The endless night was over at last. Through her windows, which faced east, Patricia noticed that the sky was faintly streaked with pale light, each moment growing more distinct. She had endured almost seven hours of unbroken, nerve-racking suspense, yet nothing alarming had happened. All night she had huddled in a chair by the living-room table, the electric lights full on, even to the farthest wall-bracket, listening breathlessly to the faintest creak or rustle, starting terror-stricken at a sudden flapping of the window-shade, crouching rigid at the slightest footfall outside her door.

Yet the cheering whistle of the war's most popular tune, every hour or so, in the park below, 134assured her that Chet was true to his promise, even if the loud chugging of his motor-cycle had not likewise informed her of his intermittent presence. He was certainly proving himself a friend, and a staunch one, in this time of her dire need.

With the coming of daylight she turned off the lights and lay down awhile, exhausted by the night's vigil, but she did not sleep. She heard Delia go quietly out soon after six. At seven she prepared to go down to breakfast, and promptly at seven-thirty stopped at the desk in the lounge for her mail, as Chet had directed. She found that she had two letters, one a short note from Mrs. Quale, explaining that she had been called away suddenly to New York by the illness of a niece, but expected to be back that evening, and hoping Patricia had not needed her in the meantime.

"She little knows how much I did need her!" sighed Patricia. "But thank goodness! she's coming back to-night. I couldn't—I simply 135couldn't go through another night like last!"

The other letter was directed to her in a handwriting she did not recognize, and she prepared to read it while she was waiting for her breakfast to be served. To her immense relief, Peter Stoger was still absent. She had had the horrible suspicion that he might be there once again to spy on her, perhaps even to be the instrument of the threatened "danger."

While waiting for her cantaloupe she opened the second missive and read it through in startled wonder. It was written in pencil and marked midnight of the night before. It was inscribed also with a fine disregard of spelling, punctuation, and grammar, was only a few sentences long, and signed at the end, "C. J." It ran as follows:

Deer Miss,

I done a heap of scooting around last night on my moter-cicle and I found out quite a bit you will be intrested to no. If you are intrested will you please try to be at the sea wall in the park where you usully 136like to sit about nine this a m an we can talk it over. will wate for you their.
Yours respeckfully,
C. J.

"Bless that kind boy's heart!" thought Patricia. "He certainly is a trump! I don't know what on earth I'd be doing now if it weren't for his help. I'll be there without fail."

Promptly at nine she was at the tryst by the sea-wall, a bench shaded by an overhanging tree where she frequently came with her book or sewing to enjoy the beautiful view out over the water and the invigorating salt air. Chet was there before her, sitting unostentatiously with his legs hanging over the sea-wall, apparently absorbed in the occupation of fishing with a rod and reel.

"Hullo! Good morning!" he greeted her, with his usual infectious grin. "Catch any Hun spies lurkin' around last night?"

"No indeed!" she answered him quite gaily. "I didn't see one—not a single one."

137"Well, I had better luck than you, then!" he replied, looking about cautiously to see that no one was approaching along the foot-path.

"Oh, Chester! How? What do you mean?"

"Well, what do you think of this? Last night, after I left the hotel, I went right home an' got out my motor-cycle and made a bee-line for Hanford. I somehow figured that we'd better find out that queer dope about Hanford first of all. I hadn't a ghost of an idea where in the place that house might be, but I told you before that there weren't so many houses there, anyhow, an' I just figured I could mosey around an' take a squint at 'em all an' try to figure out which was the most likely.

"It's a lonesome kind of a place, 'cause there ain't no railroad nor even a trolley-line runnin' near it. I didn't want to go chuggin' through it on my cycle, waking the dead with the racket, so I hid it in a little clump of woods 138just outside the place an' went huntin' round on foot. First I went through the main street, an' every house an' store was shut up as tight an' dark as a graveyard. Nothin' doin' there. Then I gave all the rest of the houses the once-over. No better luck!

"The only place left was one way out on the road toward Crampton. It's a lonesome kind of a hole, old farm-house with queer, dinky, green wooden shutters all in a piece an' a slantin' roof goin' almost down to the ground at the back. It used to be all sort of tumblin' to pieces an' deserted, but a man around here bought it an' fixed it all up modern inside an' painted it, an' rents it out in the summer to city folks for a few months. I didn't rightly know whether it was occupied this season or not, 'cause I ain't been that way lately, but I thinks to myself, I'll go past it an' see, before I give up the hunt.

"Sure enough, the place was lit up on the ground floor an' one room upstairs too. But 139the shades were all drawn down tight. So I just sneaked around quiet an' hid in the bushes near the front door an' one of the windows, an' lay low to see if anything would happen. I didn't want to stay too long, either, 'cause I wanted to get back an' give you the signal I was on the job. Well, nothin' did happen for so long I was just goin' to give it up, when all of a sudden the front door opened an' a w............