The ribbon
had evidently come from the ship, but what was it doing here under the
lining of Eugene Prince's portfolio? Why was he carrying around a ship's
ribbon from an interned German vessel? Who was Waldemar von Oldenbach?
Evidently a lieutenant on the _Eitel Friederich_, from the address on
the letter. But what was a letter addressed to such a person doing in
the possession of the artist? A letter from a woman, it undoubtedly was.
Something heavy was in the envelope beside the letter; it fell out into
Sahwah's lap as she handled the letter. It was a little Maltese cross
made of gray metal, with letters stamped in the ends of the crosspieces.
Sahwah held it in her hand and spelled out the letters, and then all at
once she knew what it was. She had seen a picture of such a thing in a
magazine only a few days before. It was an Iron Cross of the First
Class. She stared at it, fascinated, for a moment, then shuddered and
dropped it back into the envelope.

She looked over the thin sheets of paper, but could make nothing of
them; she then turned back to the first letter that had come to light.
The sheets were open and she felt no hesitancy about reading them.

What Sahwah read sent her heart wildly pounding against her throat.
"Atterbury?" "Strikes?"--and signed by Prince Karl Augustus of
Hohenburg? This must be the very letter that was stolen from Mr. Wing's
desk--the letter they accused Veronica of taking! Eugene Prince, the
artist, had taken it and hidden it under the lining of his sketch book.
But no one had ever thought of suspecting him! He had been so sure that
Veronica was an enemy agent, and here he was one himself! She had been
right after all, Veronica was innocent, and her faith in her had not
been betrayed. For a moment that one great dazzling fact blotted out all
other facts. It was not too late yet to save Veronica from internment.
She must get to Mr. Wing as fast as she could with her great discovery.
She must----Here Sahwah looked down, and directly into the face of
Eugene Prince, standing on the ground beside the tree, his eye on the
portfolio and the articles spread out in her lap. For a moment "they
looked at each other, tense, speechless, then the artist sprang into the
tree, snatched the portfolio and the letter away from her and darted
away into the woods. Stunned by surprise Sahwah slid limply to the
ground, vainly looking around to see where the artist had gone. The
woods had swallowed him. At S