It was a short and breathless ride out to Hanford, through a part of the country quite unfamiliar to Patricia, as it was off the regular trolley and railroad lines. They passed through the little town at a breakneck speed, purposely, as Chet explained. It was such a tiny place and so out of the world that every passing vehicle was apt to be an object of interest to the inhabitants and he didn't want their car to be specially noticed and commented upon. Twice Delia protested strongly against the pace, but Patricia pretended not to hear her, and they sped on.

Outside the town limits they slowed down and proceeded at a more leisurely pace, and presently turned into a rough little apology for a road leading through the woods. Under a dense mass of overhanging boughs they stopped, securely screened from the road.

"Now here's where we begin the great Sherlock Holmes act!" announced Chet, gaily. "The house is just beyond the edge of the woods. You sit here tight, Ted, an' don't you budge unless you hear this whistle or see us come runnin' back. Then you have the engine ready to beat it like blazes. You understand, don't you?"

Ted, still inarticulate, nodded vigorously.

"Now, come along, miss, if you're ready," went on Chet, "an' we'll scout around the edge of the woods nearest to the house for a spell an' see what's doin'."

Leaving Delia in the car, somewhat mystified, but still unquestioningly happy, Patricia, with pounding heart, followed his lead and, Indian file, they plowed their way through the deep underbrush and tangled vines till they stood at the edge of the clearing, protected from sight only by some overhanging boughs. Beyond them stretched the expanse of a couple of hundred feet of grass. It had once, doubtless, been only a rough meadow, but was now converted into a smooth, well-kept lawn running to the very steps of the porch where Chet had hidden the night before. The house was of the old-fashioned "salt-box" type, with long, sloping roof running to within a few feet of the ground at the back. It had been renovated and painted, with the addition of a wide, screened veranda on one side. But its distinctive feature was the shutters, doubtless the old original ones, of solid wood with little crescents cut in them near the top, and painted a bright green.

There was no one about, not a sign of a living creature, though all the windows were open, their pretty draperies swaying in the morning breeze.

"What had we better do?" questioned Patricia. "We mustn't go any nearer the house."

"No, we must sit tight right here and watch what goes on for a while," agreed Chet. "What I'm trying to do is to see, by who goes in or out of the place, whose around, an' what chance we have of passin' the glad word to the little mam'selle."

They sat in almost absolute silence for nearly half an hour and nothing happened at all. No one went either in or out, no face appeared at a window, nor door was opened or shut.

"I believe it's deserted," whispered Patricia, impatiently. "I'm sure they've all gone away."

"Don't you believe it!" retorted Chet. "They ain't such geese as to all go off an' leave the house open like that. But if somethin' don't happen purty quick, I'm goin' to beat it around to the back an' see the lay of the land there."

Something, however, did happen, and very shortly after. A man in a chauffeur's outfit appeared from somewhere at the back of the house and went over to a small garage, barely visible from where they stood hidden. Five minutes later there was the sound of a motor starting, and an automobile shot around the curve of the drive and came to a halt before the door. Almost at once the door opened, a beautifully gowned woman came out, stepped into the motor, and was driven rapidly away.

Patricia clutched Chet's arm spasmodically. "It was Madame Vanderpoel!" she whispered. "Oh, it made me shudder just to look at her again. And I used to like her, too. But now there's something awful about her!"

But Chet was interested in something quite different.

"Hooray!" he exclaimed in an undertone. "If she's flew the coop, we got a fightin' chance anyway. Now, I may be wrong, but from what I seen last night an' the lay of the land to-day, I figure there's only that grouchy maid an' the little 'un left in the house. Let's wait a while longer an' see if we see anybody else."

They waited in another long silence. Then Patricia's heart almost stopped beating. The front door opened and Virginie de Vos stepped out, looked about her half cautiously, half languidly, and started to cross the lawn in the very direction where they were hidden. She had a book in her hand, and Patricia suspected that her intention was to sit and read in the cool shade of the woods.

"Oh, it couldn't have happened better, could it?" she whispered ecstatically to Chet. "I've been fairly praying for something like this ever since we've been here."

"Fine!" replied Chet, in ill-suppressed excitement. "Now, looka here. I ain't goin' to complicate things between you an' her by hangin' around while you have your talk. I'm just goin' to disappear in the woods back here a ways, but I'll be right within call, an' when you want me, you can get me. An' p'raps I'd better go an' entertain Delia a while, or she'll be wantin' to quit this picnic. See?"

Patricia nodded, mutely grateful for his tact, but her gaze was fastened on the girl, approaching so slowly and lifelessly across the lawn. Chet melted away into the leafy growth behind her, and she herself drew back a little farther into the woods, so that the meeting might not take place too close to the house. In another moment she and Virginie stood suddenly face to face.

Patricia sprang forward with a little cry of joy. For a moment an answering gleam leaped into Virginie's eyes. Then, to Patricia's unbounded astonishment, the girl shrank back, her eyes wide and terror-stricken, her hands outspread before her as if to push her friend far from her sight.

"Why, Virginie!" cried Patricia. "What is the trouble? Have I frightened you so? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Yes,—oh, no, no! You must not come. I will not talk to you. I cannot! I cannot!"

Patricia was amazed at her incoherent distress, and could make nothing out of the contradictory statements she uttered.

"But I thought you would be glad to see me, Virginie. I was so delighted to find out where you were. And you are in trouble too, or danger, or are worried about something. Won't you tell me about it? I came all this way to find out how you were and what I can do to help you."

"You can do nothing," the girl answered dully. "Go back and never think of me or try to see me again. It is the only safe thing for you."

"But I do not understand!" cried Patricia, in despair. "What can you mean, Virginie? Didn't you call me up last night and warn me of danger and say you too were in danger, but you didn't have time to finish, or were cut off, or something. I was so worried about you and—and I—found out where you were, and have come to find out all about it."

"I tried to warn you not to come," Virginie answered, "but I—but I—did not get a chance to finish. I—I could not make you understand. When I said I was in danger I—I only—meant in danger of being overheard."

"But, Virginie," cried Patricia, in utter bewilderment, "what do you mean by 'warning me not to come'? How could you think I was coming, when I didn't even know where you were? It was only by an—an accident that I found out where you were—later."

The girl stared at her fixedly, a sudden light dawning in her face.

"But, tell me, how did you come?" she whispered excitedly. "Was it not with—with Madame Vanderpoel?"

"With Madame Vanderpoel? Indeed not!" exclaimed Patricia, and to her utter discomfiture, Virginie murmured a faint, "I am so glad!" and dropped in a huddled heap on the ground, hiding her face in her hands.

"But why should you think I came with Madame Vanderpoel?" questioned Patricia, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. "I have neither seen her nor heard from her since she left the hotel."

"She—she has gone to the city to—to call for you," murmured Virginie, her face still buried in her hands. "She was going to urge you to come out to see me, saying I was quite ill and wished it. She was going to put the matter very urgently. Oh, I prayed that you would not come! And when I saw you, I thought you had come with her, and—and—" She stopped with a shuddering sob.

"Virginie," said Patricia, in a very firm, quiet voice, "won't you please explain all this to me? What is it Madame Vanderpoel wished of me? Why was she trying to get me here? And what have you to do with it all?"

The girl crouching on the ground looked up at her suddenly.

"Do you remember," she murmured, "that once you promised to—to love and—and trust me, no matter what happened, in spite of all—all appearances that—that seemed against me? Can you keep that promise—in spite of—of everything?" She looked so appealingly at her friend that Patricia went down on her knees beside the crouching girl and put both arms about her.

"I never yet failed to keep a promise, Virginie dear. Believe me, I love you and trust you just as much as ever, and always will. I think there is some terrible secret that is making you act very differently from what you would under ordinary circumstances. I won't ask you what it is, but if you ever want to tell me, you can be sure it will be safe with me."

The gentle words acted like magic on the crushed, unhappy girl. She sat up suddenly, as if inspired by some strong determination, put both hands in Patricia's, and looked her straight in the eyes.

"You are a darling! You are better to me, more kind, than I ever hoped or dreamed. I am going to tell you all—all I know, though I do not dare to think what would happen to me if they suspected it."

"Who are 'they'?" questioned Patricia.

"The Boches—the German spies!" answered Virginie, in a hushed tone. "That is a house full of them. Did you not know it?"

Patricia started back in real horror. This, then, was the confirmation of her very worst fears.

"But you—" she stammered. "Surely you are not one of them? You said you were a Belgian."

Virginie nodded lifelessly. "I am truly a Belgian—but I am their helpless tool."

"But your aunt?" cried Patricia, still unconvinced. "Surely Madame Vanderpoel is a Belgian too. Why does she not protect you? Is she, too, in their power?"

Virginie shuddered. "Madame Vanderpoel is no Belgian. She is a German by birth—and at heart. She married my mother's brother,—he is now dead,—and she lived for many years in our country and was to all outward appearance a Belgian. But she has been secretly, all these years, in the service of the German spy system. I never dreamed of such a thing myself, nor did my father, till she had brought me away to England and America and had me completely in her power."

A great light suddenly dawned on Patricia. Here was the explanation of many curious incidents that had happened at the hotel. But bewilderment on some points still possessed her.

"Madame Vanderpoel seemed very kind to you though, Virginie?" she ventured. "And you treated her rather abominably at times, if I must say so. Yet she never reproached you or said anything unpleasant."

"She was very kind to me in public—yes. But what she did and said to me in private, I would wish never to tell you."

"Well, but, Virginie, there is one thing I still cannot seem to understand!" cried Patricia. "You say that Madame Vanderpoel has you completely in her power. That seems unthinkable to me, especially here in free America. What is to prevent you from running away from her, from giving yourself up to the proper authorities, from informing them about her and having her and all the rest of them put in prison? You surely have had plenty of opportunity to do that. Has it never occurred to you?"

Virginie seemed fairly to shrink into herself at this suggestion. "Oh, you do not understand!" she moaned. "There is something else, something more terrible than you have any idea of. Gladly, only too gladly would I do as you suggest. Indeed, I would have done it long ago. I would have done it even had it meant my own death. But the safety of one I love depends wholly on my complete obedience to her—to them."

"What—oh, what do you mean?" breathed Patricia, a partial light breaking in on her bewilderment.

"My father!—they have him, too, in their power, 'over there'! He was captured by them after the siege of Antwerp, and is now in a German prison. Can you not see now where they have complete control over me? I must do their will without hesitation, or my father's life will be forfeited. The first act of disobedience, of rebellion on my part, and his life is ended by a secret code message sent by them through Switzerland. And so you see, my friend, that my life is a daily torture."

She said no more. Patricia sat petrified by this hideous revelation. No tale of horror that she had heard from her father could exceed the exquisite cruelty of the torment and misery meted out to this lovely, helpless girl, forced against her will, her patriotism, and her affections to act as their tool in order to save the life of her father! Patricia understood it all now—all the strange conduct that had so puzzled her in their days together at the hotel. How torn between her love, her sense of right, and her fears this poor girl must have been—must be now! And a great thankfulness filled her that she had been moved to assure Virginie of her love and trust, in spite of all appearances, before she had known the whole truth.

But there seemed to be no words in which she could express her horror of what she had heard. So she only kept both arms about her friend, and in this close contact they sat together, Virginie clearly grateful for the unspoken sympathy. At length Patricia broke the silence.

"Have they—have they made you do many things you—hated?" she asked hesitatingly. "I do not quite understand how they could use you—"

"They have spent, as they say, a long time 'training me'," said Virginie. "I was to pose before people as just what I am, a Belgian refugee, and arouse sympathy, and get into their confidence, and then—" she shuddered again, "draw from them any secrets of interest to the German government, or—or perhaps take from them any secret papers of importance, if I could manage it, or—or that kind of thing. They thought at first that I should be very successful, very helpful to them, but I fear I have not—that is, I do not fear it, I am glad of it—only I know that I risk my father's life with every act of resistance.

"Twice I have failed them. Once, in England, in a hotel there, they arranged that I should become acquainted with the wife of a prominent British general at the front. She took a great fancy to me and had me with her very often. They knew that she had papers of her husband's of great importance in her possession, and I was to obtain them somehow. But I could not do it—if for no other reason that she had been so kind to me; and soon she went away to do Red Cross work at the front, so I never had another chance. I was thankful from my heart, but oh, they were very, very angry! I thought they would surely fulfil their threat and take my father's life, but they gave me another chance.

"When your country declared war, we came over here and stayed for a time in a big hotel in Washington. There, a second time, I was made to form the acquaintance of an American diplomat and his wife who were staying at the same place. They were very sorry for me and interested in me because I was a Belgian refugee, and invited me often to their rooms. I did not care for them, as I had for the English lady, but they, too, were kind and good to me. Madame Vanderpoel had ordered me, on a certain day when I had been visiting in the lady's room and she had left me alone for a time, to go through her writing-desk and hunt for one particular document. And again I failed them. I could not do this horrible thing when it came to the moment, and I pretended to be very ill and obliged to return at once to my room. That night the diplomat and his wife removed to the house of a friend, where they were to visit for an indefinite time.

"The wrath of these terrible people against me knew no bounds. And I thought for a time that nothing could save my father. But they decided to give me one more chance—and that chance was you!"

Patricia started in spite of herself. "But how—how do they know there is anything—about me of—of interest to them?"

"They know everything," declared Virginie, apathetically accepting what was to her a common, every-day fact. "Yes, they know everything. Though how they find it out, I cannot imagine. They seem to have a million eyes and ears watching and listening for them, in every country. They know that your father has a very important secret mission. Whether they know just what it is, I have not been able to tell. But they know that it is vital to understand that mission, to stop his work if possible. They wish to obtain a secret paper he has, at any cost. They knew you were both to come to the hotel. We ourselves came there the day before. We changed our room once, so as to be nearer to you.

"Then I received my instructions. I was to form an acquaintance with you—somehow. It should be easy, since we were about of an age. I was to be with you frequently, constantly. I was to discover if you were in your father's confidence. I was to locate that secret paper, and I was to obtain possession of it when the time seemed ripe. It was to be my last chance. If I failed—well, you can imagine the rest.

"I liked you from the first—yes, I loved you. On that first night when you caught me spying on you from the door across the hall and were so sweet and charming to me, I loved you. And that love made all the harder what I had to do. I determined that I would not get acquainted with you; I would pretend that you did not wish or encourage it. But my delay only angered Madame Vanderpoel. She took matters in her own hands on that morning when she told you I was ill with a headache, and forced the friendship on me in spite of myself. You know that I was not ill, nor did she have to go to New York. She merely went out and stayed out all day to give us a chance to get acquainted.

"Well, you know the rest of that history—how strangely I acted at times, how—how abominable I was to you. I do not yet understand how you could have been so sweet and forgiving. But the more you were, the more I hated what I had to do and delayed about it. And the longer I delayed, the more angry Madame Vanderpoel grew with me. Of one thing I was glad. I could discover nothing about any secret paper, and they were beginning to doubt whether your father really had it with him or whether it was concealed elsewhere.

"At any rate, much to my surprise, after that last night I spent with you, Madame informed me next morning very early that we were leaving the hotel to come here. She did not offer any explanation at the time, but I know now that it was because they had obtained the secret paper at last, I know not how, and there was no need to stay longer at the hotel. I tried so hard to get some word to you in spite of her. I had just whispered part of the message to the bell-boy when she interrupted and I got no other chance.

"But though I never expected to see you again, I rejoiced that the terrible necessity for constantly deceiving you was over at last. I could at least love you always and feel that I need no longer wrong you. But it was not to be. Last night I overheard them talking below, and it seems that though they had obtained what they believed to be the secret paper, they could make nothing of it at all, and so they were as much in the dark as ever. They talked and wrangled over it much, and at length Madame herself proposed a plan. She knew that your father had missed the paper and also that he was in New York searching for it on a false clue that they themselves had arranged. But she imagined that she had so well covered her tracks that neither you nor he connected us with any share in the matter. So she planned to go in to the city, call at your hotel, and try to induce you to come out here with her in the car to visit me for a few hours, telling you a sad tale of how I had been taken ill again and wished to see you. But while you were here, she was going to threaten you suddenly with dreadful things, both to yourself and your father, if you did not tell her the secret of the paper. And after she had frightened you into telling (as she was sure she could), she was to have you driven away in the car and left in some distant and unknown locality, and by the time you had at last returned to the hotel, we would all have disappeared and could not be traced."

"But I do not know the secret of it!" cried Patricia. Virginie only shrugged her shoulders with a foreign gesture.

"So much the worse for Madame, then," she went on. "She knew she was taking that chance. But she felt almost certain you were in your father's confidence. If you did not know, then the same program would be carried out. But first, before she questioned you, she wished me to try and draw the secret from you. If I were successful, it would be so much simpler for her. She summoned me to her this morning and instructed me in the part I was to play. And that is why I shuddered so when I saw you. I thought she had been successful in her ruse to get you here. I had tried so hard to prevent it. Last night I called you on the upstairs telephone, softly, so they might not hear, for they were still wrangling down below. But I could not finish. Melanie was coming up the stairs. I had to ring off. Now you know it all."

She ceased speaking and sat staring into her lap, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Patricia also sat in stunned silence. Now that the whole terrible plot had been revealed to her, it all seemed so infinitely worse than anything she had imagined that she could scarcely collect her senses. Two things stood out in her mind with distinctness: the Crimson Patch was concealed somewhere in that house—she must get hold of it at all cost—it was vital to her father's, yes, even to the whole country's interests; and Virginie must be snatched somehow from the clutches of these terrible enemies who were using her against her will for their own ends. But how was it to be accomplished?

At that moment, Chet Jackson's head appeared suddenly over the bushes.

"If you'll excuse me, ladies, for mentionin' it," he whispered, "something's got to be done pretty quick. I figure the Madame'll be gettin' back any minute now."