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.