It was Mrs. Quale who arrived on the scene first. She came in a taxi, having received elaborate directions from Chet, who remained at the hotel to watch for the return of the captain. There was one comfortable thing about Mrs. Quale that Patricia had always particularly admired: she seemed to understand things and situations without any explanations. She came in now, took both Patricia's hands in hers, and kissed her quietly.

"You poor child! If I had only known what a tangle you were in, I would not have gone off so thoughtlessly yesterday without first letting you know. I supposed of course your father was with you. I am thankful, at least, that I'm home in time to help you out of the muddle."

206That was all, but Patricia realized that whatever she knew or did not know about the affair, it made no difference whatever in her desire to be of help.

She decided to tell her at once about Virginie, and did so while they were standing outside the door of the room where the Belgian girl was. Mrs. Quale had met her casually at the hotel, in company with Patricia, and had always cherished a liking for the lonely, diffident girl. When she had heard all the story, she stood thinking a moment and then said decisively:

"You simply cannot go back to that hotel. It is no place for you after all that has happened. Now, I have a plan, and I shall urge your father to fall in with it. Part of my house is at last habitable—at least three bedrooms and the living-room and kitchen are. I have had old Juno there for a week getting them in order and was going to leave the hotel for them myself in a day or two. I want you all to 207come with me and make your home there for a time. I do not believe it is either right or safe for you to stay any longer in that public place, especially after what has happened. We'll go right over now, and I'll send word for your father to follow as soon as he arrives. We can go back to the hotel some other time and pack up your belongings."

"Oh, Mrs. Quale, it is lovely of you to propose it!" sighed Patricia. "You don't know what a relief it will be to get away from that place. I could never stand it again after the dreadful hours I spent there last night. But what about Virginie?"

"Never mind about her. Just take me to her now, if you will, and we'll settle about that later."

Virginie still lay on the bed, no longer sobbing or weeping, but with her head buried in the pillow, quiet, hopeless, and inert. She did not even look up as they entered the room. Patricia gently roused her, and she sat up to greet 208Mrs. Quale in a timid, half-frightened manner. But Mrs. Quale had long since settled in her own mind her plan of action. She sat down on the side of the bed and put one arm protectingly around Virginie.

"Dear," she said softly, "I know your story now, all that you have suffered, all the brave sacrifices you made to save the life, as you supposed, of the father who was no longer living. All that is ended. And now, dear, I am a very lonely woman. I have no children and very few relatives left, and I have always felt a warm interest in you since first I saw you with that unscrupulous woman. I knew that you were not happy. Will you come and make your home with me and be my daughter? I will bring you up as my own. We are two lonely people. I have no daughter, you have no mother. Why should we not be happy together?"

The girl stared at her for a moment almost uncomprehendingly. Then, suddenly, she 209grasped the meaning and it seemed too wonderful to be true.

"Oh, you—you are too good—too—" Her head went down on the motherly shoulder, and her arms crept around Mrs. Quale's neck. And so Patricia, tears of happiness standing in her own eyes, stole out of the room and left them together.

It was ten o'clock that night before Captain Meade himself arrived, tired, dusty, discouraged, and decidedly bewildered by the change his daughter had made so unexpectedly in her place of residence. Chet had encountered him in the lobby of the hotel and steered him at once to Mrs. Quale's house without any special explanations, as he felt that Patricia was the one best fitted to offer these. And it was not till after he had bathed and had some supper that Patricia, alone with him in the library, ventured to ask what success he had had in his search.

210"None at all. Absolutely nothing to show for it!" he replied wearily. "We have raked New York from end to end without success. When we went there originally we were on a good scent—actually had the fellow spotted who we knew without fail must have had the sketch in his possession; but when we finally ran him down, he had nothing of the kind about him nor had he had any opportunity to dispose of it anywhere, so we had to give up that clue. I confess, I'm terribly discouraged."

Patricia smiled cheerfully. "Well, never mind, Daddy. You've had a hard time, but perhaps things aren't as bad as they seem!"

He looked at her wonderingly. "I don't know how they could be much worse!" he exclaimed a little impatiently. "One of the most valuable of the Government's secrets is in the hands of the enemy at this minute."

Patricia lifted a book from the table, took something from it, and laid it on her father's knee.

211"I hate to contradict you," she remarked gaily, "but I think the Crimson Patch is at this minute in the possession of the one who has most right to it!"

It was long after midnight. The rest of the household was all asleep, but Patricia still sat with her father by the open fire, for the night had turned chilly. She sat on his knee, her head snuggled comfortably in his coat collar. The ensuing interval, after she had told her story, had been a confusion of telephoning and interviews, not only with Chester Jackson, but also with a mysterious Mr. Brainerd, a curly-haired, light-complexioned, athletic young man with whom her father had been closeted for three quarters of an hour in close conference. Patricia was glad when it was over and they had all gone and left them alone together.

"But, Daddy," she was saying, "there are still a whole lot of things I don't understand about this thing at all. You kept saying, 212'We were hunting for it in New York.' Now who is 'we'? I thought you shared this secret with no one."

The captain laughed. "You are right. There's quite a little you've still to learn. 'We' is mainly Mr. Tom Brainerd, whom you saw here to-night. He's a government secret-service man, the best around these parts, and he's been near me for protection ever since we first came to the hotel."

"He has?" cried Patricia. "Why, I never saw him before in my life."

"Oh, yes, you have!" contradicted the captain. "You saw him every day of your life, only you didn't know him. I confess he looked a little different. Mr. Tom Brainerd was no other than your pet spy, poor Peter Stoger, my dear!"

Patricia's jaw dropped and her face was a study in bewilderment. "Then—then he—he wasn't Franz?" she stammered.

"He certainly was not! He elected to come 213here, disguised as he was, because his countenance in real life is a little too familiar to the German spy-system in general. The manager of the hotel is fortunately a good friend of mine and an ardent patriot, so 'Peter's' task was made easy. But there was a 'Franz' here, though he went by another name, and he, too, was one of the waiters. I do not believe you remember him. He was a short, thin, light-haired young fellow, who had a table at the other end of the dining-room. Curiously enough, both he and Peter rather suspected each other and were constantly watching each other's movements.

"On the day when the sketch disappeared, it happened in this way. When Tom, or rather, Peter, came into the room that evening with the tray containing your supper, he saw to his astonishment, lying carelessly on the table, the very sketch that he understood it was so important to guard. Immediately he saw the necessity of removing it to safety, as 214he knew that you were not in the secret about it, so he put his tray down on top of it, in apparent ignorance, and when you commanded him to remove the tray, he did so, cleverly concealing and holding the sketch underneath. When he went out of the room he still had it concealed under the tray, but once outside and the door closed, he dropped it to the ground while trying to transfer it to his pocket. It was this unfortunate accident that he feels sure led to its theft. In all probability, Madame Vanderpoel was watching from her nearly closed door and saw the sketch as it fell, and guessed it must be connected in some way with the secret we had been guarding. She immediately found some means to report it to her ally and companion-spy, Franz, and then the trouble began."

"But did Peter—I mean Mr. Brainerd—suspect Madame?" Patricia interrupted eagerly.

"He did not exactly suspect her, for she had done and said nothing of a suspicious nature. 215She certainly passed herself off very well for just what she wished to seem. She is an exceedingly clever woman. His only uneasiness about her arose from the rather peculiar actions of your little friend, Virginie de Vos. Still, as I say, Brainerd could not seem to connect her with any doubtful matters. Franz he did think was watching him, but even he did nothing to arouse direct suspicion. And, by the way, the 'Hofmeyer' that Chester heard referred to is none other than this precious 'Madame Vanderpoel.' It is, in fact, her real name, for she married, after her first husband died, a German named Hofmeyer. Little Virginie told me this to-night in a short interview I had with her. So there you have the famous two.

"Well, to continue. Peter intended to keep the sketch by him and return it to me at the earliest opportunity. But you know I got back very late that night, and so he thought best to retain it till morning, fearing it wou............