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.

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.