine poor Mollie’s horror and surprise when Mr. Hamlin dropped into a chair at her news and groaned:  “It was Harriet after all.  It was my own child!”

“Uncle, rouse yourself!” Ruth implored him.  “Harriet thought she was only playing a harmless trick on you.  She did not dream that the papers were of any importance.  Mrs. Wilson and Peter Dillon deceived her cruelly.  You must go and find out what has become of Harriet.”  Mr. Hamlin shook his head drearily.