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.

She went to the telephone and asked to be connected with Mrs. Quale's room. The reply she received caused her a veritable shock.

"Mrs. Quale came in a while ago and then went out again, saying she would be away over night in New York."

Patricia hung up the receiver and sat down in the nearest chair with a little, frightened shiver. She would be alone over night, in this big, strange hotel, surrounded perhaps by unseen and unknown enemies. Oh, if she could only communicate with her father and urge him to come back at once! But that was not possible. He had said he was in New York, but had given no address, probably because he was hurrying about from place to place and did not intend to stop anywhere for the night. It was certainly unfortunate that Mrs. Quale had elected to be away at the same time. Well, it was too bad, but it was not fatal. In all probability, nothing unforeseen of any kind would happen. There was no reason why it should.

Suddenly a bright idea came to her. If Mrs. Quale's maid, Delia, had not accompanied her mistress to New York, why would it not be possible to ask her to come down and spend the night? Her companionship would be better than none at all. In the long weeks of her intimacy with Mrs. Quale, Patricia had grown to realize that Delia was becoming rather fond of her, in her queer, taciturn way, and would probably be glad to be of any help. She decided to go upstairs now to see her and talk it over.

Her interview proved rather a difficult one. Patricia had not Mrs. Quale's ease in communicating with a deaf person, and it was some time before Delia understood what she was driving at. And even when she did, there was hesitancy.

"I've a bad earache to-night," she averred, "that's why Mrs. Quale didn't take me with her. I have it quite often. I'm afraid I won't be much company for you, Miss Patricia, and I wanted to go to bed pretty early."

"Oh, I'm not going to stay up late!" cried Patricia, "and, of course, you can have Father's room. I just want you to be there near me. Father would be dreadfully upset if he thought I was here alone."

"Very well, then," Delia consented at last. "To be sure, I wouldn't have you worried, nor the captain worried about you, even if I am too miserable to hold up my head. I'll be down at half past eight. I've things that will keep me busy till then."

After that, Patricia decided to worry no further about the matter, dress for dinner, go down to the dining-room, and take her meal as if she expected her father at any minute. After that, she would read and sew and write some letters and go to bed as usual. The sensible resolve steadied her. She put on her lightest and coolest attire, for the evening was still very hot, and at a very early hour went down to the dining-room. She wanted to have this ordeal over as speedily as possible, for she dreaded sitting at her table alone and being waited on by Peter Stoger.

To her intense surprise, he was not there. She was served by another waiter, and Peter did not appear during the entire meal. Where in the world could he be? She ventured to question the new attendant about the usual waiter, but received only the reply that he was away for the day. It was certainly all very mystifying.

After dinner, which passed without any unusual happenings, she went into the lounge, supplied herself with some new magazines, and hurried away to her room. The absence of Peter Stoger disturbed her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. She disliked and feared him enough when he was present, but in his absence he seemed positively terrifying. She sat down by the window in the gathering twilight to think it all over.

Three of them gone—the very three on whom suspicion rested most heavily! The Crimson Patch gone with them. Her father gone too, involved in who knew what troubles, what difficulties, in his search. What was this strange Crimson Patch, anyway? Patricia shut her eyes tight and strove to call up the image of the sketch as she had seen it last. It was nothing, it was absolutely nothing but the cleverly executed sketch in water-colors of a peculiar species of butterfly with a bright crimson spot on each lower wing. There was nothing about it that was different, nothing that she could remember, to distinguish it from the many other sketches in her father's possession. That it could harbor any secret, and especially any government secret, seemed absolutely absurd. And yet—it must be so.

Then her mind wandered back to Virginie. Where was she now? What had she tried so hard to communicate in that broken, incomplete message to Chester Jackson? Would they ever see each other again? In twenty-four hours, life had suddenly assumed a very complicated aspect to Patricia. She could scarcely realize now how happy and care-free she had been last night at this very hour. It did not seem as if she could be the same person, so many were the perplexing problems on her mind.

And this brought her thoughts back to Chester Jackson. She must see him again, as soon as possible, and discover what it was that he knew about herself and her father and his affairs. She would call up the office and ask to have something sent to the room. So determined, she switched on the lights, went to the telephone and asked to have some of the hotel stationery sent up. There was nothing else she could think of, just at the moment. The knock at the door a few moments later sent her flying to it, her mind full of the questions she planned to ask. To her intense chagrin, it was another bell-boy who brought the paper.

Scarcely able to murmur her thanks, she turned back into the room and shut the door. Had Chester, too, deserted her? What could possibly have happened? It was the first time she could remember that he had not personally answered the summons. If he had also, for some inscrutable reason, left the hotel on this fateful night, she would certainly feel herself to be deserted of all mankind.