Transcriber's Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE CRIMSON PATCH

"You want to warn me.... What about? I don't understand"

THE
CRIMSON PATCH

BY

AUGUSTA HUIELL SEAMAN

Author of "The Slipper Point Mystery," "The

Girl Next Door," "Three Sides of Paradise

Green," "The Sapphire Signet,"

etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY

C. M. RELYEA

Copyright, 1919, 1920, by

The Century Co.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts

thereof, must not be reproduced in any

form without permission of the publisher.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE CRIMSON PATCH

CHAPTER I
SUITE NUMBER 403

So this was to be her home—and for three long months! Patricia Meade dropped her suitcase on a convenient chair and gazed curiously about her. A hotel bedroom, with stiff-looking twin brass beds, two willow rockers, one straight chair, an imposing mahogany bureau and one small table—absolutely all the furniture, if one excepted the stiff draperies at the windows and one or two not particularly artistic pastel pictures adorning the wall. Through a door and across the intervening sitting-room she could see another bedroom similarly equipped.

In the sitting-room, her father, Captain Meade, was tipping the grinning bell-boy who had brought up their luggage,—a snub-nosed, blue-eyed, curly-haired young chap whose gaze was rivetted adoringly on the captain's khaki uniform. When the boy was gone, the captain turned to the door of Patricia's bedroom.

"Well, honey! Not much like home, eh? Do you think you can stand it for three months? Jove!—if she hasn't got her suitcase and is unpacking it already!"

Patricia was indeed frantically flinging her belongings about.

"Oh, it's jolly!" she replied, over her shoulder. "But you're right about it's not being much like home. I felt as if I'd just expire if I couldn't see things strewn around in a sort of careless and cosy way, as if people really lived here!" She rose suddenly from her kneeling posture before the suitcase, ran across the room and thumped both stiff pillows on the beds, knocking them a trifle awry. "There! Now they look more like real beds that you sleep in and less like advertisements in the back of a magazine!" she laughed. "The sitting-room's a little better, with that big table and the pretty reading-lamp and the comfortable chairs. But do let's get a lot of papers and magazines and books at once, and have them lying all around as we do at home. Mother would be scandalized—she's always picking them up after us," she went rattling on, and then stopped abruptly, lips quivering, eyes bright with sudden tears.

"If mother could only be with us!" she sobbed.

"Now, honey, don't—" the captain soothed her, laying his arm lovingly around her shoulder. "Remember you're a soldier's daughter; and,—well, brace up! Mother's going to be beautifully taken care of in that Sanatorium, and Aunt Harriet is with her, to keep her company and incidentally to indulge in some little pet cures of her own, on the side."

"But why, oh! why did it have to happen just now?" wailed Patricia, refusing to be comforted.

"Is it any wonder that she broke down completely and had a bad case of nervous prostration, after waiting over a year for me to come back from France? And feeling sure, too, for the last six months that she'd never see me alive again after she heard I'd been taken a prisoner to Germany? It's enough to have broken down the nerve of a cave-woman. And your mother was always delicate."

"Oh, Daddy! It was like getting you back from the dead," sighed Patricia, hiding her head in his shoulder and shuddering at the memory. "And in three months, you're going back again!"

"But not to the dangers and horrors, this time," he reminded her, and added half under his breath, "Worse luck! Fortunately or unfortunately, my constitution will never stand the strain of trench-life again, after a few months of German prison-diet, etc. But I'm only too thankful that the Government has found use for me in some other capacity."

Patricia, who had been perched on his knee, snuggling her head in his coat collar, suddenly sat up straight and looked him in the eyes. "Daddy, can't you tell me what it is you're doing?" she begged. "I don't ask just from idle curiosity. I want to understand. I want to help you if I can. I love America, and I am a soldier's daughter, and I want to act intelligently about things and be of some use. That's one reason I'm so glad you've allowed me to be with you in this strange, big city and in this great hotel, for three months,—besides the joy of not being separated from you before you go back to Europe again for goodness knows how long! I want to do something for my country, too!"

The Captain stroked his short mustache for several silent moments before answering. "I quite understand how you feel," he said at length. "And I appreciate it. You're seventeen, Patricia,—almost a woman grown. I know I could trust you utterly with the whole thing, but it isn't wise,—in fact, it isn't even allowable. A government secret is a government secret, and cannot be revealed even to one's nearest and dearest. This much only, I can tell you. While I was a prisoner, I stumbled upon a very valuable secret, something new possessed by the enemy which, however, they have not had the gumption to make use of properly. But I saw that it could be vastly improved upon and made a hundred times more effective. The Government has charged me with this task, and I'm to take it back with me when I go. It's a very vital and important thing, Patricia, and may turn the tide for us. More I cannot tell you. It would not be wise nor even safe for you to know. And you can help me most by appearing to know nothing whatever about my affairs. Remember that,—to know nothing, whatever happens,—" He was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door and went to open it.

"Telegram for you, sir!" grinned the bell-boy of the snub-nose and twinkling eyes. Captain Meade tore it open hastily.

"Here's a pretty pickle!" he exclaimed, handing the yellow slip to Patricia. "Your Aunt Evelyn fell yesterday, just before she was to take the train from Chicago to meet us here, and will be laid up for the next six or eight weeks with a broken leg. Just like Evelyn!" he added impatiently. "She was always the worst youngster for falling down and getting damaged at critical moments. And she's kept it up consistently all the rest of her life. I'm sorry for her, of course, but what on earth are we to do?"

They stared blankly at each other. "Poor Aunt Evelyn!" sighed Patricia, sympathetically. "She was looking forward so to this three-months' holiday. She wrote that she hadn't been away from home even a week, for the last ten years, and was going to enjoy the rest so much. I'm awfully sorry for her. She'll be so disappointed!"

"Yes, but that doesn't solve the problem of what we're going to do," argued the captain. "She was to be your companion here. I can't be around all the time. I may even have to be away several days at a time. A young girl like you can't stay alone in a big hotel. What in sancho are we going to do?" He ran his hands through his hair despairingly. "It was only on the basis of her being able to join us that your mother and I consented to this arrangement at all. I guess now you'll have to go out to Chicago and stay with her, after all. There's no where else for you to go."

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, don't!" implored Patricia, hurling herself at him in a panic. "I couldn't, I simply couldn't stand being parted from you now. And I'd have the most miserable time there. Aunt Evelyn would be in bed and a trained nurse puttering around her all the time, (I know her!) and there'd be nothing to do and I'd be simply wretched and unhappy all the while. We can have such a cosy time here, just you and I, and I'll promise to be very good and quiet and read a lot, and stay here in our own suite all by myself when you are away. I've brought a lot of fancy-work, too, and I'm going to do Red Cross knitting and make all my Christmas presents during these three summer months, so I'll be very, very busy. Do say yes, Daddy!"

Captain Meade looked only half convinced. "I don't like it at all, Patricia. It will not only be lonely, for you, it may possibly even be dangerous. There are spies about us all the time. If they should happen to nose out my mission, they'd no doubt try to make it hot for me—and for you too. Your Aunt Evelyn was to be your safeguard. But now—"

Patricia suddenly interrupted him. "Do you have to go away for any length of time very soon? I mean, to go for several days?"

"Well, no," he admitted. "I'm supposed to be giving lectures at the churches and Y. M. C. A.'s of this city and hereabout on my experiences as a prisoner. That, however, is hardly more than a 'blind,' to cover my real work. It will take me away some afternoons and evenings, but I shall not stay away overnight for a few weeks yet, in all likelihood."

"Then, Daddy," urged the wily Patricia, grasping eagerly at this straw, "until you find you have really to be absent for any length of time, let me stay with you. If later on you should find you must go, then we can see what to do. Meantime let's be happy together for a while and see what's going to turn up. I'll even go to Chicago then, if you insist, if you'll only let me stay here with you for a while."

And then Captain Meade relinquished the argument, glad to settle the vexed question, at least temporarily. "Very well," he said, a trifle reluctantly. "Stay you shall, since you wish it so, at least for a while. But, Patricia, attend to what I am going to say, and never forget it under any circumstances. It's an old saying that 'walls have ears,' but it was never truer than it is in these days and in a big hotel. Trust no one. Hear everything, see everything—and say nothing. My very life, and even yours too, may depend upon your obeying in this, implicitly."

Patricia nodded gravely. "I understand, Father!" was all she replied. But her brain was a-whirl with feverish, delicious excitement. "Spies," "danger," "secret mission"—the magic words gave her an indescribable thrill! And yet, with it all, she realized too the gravity of the affair; and the realization served to give her a mental balance beyond her years.

"But now let's go down to dinner!" cried the Captain gaily, glad to change to a subject less tense. "I've an appetite worthy of an ex-prisoner in a German camp!"

As they passed out into the corridor, Patricia glanced up at the number over their door. "Suite number 403!" she murmured, squeezing her father's arm. "Now I wonder just what's going to happen to us while this is our home number?"

CHAPTER II
FRIENDS OR ENEMIES?

They made their way through the long corridors, down the elevator, past the cosy sun-parlors and into the imposing dining-room. To Patricia it was all a splendid adventure, even without the strange, new element so recently hinted at by her father.

"Daddy," she began, when they were settled at a comfortable table for two in a remote corner, "I wonder if you realize how simply heavenly it is for me to sit down to a meal like this (not to speak of all the meals to come!) and pick out just exactly what I want to eat, without having cooked or helped to cook them all beforehand, and knowing I won't have to wash the dishes afterward!" She picked up the menu and scanned it luxuriously. "Now I think some cream-of-asparagus soup and a tenderloin steak and some nice French-fried potatoes would just suit me to-night!"

There was no response to her remark, and, glancing up curiously, she found her father's gaze riveted on the waiter who had just arrived to take their order. Patricia, too, turned her attention to the man, and found him a singularly unprepossessing individual. He was of medium height, with a swarthy skin, and black hair plastered closely down the sides of his head. His eyebrows were extremely black and bushy, and one eyelid drooped conspicuously. Several of his prominent front teeth were of gold, and gleamed in a sinister manner when he spoke. His voice was thick and husky, and had a foreign accent.

"Are you to be the regular man for this table?" questioned the Captain. The man merely nodded in sullen affirmation.

"I want to know your name," pursued Captain Meade. "I expect to be here some time and may keep this table. And if I'm going to have anyone about me regularly, I prefer to call him by the name that belongs to him. What's yours?"

"Peter Stoger," still sullenly.

"What nationality?"

"Swiss."

"Very well, Peter. You may take our order." And without further remark, the Captain dismissed him.

"Daddy, I don't like that man," whispered Patricia when he was gone. "He looks like an alien enemy. I don't believe he's Swiss at all. Can't we have another? I know he's going to make me uncomfortable and worry me."

"Oh, he's all right," replied the Captain easily. "You must learn not to mind an unprepossessing outer appearance. If he makes a good waiter, nothing else about him will matter much to us. Don't get 'spies' on the brain."

Patricia subsided, unconvinced, and they both gazed quietly about them for the few moments while they were waiting to be served.

"Oh, Daddy," whispered Patricia, "don't look for a minute or two, but isn't that a lovely woman at the table diagonally at our right, just a little behind you? She reminds me somehow of Aunt Evelyn. And there's a pretty girl with her, just about my age, I should think, but I wonder what makes her look so queer and cross—and sullen?"

After a proper interval, Captain Meade glanced in the direction indicated. The woman's appearance was certainly striking enough to attract attention in any assembly. Her wavy gray hair was elaborately dressed, she had large, liquid brown eyes, she was beautifully if quietly gowned, and was of imposing height and build.

"She does look a little like your Aunt Evelyn," he agreed, "only much handsomer and more imposing. The young person with her doesn't seem to be enjoying life, somehow."

The girl in question did indeed appear very unhappy. She was fifteen or sixteen years old, but of a slight, fragile build that made her seem younger. Her hair, a mass of dark curls, was tied back simply at the nape of her neck. But her lovely face was marred by a pouting, sullen mouth, and her big dark eyes gazed about her with an expression that struck Patricia as one half-frightened, half-rebellious. She did not often look about her, however, but kept her gaze in the main riveted on her plate. Her companion chatted with her almost continuously, but she answered only in monosyllables or not at all.

They were a strange pair. Patricia could not understand them at all, nor could she, for the remainder of the meal, keep her eyes long from turning toward their table. The older woman fascinated her, not only by her handsome appearance and vague resemblance to her aunt, but also because of some subtle attraction in her vivacious manner. Once she looked up suddenly, caught Patricia's gaze fixed on her, and smiled in so winning a manner that Patricia was impelled to smile back in response. The girl puzzled her by her strange, inexplicable conduct toward one who was so evidently interested and absorbed in her. Patricia found herself wondering more and more what could be the relationship between the two.

But their own meal now delightfully finished with French ice cream and tiny cups of black coffee, Patricia and her father rose to leave the dining-room. Their way led directly past the table that had so deeply interested Patricia. As she approached it, she noticed that a dainty handkerchief belonging to the older woman had fallen unheeded to the floor at her side. Stooping to pick it up, Patricia restored it, and was rewarded by another charming smile and a "Thank you, dear!" But in the same instant her eye caught that of the young girl, and was held by it for a long, tense moment. Patricia was no practiced reader of expression, but it seemed to her that in this moment, fear, hope, dread and longing were all mirrored successively in the beautiful dark eyes raised to her face. Then the lids were dropped and the girl went on eating in apparent unconcern.

Patricia and her father passed on. They had almost reached the door of the big dining-room when Captain Meade stopped suddenly to grasp the hand of an elderly lady seated at a table near the door.

"Mrs. Quale! by all things unexpected! How do you happen to be here? Let me present my daughter, Patricia." Patricia made her best curtsey to one of the quaintest little elderly ladies she thought she had ever seen.

"Delighted to know Patricia," began Mrs. Quale. "I'm here by virtue of having my house burn down, not exactly over my head, but while I was away in New Haven. Carelessness of old Juno, my colored cook. She would keep too hot a range fire and overheated the chimney. At any rate, here I am till the thing is rebuilt, and a precious long job they're making of it, with all these war-time restrictions. So this is Patricia! I saw her once before when she was a tiny baby. Are you staying here, Captain Meade?"

The Captain sketched briefly for her, the reason of their presence in the big hotel,—his wife's breakdown and departure to a sanatorium; the closing-up of their home and his coming with Patricia for a combination of holiday for her and lecture-program for him to this distant city, of their disappointment about Aunt Evelyn, and their consequent predicament.

"Well, don't worry your head another moment about Patricia," laughed Mrs. Quale. "Fate seems to have arranged things very nicely, that I should be here to act as her chaperon whenever necessary, and general adviser at all times. My suite is 720, ninth floor. Be sure you call on me soon, Patricia, and we'll get really acquainted in short order. Your father played in my back yard as a child (his house was right next door to ours) and so I feel quite like a grandmother to you!"

"I like Mrs. Quale, Daddy," Patricia confided to her father, as they were ascending to their rooms in the elevator. "I like the way her hair is fixed in those queer, old-fashioned scallops, and her dear, round, soft face, and her jolly manner. But how is it, I've never heard you speak of her before?"

"She is an old friend of my boyhood days," replied her father, "and, as she said, we used to live next door to her. I don't know why I didn't think of her right away, when your aunt's telegram came. I shouldn't have hesitated to take you straight to her and put you in her care. However, if her house is out of commission and she's staying here, it answers the purpose even better. You must be sure to call on her in her rooms to-morrow. Now, I'm afraid you're in for a lonely evening, Patricia, for I have an important business matter to attend to, and may be detained rather late. Telephone down to the office for anything you need or any attention you want, but don't leave these rooms on any consideration—short of a fire! Tomorrow we'll do the town and go out somewhere in the evening, so I hope you won't be lonely to-night,—eh, honey?"

"Indeed I won't be lonely. Don't you worry about me a minute!" agreed Patricia. "I've heaps of things to do."

When Captain Meade had gone, Patricia flew about, busily occupying herself with unpacking her trunk and making her bedroom a little more homelike with a few of her own personal knickknacks and belongings. When this occupation could be prolonged no further, she sank down in a cosy chair by the table in the living-room, intending to read a magazine, but in reality to dream delightfully over the events of the day and her father's strange, half-exhilarating, half-terrifying hints.

A great hotel full of people,—literally hundreds of them,—coming and going continually,—some of them friends, some of them enemies, perhaps,—and she, Patricia Meade in the center of it, she and her father the very center of a whirlpool of plots and danger, perhaps! Then more sober thought reminded her that there was, in all probability, no likelihood of anything particularly thrilling except in her own imagination, and she laughed at herself for romancing so foolishly. They would have a very delightful holiday, she and her father. He would accomplish safely and without difficulty, the mission that occupied him, they would return home to a reunited household at the end of the summer,—and then he would go away, 'over there' again.

At this point in her revery, she suddenly dropped into an unpleasant depression and decided to send for a sandwich and a glass of milk, write a tiny note to her mother and go to bed. All at once she realized how very tired she was and how the excitement and exhilaration had all evaporated, leaving only weariness in their place. Rather timidly she telephoned her order to the office and sat down again to await its arrival.

Five minutes later, she answered a knock at the door, to find the grinning, implike bell-boy of their first encounter, standing there with a tray.

"Didn't have no chicken left, ma'am, so I got you tongue. Best I could do!" he vouchsafed.

"Oh, thanks! That will do just as well," she replied, then something impelled her to inquire, "Do you always answer the calls in this corridor?"

"Yep,—at least I try to work it that way. I got a reason!" he ended darkly.

"A reason? What is it?" she asked idly.

"Not allowed to tell. State secret. Governor forbids it!" he grinned; and Patricia found herself laughing as much at his serio-comic expression as at his very apparent nonsense. "Anything else wanted?" he ended.

"Nothing but your name," she replied, following her father's tactics. "If you're going to be around here regularly, my father would like to know it."

"Oh, it's Chet, just Chet Jackson!" he said, apparently a trifle dumfounded to think that anyone should care to know it. To the hotel at large he was only 'Number 27.'

"Well, goodnight. That will be all, I think." And Patricia turned back into the room to lay the tray on the table. But as she retraced her steps to close the door, she suddenly remembered that she had meant to order ice-water for the night also, and walked out into the corridor to see if Chester were still in sight. He was not, however, and she turned back toward her own door, murmuring, "Oh, well, it doesn't really matter. I don't want to bother 'phoning down again. Daddy can send for it when he comes in."

What impelled her, just at that instant, to turn her head and glance over her shoulder, she never quite knew. Perhaps if she had not, if she had gone quietly in and closed her door, all future events might have been different. At any rate, turn her head she did, drawn by some mysterious power, and beheld a curious sight.

A door diagonally opposite her own, across the corridor, was standing a trifle ajar. It had not been so while she was talking to the bell-boy, of that she was positive, nor had she heard the faintest sound of its being opened. And in the opening was framed a face, gazing at her absorbedly, intently. Patricia's heart gave a sudden leap. It was the face of the young girl she had noticed in the dining-room.

So unexpected to both was this encounter of eyes, that for a long instant, neither could remove her gaze. Patricia was first to recover her poise; moreover, truth to tell, she was even a trifle pleased at this opportunity to break the growing monotony of the evening. She smiled her friendliest smile at the face across the corridor, and with its resultant effect on the girl in the opposite doorway, she was not a little astonished. The expression in the big, black eyes changed suddenly from watchfulness to wonder, and a slow, reluctant answering smile curved the sullen mouth. The effect was like a shaft of sunlight breaking through a black cloud.

"I was looking for our bell-boy," Patricia called across laughingly and informally. "He escaped before I could speak about bringing ice-water." The girl in the opposite doorway suddenly realized that her presence too, might call for some explanation.

"I was looking for my—ah—for Mme. Vanderpoel," she hesitated. "She has gone out. I am a little lonely—and was watching for her—to return." She spoke with a noticeably foreign accent and her manner was reticent and confused. But Patricia, for some inexplicable reason felt immediately drawn to her. The girl was lonely. So was she. What possible objection could there be to spending a while in each other's company?

"Why, I'm lonely, too," she vouchsafed. "My father was to be away all the evening. Won't you come in and sit with me awhile? I've a couple of sandwiches that we can divide, or I can send for more. Do come!"

For a moment it seemed as if the girl were about to consent. A surprised, dimpling smile lit her face for an instant, and she replied, "Oh, thanks! Since you are so—"

At this moment the door of the room adjoining hers opened and a waiter came out, bearing in his hands a tray of used dishes, and passed directly between them, down the corridor. He glanced neither to the right nor left, and disappeared in a moment down the turning at the end of the hall. Patricia realized with a tiny qualm of dislike that it was the waiter of her own table. But his passing had broken the spell of the new acquaintance.

"I thank you—but—but this evening I must stay in the room," the girl resumed, inexplicably contradicting what she had plainly intended to say at first. The bright smile was gone. Her face had again assumed the clouded, sullen expression. Patricia was thoroughly puzzled.

"Well, that's too bad!" was all she could find to reply. "Same here, or perhaps I could run over to you. Are you staying here long?"

"I think so. I am not sure how long."

"Oh, well, then we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted. Goodnight!" Patricia ended pleasantly, as she closed her door.

But sitting alone and nibbling her sandwiches later, she found herself vexed with many puzzling surmises. Who was this strange, interesting, appealing foreign girl? What was her relation to the beautiful woman she called 'Mme. Vanderpoel'? Why had she appeared to assent to the invitation so gladly, and suddenly retracted after the passing of the man, Peter Stoger?

"I like her, though," thought Patricia confusedly, "And yet I can't for the life of me tell why. I can't make her out. I don't believe what she said about looking for that woman to come back. I think that was only an excuse. I firmly believe she was watching me. But why? There's something queer about the whole thing. But, no matter what happens, I'm going to make a desperate effort to get better acquainted with her. I believe we're going to be friends."

CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW ON THE WALL

In spite of her resolution to get better acquainted with her mysterious neighbor, however, Patricia made no further progress in that direction for several days. These were spent in a round of sight-seeing with her father through the big, busy, manufacturing city in which they were staying, at present so absorbed in its war work and munition making. After that came a series of delightful trolley-trips through distant and picturesque parts of the surrounding country. And when she was at leisure at all, Patricia spent not a little time with Mrs. Quale, finding a real delight in her quaint, sunny, comfortable company. During their wanderings, it chanced that she and her father took few meals at the hotel. And thus it fell out that she saw nothing, or almost nothing, of the curious couple that had so interested her on the first night. Once, indeed, she did have a brief glimpse of them at breakfast, but the older woman only acknowledged her presence by a friendly little nod. The girl never so much as turned her head or looked in Patricia's direction.

Then, on the sixth morning after their arrival, came a change. Captain Meade announced it as they were taking their leisurely breakfast.

"We've done all the gadding about that I'll be able to indulge in for a while," he told her. "I must settle down to business now, and I'm afraid you'll be left pretty much on your own hands."

"Well, to tell the truth, I don't mind very much," she replied, lazily dallying with the grape-fruit. "I'm so tired of being on the go that I'll appreciate a little rest and quietness."

"I must go off this morning to be gone almost all day," went on Captain Meade. "You will be a little lonely, perhaps, but there's always Mrs. Quale. Don't rush her too much, however. Remember she's a very busy woman. But you can always turn to her in emergencies or if you need advice."

"No, I won't bother her," returned Patricia, "and I think I'll spend the morning over at the sea-wall in the park. I love it there, and it's just the place to take some knitting and a book and perhaps write some letters. Will you be back to lunch?"

"I hardly expect to. Order a lunch sent to the room, or go down to the dining-room if you prefer, but don't wait for me."

"Oh, I'll have my luncheon sent upstairs, I guess," sighed Patricia. "I detest that Peter Stoger more every time I see him. I feel as if he were spying on me constantly. I can't understand why you don't realize it, too."

The captain smiled as they rose to leave the table. "Poor Peter would be surprised, and horrified probably, if he realized he was posing as a German spy for your benefit. But suit yourself, Patricia, about luncheon, and don't be alarmed if I'm not back till late. If I'm not here by dinner-time, ask Mrs. Quale if you may dine at her table."

"I surely will," agreed Patricia. "And I—I beg your pardon!" The latter remark she addressed suddenly to the handsome woman whom she now knew as Madame Vanderpoel, who was breakfasting alone at her own table, and, as they were passing, had touched Patricia, a trifle hesitantly, on the arm.

"It is I that must beg your pardon," she answered. "I am going to be so bold as to ask a very great favor, though I do not even know you, but I am in great trouble and perplexity this morning."

"Why, I'll be glad to do anything, of course," began Patricia, in surprise.

"I was sure you would. I read it in your face. That is why I ask," Madame Vanderpoel hurried on. "I am called away to New York this morning on the most urgent business—something that cannot be postponed. Unfortunately, my dear little charge, Virginie, Mademoiselle de Vos, is quite miserable—a violent nervous headache; she is subject to them frequently, poor little soul! I dread to leave her alone all day in the care only of that stupid chambermaid, yet my business is such that I simply cannot postpone it. Would it be imposing too much on your kindness to ask you to stop in there occasionally, just for a moment or two, to see that she is as comfortable as possible? You are, I believe, just across the hall from us, so it would not be a long journey."

"Why, I'll be delighted to!" agreed Patricia, heartily. "I'll sit with her just as long as she cares to have me. Don't worry about her at all. I'm famous as a nurse, too, for my mother never has been very well, and I'm used to waiting on her."

"Oh, thank you so much!" breathed Madame Vanderpoel, seemingly much relieved. "I'll be so much easier in mind. I leave almost at once after breakfast. Go in as soon as you like. Just knock at the door and open it. I'll leave it unlocked. I can never repay your kindness."

"That solves the problem of my day for me, Daddy," remarked Patricia, when they were back in their rooms. "I'll stay around here and visit Virginie de Vos (My! but I'm glad I know her name at last!) every little while. I've been real anxious to meet her, and didn't know how I was going to get the chance."

But the captain frowned a little doubtfully. "It's all right, I suppose, and you couldn't very well refuse, but I rather wish you didn't have to come in contact with any strangers here. They may be all right—and they may not. These are queer times, and you can't trust any one. Get Mrs. Quale to go in with you, if possible, and don't stay there more than fifteen minutes at any time."

Patricia opened her eyes wide with astonishment. "Well, of all things! You don't suspect people like that of—of anything queer, do you?"

"I suspect no one, and trust no one in this entire establishment except, of course, Mrs. Quale. But don't get another attack of 'spies' on the brain, just because I warned you to be ordinarily cautious. It's probably all right. I'll be back by eight o'clock, anyway. Now, good-by, honey, and take care of yourself."

Patricia waited until nearly ten o'clock before essaying her first visit to the sick girl across the hall. Then, obedient to her father's injunction, she called up Mrs. Quale on the house telephone, to ask if that lady would find it convenient to accompany her. But the clerk at the desk informed her that Mrs. Quale had gone out for the day, leaving only her maid. Patricia had seen this woman several times, quiet, elderly, and noticeably hard of hearing, and who, Mrs. Quale said, had been in her service for many years. So Patricia was left with no alternative but to make her first venture alone.

"I'm sure Daddy wouldn't want me to neglect the poor little sick thing, even if Mrs. Quale isn't there," she told herself as she knocked at the door of number 404, across the hall.

She had vaguely expected to find the sick girl in bed, her head swathed in bandages, the room darkened and orderly. The sight that met her eyes as she entered, at a half-muffled "Come in," was as different as possible from that picture. The room was in great disorder, and bright with the glare of the morning sun. Both of the twin-beds were unmade—and empty. But at one of the windows, her back to the room, stood Virginie de Vos, staring out into the street. She did not turn round as Patricia entered.

"I beg your pardon—good morning," ventured Patricia, timidly. "I came at the request of your—of Madame Vanderpoel, who said you were ill. Is there anything I can do for you? Oughtn't you to be in bed?"

Still with her back to her visitor, Virginie shook her head. Suddenly, however, she whirled around. Her eyes were red and swollen with crying, but there were no tears in them now.

"Thank you—oh, very much! It is so thoughtful of you to come! My head does not ache—at least, not now. I am better. I do not need any care."

"But surely, there must be something the matter! You—you cannot be feeling quite well. Madame Vanderpoel said you were suffering severely," returned Patricia, thoroughly puzzled.

"Whatever it was, I am better now," muttered the girl, almost sullenly. "But you are—you are so kind!" she added, and her eyes lit up with a friendly gleam for an instant.

"Look here," cried Patricia, in sudden determination, "perhaps you are feeling better, but your headache may return. Now, I have a plan to propose. It's very hot and glaring and noisy in this room. You see, it's on the street side and you get all the racket from this busy avenue. Beside that, it hasn't been made up yet. Come over and spend the morning in our sitting-room with me. It's so quiet and pleasant there, for it faces on the little park at the back. I'll darken it up, and you can lie on the couch, and I'll read or talk to you—or just let you alone to sleep. Please come!"

Her manner was so cordial, so urgent and convincing, that Virginie visibly wavered.

"I ought—I ought not." She hesitated. "You do not know—you cannot know—"

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Patricia, impatiently. "What earthly reason could there be for not coming? Just come right along, and we'll have a lovely time. I'm awfully lonesome, and you probably would be, too, alone here all day. So come!"

Very reluctantly the girl assented and followed Patricia. Once established in the cool, pleasant, half-darkened sitting-room, however, her hesitancy seemed suddenly to vanish. Patricia insisted that she occupy the couch, which she finally consented to do, though patently more to please her hostess than herself.

"I am not sick; my head does not ache at all. Madame Vanderpoel was—er—mistaken." And, indeed, she looked the picture of health, now that her eyes were returning to a normal appearance.

"Never mind. She must have been worried about you, or she wouldn't have asked me to see to you. So lie down here for a while, and I'll sit by you and do this fancy-work. I suppose I ought to be knitting, but I do get so tired of it at times. Do you ever embroider?"

"Ah, I—I love it!" cried Virginie, in sudden enthusiasm. "Anything of the—artistic I love and have studied to do." It was when she grew excited, Patricia noticed, that her language became a trifle confused.

"Tell me," Patricia suddenly asked—"that is, if you don't mind—what nationality are you? I had thought perhaps you were French."

The girl's manner again grew restrained. But she only replied in a voice very low and tense, "I am a Belgian!"

Patricia impulsively dropped on her knees by the couch and took both of Virginie's hands in her own.

"You poor, poor darling!" she murmured. "And did you—were you driven out of the country?"

"We lived in Antwerp," Virginie replied simply. "My father and I have always lived there. My mother is long dead. When the war came, I was being educated—in one of the best schools. At first it was thought there would be no danger. Antwerp was thought to be—what you call—impregnable. Then, when the Germans had taken Malines and Louvain and Liège, Madame Vanderpoel (she is my mother's sister-in-law), came to take me away from the school, to take me to England. She told my father it was too dangerous, that he should flee also. But he would not go. He is an old man, and I am the last of his children. He was too old for army service, but he said he would remain and defend his villa there in Antwerp. He declared the city could not be taken. But he insisted that I go away to England—to safety. He sent me from him, though it broke our two hearts—and I have never seen him since. You know what happened to Antwerp."

She hid her face in the pillows and shook with unrepressed sobbing. Patricia knew not what to say to comfort the stricken girl. For several moments she only smoothed the dark hair in silence, but her touch was evidently soothing, for Virginie presently sat up and dried her eyes. She continued no further, however, with any personal disclosures.

"We too have suffered," began Patricia, thinking to divert her mind from herself,—"suffered dreadfully. You know, my father went over with the army when the war first broke out here, and when we bade him good-by, we knew there was a big chance of never seeing him again. But when we got word, a few months later, that he had been wounded and taken prisoner by the Germans, we were sure we shouldn't. The suspense was simply frightful. I never want to go through such a thing again as long as I live. Six long months it was, and we had no idea what had happened to him. We almost hoped he was dead, because the things we read of as happening to the prisoners were so unspeakable. And then he escaped and came back to us—we never knew a thing about it till he was brought home one day. I thought Mother would die with the joy of it. She's in a sanatorium now—getting over the shock of it all. So, you see, Virginie dear, I know what you have suffered, and I'm sure your troubles are going to vanish—just as ours did."

But Virginie only shook her head. "It is not possible. You do not know all—you cannot. My father is—perhaps—worse than dead. He—but still, I feel very close to you. We have both suffered. We understand—each other. I—I love you!" And she kissed Patricia impulsively on both cheeks.

Another silence followed, the girls sitting close together on the couch, in wordless, understanding sympathy. Suddenly Virginie sprang to her feet, her dark eyes gleaming. "Hush! Listen!" she cried. "I heard a strange rustling outside the door. Can it be—some one listening?" She hurried to the door and pulled it open, Patricia close at her heels. The corridor was empty.

"It was probably only a maid going by," laughed Patricia. "You're as scary as I am, I do believe. I heard it, too. But let's go and settle down again. I'm sure we're going to be the best kind of friends. Isn't it lucky we're right across the hall from each other?"

But Virginie did not assent to the latter question. Instead, she put one of her own. "Do you speak French at all?" she inquired. "I have studied the English, but I speak it with difficulty. I think only in French, and I can express myself better in that tongue. It is my native language."

"Oh, I'd love to talk French with you!" agreed Patricia, joyfully. "Father made me study it and speak it with him ever since I was a little girl. But I haven't had much practice in it lately, and I don't believe my accent is very good. We'll use it all the time, and you can tell me when I make mistakes."

So they began to chatter in French, to Virginie's evident relief, and her manner presently lost much of its restraint. At noon Patricia sent down for a delicious luncheon to be served for them both in the room, but was thoroughly disgusted to find that her pet aversion, Peter Stoger, had been sent up with it. And though he seemed anxious to arrange the table for them, she summarily dismissed him, shutting and locking the door after him with a shudder.

"I thoroughly detest that man," she confided to Virginie. And, rather to her surprise, Virginie heartily agreed with her.

"I know. I feel a great dislike toward him. I think he is an enemy. I think he is—watching."

"Precisely what I've thought!" cried Patricia. "Isn't it queer that we've both felt the same about him! Ugh! I wish now that we'd gone down to the dining-room. We could have sat at your table. You have another waiter. Well, never mind. Let's enjoy ourselves now, anyway."

The afternoon wore away, finding the two girls still in each other's company, still exchanging girlish confidences over fancy-work and books. But they did not refer again to Virginie's father, and both seemed to avoid any reference to war subjects in general. Patricia longed to take the girl more into her own confidence about her father and his affairs; but, mindful of Captain Meade's constantly reiterated warnings, she resisted the impulse.

At half past five Virginie remarked that she must return to her room and dress for dinner, as Madame Vanderpoel would soon be back.

"Tell me," asked Patricia, "why do you not call her aunt, as she is your mother's sister-in-law? It would be natural."

Virginie suddenly retired to her shell again. "I never have," was all she vouchsafed. "I—do not know why—that is—" They were walking toward the door as she replied. All at once she stopped, tensely rigid. "There it is again!" she whispered. "Do you not hear it?" There was indeed a curious intermittent sound, as of some one cautiously tiptoeing down the carpeted corridor. Patricia opened the door with a quick jerk.

"You see?" whispered Virginie, clinging to Patricia spasmodically!

The hall again was empty. But at the far end of the corridor, where it turned into another, the wall was illumined by a brilliant patch of sunlight from some window out of sight. And blackly on that patch of sunlight, as on a lighted screen, was outlined the silhouette of a man's form, and of something else that he evidently carried in his hands.

"You see?" whispered Virginie, clinging to Patricia spasmodically.

"Yes, I see!" answered Patricia.

The motionless silhouette was unmistakably the form of Peter Stoger, carrying a tray.

CHAPTER IV
THE CRIMSON PATCH

"I don't like it at all, somehow, and yet I can't exactly tell you why." Captain Meade shuffled the books and magazines on the sitting-room table, rearranging them precisely and absent-mindedly. On his forehead was an anxious frown.

"But, Daddy," cried Patricia, "what possible objection can there be to my being friends with that lovely girl? She is so lonely and so sad! I just love her already. Think what she has suffered—and is still suffering! It seems as if it would be simply cruel not to be friends with her now, after what she has told me."

"But the very things you've told me about her and your conversations with her make me feel there's something strange about the whole affair. She's not as candid and open in manner as I should like. She seems to be hiding something all the time. And her relationship to that Madame Vanderpoel appears singular. She says the woman is her aunt, by marriage, yet she doesn't seem to care to call her so. I am deeply sorry for the girl, if her story is true, as it probably is, but I feel as if there is much that she is concealing. And I frankly confess that I do not like this Madame Vanderpoel. Why should she have told you that the girl was ill with a severe headache, and then you go in and find her in the best of health, apparently? Things don't hang together, somehow."

"Well, what am I going to do?" demanded Patricia, almost in tears. "Madame Vanderpoel has invited me to go with them on a trip to Creston Beach to-morrow and spend the day with them there. I suppose she wants to do something in return for my looking after Virginie to-day. She spoke to me about it as we passed her table to-night. You had gone on ahead to speak to Mrs. Quale. I told her I'd ask you about it. Are you going to say I mustn't go?"

The captain tugged at the end of his short mustache and strode up and down the room perplexedly. At length he spoke. "You simply must trust me in this matter, honey, and remember that I'm not an old tyrant, but just a cautious Daddy, striving to do what is best for us all. You will have an engagement with Mrs. Quale to-morrow. Fortunately she suggested to me this evening that perhaps you would care to spend the morning with her and help her select some wall-papers for her house that is being rebuilt and decorated. And let me offer just this wee bit of advice. See as much as you want of this little Virginie when you can be with her alone. She is a poor, forlorn child who is suffering greatly—of that I feel certain. And I believe there is no harm in her. But avoid, if you can, any engagement or invitation which includes the older woman."

"Father, what do you suspect her of? What are your suspicions about her?"

"I suspect her of nothing. I do not care for her on general principles. Sometimes we have only instinct to trust, and mine tells me, just now, simply to be careful. That's all. Now call her up on the 'phone and say you will not be able to accompany them, and thank her, of course, for so kindly thinking of you."

Patricia did as she was bid, and was answered by Virginie, who said Madame Vanderpoel was not there. "I'm so sorry that I'll not be able to go, but Father had made another engagement for me," Patricia assured her, and there was a murmured reply over the instrument that the captain could not catch. But when Patricia hung up the receiver, her face was a study in perplexity.

"What do you think she said, Daddy? 'I am not sorry. I enjoy seeing you more by ourselves.' That was all, but isn't it singular? I don't believe she cares for that aunt of hers. And yet, I can't understand why. Madame Vanderpoel seems lovely, to me, and she appears to be so fond of Virginie. I'll take the hint, however. And it fits in very nicely with what you advised me to do, too. Oh, by the way, Daddy, I nearly forgot to tell you what happened this afternoon. And if you don't think that Peter Stoger is spying, after you hear it, I give up." And she described to him the strange incident in the hall.

This time the captain did not laugh at her fears. Instead, he frowned and looked worried. "That does certainly seem suspicious. I'll have to look into the matter," he vouchsafed, and refused to discuss the incident further.

In the two weeks that elapsed after the foregoing incident, the friendship between the girls increased, after a fashion, but Patricia was at times sorely puzzled and perplexed by the strange moods and whims and actions of her new companion. On one day they would be in each other's company for several hours, visiting in the Meades' attractive sitting-room, where they read or sewed, or taking long walks or trolley-rides into the country. On these occasions Virginie would be almost clinging in her confidence in, and affection for, Patricia. Not the tiniest flaw would mar their intercourse, and Patricia would acknowledge herself more deeply interested than ever in this attractive girl. Then on the next day, perhaps for several days following, Virginie would seem distant, reserved, morose, sometimes almost disagreeable. She would pass Patricia with the coldest nod, refuse to make any engagement to be with her, and almost seem to resent any advances toward the furtherance of their friendship. Patricia worried and grieved about it in secret, though she would not openly acknowledge, even to her father, that Virginie's singular conduct hurt her.

Madame Vanderpoel, on the contrary, always seemed most cordial and friendly, and while she never commented on her ward's conduct to Patricia, would often cast at her a deprecatory and apologetic glance when Virginie was more than usually disagreeable in manner. Plainly, the girl's strange conduct tried her sorely, though she was always very sweet about it and ignored it whenever possible. Never again, since the first occasion, had she attempted to induce Patricia to accompany them anywhere or spend any time in their united company. Altogether, so thoughtful and agreeable was she, that Patricia, more fascinated by her than ever, often found herself wishing that she were at liberty to see more of this pleasant Madame Vanderpoel.

One rainy afternoon, Captain Meade having gone out, to be away till a late hour that night on a lecture engagement, Patricia called up her friend on the house telephone to ask her to come across the hall and spend the rest of the day with her. She did this in considerable trepidation, for Virginie had been more than usually morose and disagreeable and distant for a number of days past. As it happened, it was Madame Vanderpoel who answered the 'phone.

"Why certainly, my dear! Virginie will come over at once," she replied cordially. "She has been quite lonely this afternoon, and wishing for something to do. You are very kind."

Patricia had just begun to frame an answer, when, somewhat to her surprise, the receiver at the other end was suddenly hung up and the connection cut. The action was very abrupt. And though she told herself she certainly must have been mistaken, she thought she had heard, before being cut off, a voice in the room with Madame Vanderpoel declaring, "I will not go!" It was all very puzzling.

Virginie did not come in for some time, and in the interval Patricia framed a resolution. She would fathom this girl's singular conduct to-day or never, even if she had to ask the most personal questions to do so.

When the little Belgian at last arrived, she was polite, but distant, in manner, and distinctly unhappy. To Patricia's cordial remarks she returned only monosyllabic answers, was restless and ill at ease. They were sitting together on the couch, each pretending to be deeply engrossed in her fancy-work, when Patricia with wildly beating heart, suddenly determined that the time had come to put her resolve into effect.

"Virginie," she began, abruptly turning to the girl, "won't you tell me what is the trouble? What have I done to offend or annoy you? You are often so strange in your actions toward me. I cannot understand it. I—"

But she got no farther. To her intense amazement and dismay, Virginie suddenly threw herself across the couch in a passion of wild and violent weeping. It was several moments before Patricia could soothe her back to a state where she was able even to speak.

"Oh, I knew you would think this! I knew it. I knew it!" she sobbed. "I knew the time would come when I must explain—or lose your friendship. If you only could trust me. If you only knew—"

Patricia, at a loss for words, could only squeeze her hand in silent assurance.

"But you never will know—and I never can tell you!" she went on wildly. "I love you—I love you—as I love no one else on earth now—beside my father. Do you believe that?"

"I believe it if you say so," Patricia assured her quietly. "I feel sure you are telling me the truth." Her calm, soothing manner was having its effect on the girl's hysterical condition. Virginie herself suddenly became calmer.

"I wish you would make a promise," she continued. "If you knew my life and all that I have to endure,—all the puzzling, bewildering things that are pulling me this way and that—things that I perhaps can never tell you, because they would concern others,—I know that you would promise me this, never to care whether my manner seems cold toward you; never to think unkind thoughts of me, no matter how I may act—to say to yourself always, when I seem the worst, 'Virginie loves me; she does not mean this mood for me!' Could you make me that promise, Patricia? Some day, if God wills, I may be able to explain."

"Indeed, Virginie," cried her companion, sincerely touched, "I trust you every way and always! I'll never be annoyed any more, no matter how you act. I'll understand that it's something quite outside of myself that is causing it. Will that make you feel any better?"

Virginie did not answer in words, but the grateful pressure of her hands was sufficient response. The atmosphere having thus been cleared, Patricia abandoned the subject and plunged gaily into something quite different.

"You told me once, Virginie," she began, "that you had done a good deal of work in water-colors at various times, but you have never shown me any of your sketches. Have you any here with you, and if so, could I see them? I'm awfully interested in that sort of thing, though I don't do much of the kind myself."

"Ah, yes!" cried Virginie, brightening at once. "I have a whole portfolio in my room. I will go to fetch it. I love the work, and I turn to it whenever I have an opportunity." She ran out of the room and hurried back with a batch of color sketches that she spread out on the couch. They were really exceedingly clever, as Patricia recognized at once.

"Why, this is wonderful. You are a real, out-and-out artist, and I never realized it before!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "I dabble a little in that sort of thing myself once in a while, but I'm not a great success. I do wish I had inherited some of father's artistic ability. He can do beautiful work, but I only just love it and admire it."

"Ah, your father is also an artist?" demanded Virginie, interested afresh.

"Well, I don't know that I'd call him exactly an artist," qualified Patricia. "He can draw and paint 'most everything fairly well, but he does excel in one thing. He's crazy about it,—it's a regular hobby with him,—entomology, you know, the study of bugs and moths and caterpillars and butterflies, and all that sort of thing. And he can make the most beautiful sketches of them. Many's the day I've gone on a long butterfly hunt with him, and then have come home and watched him make sketches of the specimens we've caught. Just let me show you some of the things he's done. I think he has a number of his pet sketches in his trunk. He never travels without them." Patricia brought her father's sketches and placed them in Virginie's hands.

And now it was Virginie's turn to exclaim over the really beautiful work of Captain Meade. There were caterpillars and moths and butterflies, executed with consummate skill and exquisitely colored; each labeled with its own name and species. Virginie marveled over their curious titles.

"Ah, but see here, what singular names—'The Silver Spot,' 'The Red Admiral,' 'The Painted Lady'! Why are they so called?"

"I think it's mainly because of the different marking on the wings," answered Patricia. "You see, each one—but what's that? Some one knocking?" She ran to the door and opened it. Madame Vanderpoel stood outside.

"Do pardon me," she began hesitatingly. "I am making this little blouse for Virginie and have just come to a place where I can go no farther till I try it on. May I come in?"

"Why, surely!" returned Patricia, courteously, and Madame Vanderpoel entered. As Patricia had feared, however, there was an immediate chilling of the atmosphere as far as Virginie was concerned. The girl said not a word, but obediently, if ungraciously, slipped the pretty blouse over her head and stood in silence while Madame Vanderpoel made some necessary alterations. The lady herself strove to appear quite unobservant of the change and chatted on brightly while she completed her work. Patricia, bewildered and uncomfortable, also tried to appear as though nothing unusual was the matter. But she found the task difficult. At length, Madame Vanderpoel, declaring herself satisfied with the result, rose to go. While passing the table, however, she noticed Captain Meade's sketches, and, laying down her sewing, stopped to examine them.

"Ah, what beautiful, what unusual work!" she murmured, taking them up, one by one, and asking Patricia some questions about them. But at last she took her departure.

"Oh, by the way, may Virginie stay and have dinner with me here in our rooms?" questioned Patricia, before she left. Madame Vanderpoel gave her consent and was gone.

It was some time before Virginie recovered her spirits after this interruption, but when she was herself again, the two girls resumed their now wholly delightful intercourse.

"Let's send down for some sarsaparilla and fancy cakes!" suddenly cried Patricia. "I'm hungry and thirsty, too, and it's a good while till dinner-time." She telephoned her wish to the office, and Chester Jackson presently knocked at the door with the order.

"Golly!" he cried suddenly, catching sight of the mass of sketches on the table, "but them's purty things! You'd think they was the real article lit all over the place. Can I look at them?" Patricia laughingly gave her consent, and he turned them over, chuckling at their names. But he, too, at length departed, and the girls were not interrupted further till dinner-time, when Patricia asked to have the meal served in the room.

It was Peter Stoger who entered later with a heavily laden tray, approached the table, glanced about helplessly a moment, then planted the tray directly on top of all the sketches littered over its surface.

"Oh, be careful!" cried Patricia, in dismay. "Don't you see what you're doing? Hold the tray until I remove those things." Peter indifferently lifted the tray while she hastily collected the sketches and put them aside. Then he stolidly resumed his work of arranging the meal, and withdrew.

It was late when Captain Meade returned. Patricia had been telling how she had spent her day, and had just come to the part where she had showed his sketches to Virginie.

"Great Jupiter! You did?" he cried distractedly. "Why on earth didn't I warn you not to! I never dreamed you'd be tempted to do such a thing. Where are they—quick?"

Patricia watched him in a mystified daze as he nervously shuffled them over. What could it all mean? Had she done wrong?

"It's just as I feared!" he groaned. "The Crimson Patch is gone!"

CHAPTER V
WHO TOOK IT?

It was a white-faced pair that finished a frantic, but thoroughly fruitless search, through every room of the suite for the lost sketch of the butterfly. The captain was too upset and nervous and unstrung by the occurrence to comment on the subject, for a time, and Patricia too bewildered and unhappy to ask any questions. But when they had hunted through every conceivable nook and cranny in vain, they gave it up and sat down wearily to rest. The Crimson Patch was gone!

"But, Daddy," moaned Patricia, "why did you never tell me there was anything important about these sketches? I never dreamed of such a thing. I would never, never have done what I did to-day if I had known."

"That's just the trouble," muttered Captain Meade. "There's nothing important about any of them except just that one—and that's—well, vital! I never told you about it, because it's safer for you and best all around that you know as little as possible of my affairs. Of course, it never crossed my mind that you'd be moved to show them to any one. They're not a matter of general interest."

"But what is there about this sketch, the Crimson Patch butterfly, that is so important, Daddy, and why didn't you keep it safely locked up? I shouldn't have thought you'd leave it just lying loose in your trunk."

"The secret about this particular sketch, I do not think it best for you to know, even now. You'll always be in a safer position if you can truthfully say you know nothing about it. It looks very much the same as the others—but it isn't! That is all I can tell you. And I had an excellent reason for doing just as I did about it. Had I kept an important secret always about my person, or even under lock and key, it would, as a rule, be in far greater danger of discovery than if carefully concealed in some such fashion as this and left around as if there were nothing unusual about it. Don't you understand? But tell me again the whole history of the thing, and who came into the room while you had the sketches out, and when. We've got to find the sketch as speedily as possible. Every moment that it is out of my hands is a dangerous loss of time."

Patricia patiently went over the history of the afternoon, recounting every detail she could remember. The captain listened intently, and sat for several moments in deep thought when she had finished.

"Tell me one thing," he suddenly demanded. "Do you distinctly remember seeing the Crimson Patch among the sketches when you first looked them over? Think hard."

"Oh, I know it was there, because Virginie spoke of the curious name and I told her it was given because of the two brilliant red spots on the wings. I know it was there."

"Then, as far as I can see," went on Captain Meade, "there were no less than four people in the room, each of whom came in contact with those sketches, and any one of the four may have been the guilty party who took it. Your little friend, Virginie, handled them first, and when she left for the night, you say, she gathered up her own sketches?"

"Daddy dear, you must not suspect her—you simply must not!" cried Patricia, sensing at once what he was driving at. "I would rather be suspected myself than have any one dream she could do such a thing. And how on earth could she ever know that the sketch was of any particular value, anyway?"

"What she may know or not know, I haven't pretended to inquire, but you must certainly see how easy it would be for her to slip the thing into her own pile and walk off with it if she wanted."

"Her own sketches were all on the couch," protested Patricia, "and they never once were near yours. I saw her get them together before she left."

"But was your back never turned on her during all the time mine were lying about?"

Patricia put her head down on the couch pillows and sobbed audibly.

"It seems too dreadful and unkind and mean to have such suspicions about her!" she wailed.

"Now, Patricia dear, be sensible!" demanded the captain, despairingly. "I'm no more suspicious of her than of any one else. I'm only trying to sift the thing to the bottom. Let's leave her, for a moment, however. You say Madame Vanderpoel was the next one in. She stayed about fifteen minutes, examined the sketches, and went out. Tell me just exactly what she did before she looked them over."

"She glanced at them as she was passing out, asked me if she could look at them, placed her sewing on the table, looked at them all, took up her sewing and went away."

"Did she put her sewing down near where they were on the table?" asked the captain.

"Yes, because I remember that she had to move it once, in order to see one or two that were lying under it."

"Do you remember whether the Crimson Patch was among those she looked at or commented on?"

"No, I don't remember. I was busy taking out some stitches in my fancy-work at the time,—something that had gone wrong,—and I didn't particularly notice what she said. But I'm almost sure she didn't mention that one."

"She might very easily have concealed it under her work and walked off with it," he went on. "Of course, I don't say she did, but she might have, had she been so inclined. Now, how about Chester Jackson?"

"Oh, he couldn't possibly have taken a thing without my knowing it. He just leaned over the table and looked at them all and giggled and laughed over their names and said they were 'bully good stuff.' I saw him practically every minute of the time, except for two seconds when I ran into my room for another spool of thread. And he left without a thing in his hands that he could have hidden it in or under."

"The 'two seconds' you were out of the room might have been sufficient for him," commented Captain Meade. "So he isn't eliminated, either. But I rather suspect him less than any of the others. How about Peter?"

"He's the one, I haven't a doubt. I always did suspect him of being up to something. Of course he took it, Daddy! He went and set his tray right down on top of the whole lot of them, when he came in, in what I thought was the stupidest fashion, and I made him take it right up while I cleared them all aside. I believe he could have slipped the sketch under his tray and kept it out of my sight and got away with it without the slightest trouble. Can't you see it, Daddy?" cried Patricia, eagerly. Captain Meade looked only half convinced.

"Do you happen to remember whether that particular sketch was uppermost when he came in?"

"No, I don't honestly remember. But I know that the Purple Dart was uppermost when I moved them out of his way. It just happened to catch my eye in passing."

"Well, that proves nothing, of course. But the question now is, what in the world are we going to do about it? I dare not do any telephoning at this time of night (or rather, morning, for it's three o'clock!) or even go out, without exciting suspicion. And that's the last thing I want to attract to myself. Better have it appear that I care nothing about the sketch than to raise a breeze about its disappearance. I had thought that perhaps you might find out from your friend the Belgian girl whether by any chance it had slipped in with her own by mistake. But that must be done later and done with the greatest caution or the fat will be in the fire. And it's too late to order anything brought to the room, or I might have a chance to interview our waiter and bell-boy. Nothing for it, I guess, but to go to bed and get what sleep we can. It's been a bad day's work, honey, but don't blame yourself for a single thing. It's only one of those unpleasant combinations of fortune that will happen, plan as we may. And don't worry. That never did any good yet. Go to sleep and trust that everything's going to come out all right!"

In spite of which injunction, however, no sleep visited the unhappy Patricia for the remainder of the night.

CHAPTER VI
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

During that sleepless night, however, Patricia laid some plans of her own, which she purposed to put into execution the next day. She felt weary and lifeless after the excitement and worry of the previous night and the hours of restless tossing that followed. Her father, likewise, seemed fatigued and depressed, though he strove hard, for her sake, as she privately surmised, to appear cheerful and hopeful.

"We'll hurry through breakfast," he told her, as they left the room, "and then I'll start out on the hunt. I've been thinking over a few of the possibilities during the night, and some ideas have occurred to me that I didn't think of at first. I want you to stay rather close to the room to-day—that is, don't go out for any length of time till I get back. I may not return before late afternoon, but don't let that worry you. And don't lose heart, honey! It will probably turn out all right. By the way, when we get down to the dining-room, please try to act as nearly normal as possible, and as if nothing were wrong. It might be fatal to let the world at large notice that all is not as usual. And, of course, don't touch this subject, as far as conversation goes, with a forty-foot pole!"

His latter injunctions Patricia found rather difficult to carry out. It was far from easy to appear her usual care-free self when weighed down with such a hideous burden of trouble. If she hadn't felt the thing to be all her own fault, unwitting though it was, she could have borne it better.

Most difficult of all was having to face Peter Stoger, who, in his usual leaden way, waited upon them. His dull stupidity, she always felt, covered a watchfulness, that being hidden, was more trying than if it had been open and aboveboard. This morning she felt certain he was watching them both, with a covert keenness, when he thought himself unobserved. The captain treated Peter in precisely the same fashion as usual. Once only did she observe anything unusual in his manner. This was when the waiter, in passing behind him, brushed his shoulder with the edge of his tray. It was a trivial matter, and, so Patricia thought, would, as a rule, have called forth no comment from her father. But, rather to her surprise, the captain turned on him with an impatient gesture and the quite sharp remark, "Be careful, Peter!" The man apologized almost servilely and backed away.

"That shows how worried and tired and upset Father is!" thought Patricia. "He doesn't usually act that way over such a little thing. He probably has his suspicions of that horrid man, too. I'm afraid he's wishing he'd taken my advice about him at first."

Many times during the meal did she glance over toward the table usually occupied by Virginie and Madame Vanderpoel, hoping, yet almost dreading, to see them. But the table remained empty, nor did they appear at all in the dining-room during that meal.

"Stay in the room as much as possible to-day," the captain again warned her before he went away. "I don't want to think of these premises being left free for any more queer things to happen."

"I will, but may I see Virginie?"

"I don't see any reason why you shouldn't, especially if it comes about naturally. It won't do to seem to avoid these people, either. But don't force any meeting, and above all things, I hardly need warn you to say nothing about what has happened. That would spoil everything."

For some time after her father left, Patricia sat maturing her plans. See Virginie this day she must, and she thought it could be effected in the most natural manner possible. She would ask her to bring her water-colors and sketches in again, and they would try to do some work, she (Patricia) attempting to make some copies of the sketches under Virginie's direction. In some such natural way the conversation might be led around to her father's sketches, and she might have a chance to determine whether the girl were at all involved in this dreadful affair. Nothing about it need be mentioned directly. Patricia felt sure she could determine, from Virginie's manner, how much she knew.

At ten o'clock she went over to the telephone and called up the office, asking to be connected with room 404. The reply she received, caused her a veritable shock.

"The room is vacant."

"Vacant?" she demanded. "You mean that Madame Vanderpoel and Mademoiselle de Vos are out?"

"They have gone—left the hotel. They gave up the room this morning and went away for good.... No, they didn't say where they were going or if they intended to return."

Patricia hung up the receiver and crept over to a chair by the window. A sort of black mist seemed to float before her eyes and her mind would register no impressions save trivial ones for a long while. She was aware of the distant roar of the city, borne across the more quiet stretches of the park outside her window, of the sparrows chattering in the branches, of the children romping in the quiet walks, the honking of an arriving automobile, and of little else.

Then gradually her numbed brain recovered its normal action. Virginie and her aunt were gone and without a single word to her, a single farewell! Could their abrupt and mysterious departure indicate any but one fact? After the strange disappearance of her father's sketch, what could it mean except that one or both of them were guilty and they were trying to conceal it by flight? One or both of them! No it could not be that Virginie was concerned. She would never, never believe that. And yet, if it were not so, why had Virginie gone away without a single word to the friend whom she declared she loved next best to her father? Surely she could have managed to say a word or two over the telephone, or scribble a tiny note! Perhaps she had written a note and it would arrive later in the mail. Patricia quite brightened for a few moments, at the thought. She would wait and see what the day's post brought. That would doubtless explain.

The morning hours dragged by. The weather was stifling and humid, and Patricia sat by one of the opened windows of the darkened room. Try as she would, she could not keep her depressed thoughts from picturing the darkest aspect of everything. How her pleasant life had changed since yesterday at this time, her bright hopes and plans collapsed like a fragile castle of cards! Who would have dreamed such a calamity could have befallen her?

At noon she telephoned down to the office to ask for the mail, and also, as she felt no appetite, requested that some crackers and a glass of milk be sent up at the same time, to the room. That was all the luncheon she felt she could possibly manage.

Chester Jackson arrived with the letters and her order a few moments later. The former she shuffled over nervously and hopefully. But they were only communications for her father, and nothing at all for her. The boy, watching her interestedly, noted the disappointment in her face.

"Miss your side-partner, don't you?" he queried.

"What's that?" she asked, absent-mindedly.

"You miss the mam'selle across the way a bit, I figure. You and her seemed pretty thick."

"Yes, I do miss her very much," acknowledged Patricia, actually glad to have any one to speak to on the subject. "But I'm awfully surprised that she went away so suddenly. I never even knew she was gone."

"You didn't, hey? Well, looka here! She gave me a message to give to you—that is, she meant it for a message, I reckon, only she didn't get it all off her mind."

"Oh, what was it?" cried Patricia, excitedly, her darkest suspicions of her friend vanishing at once. "I knew she would want to send some word to me."

"Well, it was this way. They sent down word to the office they was leavin', and for some one to come up and help bring down their hand luggage. So I went up to get 'em. The missus was bustlin' about good an' lively, but the gal was sort of teary and not doin' much. But when the little mam'selle handed me her grip,—the t'other one's back was turned for a minute,—she whispered to me low, 'Tell Miss Meade I'm going—' But she didn't get no further, 'cause the other one turned round quick like an' called me to come an' help her strap a bag. An' from that time till they left the place she never took her eyes offen the young 'un, an' she never got no chance to finish it up. But I thought I'd jest tell you that much, anyway."

"Oh, thank you so much for that, anyhow!" breathed Patricia. "But I can't understand why she was afraid to say it right out and let her aunt hear. It seems very strange."

"You needn't think that's the only queer thing about that pair," he hinted darkly. "I could tell you an earful if I chose!"

Patricia was just on the point of begging him to do so, when some delicate instinct bade her desist. Was it, after all, kind, or even honorable, to pry into the affairs of a friend, to hear "back-stair" gossip about them from a bell-boy in a hotel?

"Well, thank you very much for delivering the message," she remarked, "and please drop this letter in the mail-chute as you go out."

And after he was gone, curious as she had been to hear what he had to say about them, she was glad she had resisted the temptation.

The stifling afternoon dragged on. Patricia found ample food for thought in the news she had heard from the bell-boy, and spent the hours in fruitless surmise. On one score at least, she was relieved, almost happy. Virginie had not tried to slip away without letting her know she was going—perhaps she was trying to tell her destination; perhaps she was promising to write. But whatever it was, she had at least tried to send her some word. But why had her companion seemed to suspect it, to make it impossible? If indeed, she had! Why had not Madame Vanderpoel herself left a pleasant message of regret at leaving, when she had seemed so cordial, so friendly? Patricia could not but admit that the action had a very dark and suspicious aspect, after what had happened the night before.

And that brought her back again to her own troubles: The Crimson Patch!—who had taken it? Which one of the four that had had access to the room last night had concealed and carried it away? All of a sudden she sat up very straight. There were not four—there were only three! For beyond all question she was certain now that Chester Jackson was in nowise concerned in the matter. She could not explain how she knew—she simply knew. Something in that honest, snub-nosed, smiling face, those candid, merry eyes, assured her. Chet Jackson was unquestionably eliminated from the subject, and the puzzle was reduced to a triangle.

Half an hour later there was another knock at the door and Chester, re-appearing, presented her with a special delivery letter. He stood informally watching her while she tore it open and read it breathlessly. It was from her father, written that morning from New York, and it told her that he thought he was on the track of something that seemed important. The matter would keep him over night, but she must not be alarmed. She was to put herself in Mrs. Quale's care from dinner-time on, and he would return the next day and tell her all about things. That was all.

Though he had touched on nothing directly, Patricia was certain, of course, that he referred to the matter of the Crimson Patch. She was glad that he seemed to be in the way of discovering anything at all that would lead to the unraveling of their difficulty, but she felt suddenly very forlorn at the thought of his being away over night for the first time. And Chet, watching her keenly, saw her face fall.

"Any bad news?" he inquired casually.

"No," she replied, rather pleased to have some one to talk to, so lonely had been her day. "Father's going to be away over night on some important business. I'll miss him awfully."

"Say!" ventured Chet, in a confidential tone, "I ask your pardon for speakin' about it, but you folks have had some trouble since yesterday, haven't you?"

Rather startled, Patricia nodded her head. Then she looked alarmed, to think that, by even so much, she had revealed something of her father's secret.

"Never you mind!" Chet assured her. "Don't get scared because you think you're giving anything away. I know a heap more than any one thinks I do." And at her amazed expression, he added:

"I'm goin' to tell you somethin'. It's a secret and don't you let on to anybody. I ain't goin' to be a bell-hop all my life, I ain't. I got ambition, and this here hotel life ain't for me."

"What—what are you going to be then?" stammered the astonished Patricia.

"I'm goin' to be a detective or a secret service agent or somethin' like that. I got it in me, I have. Sort of sense things out an' nose 'em down when no one suspects I'm anything but a 'buttons' in this here hotel. It's great sport. You see, not suspectin' I got more'n enough sense to carry me through the day's work, folks lets out a lot of things before me that they think I don't catch on to, an' I see a whole heap I'm not supposed to see. An' this here war has made a lot of lively doings about this place, I can tell you."

Patricia listened breathlessly. Here was confirmation of her own ideas, and more. Chet Jackson, beside being undoubtedly innocent of any complicity in the matter of the Crimson Patch might even become a valuable ally, if she did but dare to enlist his aid. She suddenly decided on a bold move.

"Chester," she said, "if you're going to do any detective work, try and do a little for us. The only trouble is, I can't tell you anything much about things, because they are very, very important secrets. So I don't know how you're going to get to work on it."

"Don't worry about tellin' me so much. I know a whole lot about you folks that you don't think I do. You'd be s'prised if I told you how much I do know!" Chet assured her darkly. "I gotta go now, because I been away from the office long enough. But next time I see you I'll tell you what I know an' we can decide what I'd better do. So long!"

And he was gone, leaving her in a maze of wonder over this new development.

CHAPTER VII
LEFT ALONE

Patricia went back into the room and sat down to think it all over. Chester Jackson's curious remarks had disturbed her strangely. What he had said about knowing "a heap more about things" than any one thought he did was a little alarming, to say the least. What did he—what could he know about her father's affairs, and how could he have found it out? If only he had time to tell her before he rushed away, and not left her with this bewildering scrap of information!

However, one thing was becoming every moment more certain in her mind. The boy was innocent of any part in the disappearance of the Crimson Patch, and might, besides, be enlisted as an ally in its recovery, if only she dared to confide in him more fully. She wished with all her soul that her father were with her, that he was not to be detained away over night. She wanted to talk it all over with him, to ascertain how much he thought it wise to trust this boy. But he was not here, and presently she must go and put herself in the care of Mrs. Quale for the night. Even now she ought to be calling up that lady on the telephone, as it was nearly dinner-time.