The car stopped in front of the door and Madame stepped out. She was in rare ill-humor, that was plain, and she stood talking long with the chauffeur. Then she went into the house. The chauffeur sprang into the car and drove off at a furious pace in the same direction from which they had come.

The three crouching at the edge of the woods watched it all with bitter disappointment and alarm.

"What shall I do?" shuddered Virginie. "It is now too late to carry out our plan. It can never be done. Oh, I fear that I shall never be free from her power."

"Now, just cut out all that!" said Chet, brusque, but well-meaning. "You could be quit of her this very minute if we wanted to beat it and take to the auto. But what we're trying to do is to save that there Crimson Patch, if possible. Perhaps we can't do it just the way we meant to first, but there certain is some way if we can just work it out. How about this? Suppose you go back to the house, just casual like, an' see what the fuss is all about. We will stay put right here. It's perfectly safe, an' we can stay here all the rest of the day if necessary. Then, later, perhaps after you've had your lunch, you'll find some chance of gettin' that sketch an' wanderin' off here to the woods again, an' then it will just be heigho, an' beatin' the speed-limit back to the city for us all! How about it?"

Virginie thought it over carefully. "I think perhaps that is a good idea. I will tell you why. After luncheon Madame always goes to her room to rest and sleep. Melanie will be busy in the kitchen, and if the chauffeur does not come back, it will all be quite safe. I think he will not come back. I have a feeling that he has gone to New York to consult with—with the rest of them. But Madame may not leave the sketch in her desk. She may lock it in her safe, but I will go back, though she is terrible when she is angry."

"But remember this, always, Virginie," Patricia assured her; "she can do nothing now to harm you personally. Things have changed since you thought yourself completely in her power. We are here, and, if things get too bad, call to us, or make some outcry, and you'll have help there before you know it. You are not alone any more."

Thus cheered and comforted, Virginie took her book, murmured an inarticulate farewell, and stepped into the open. The two who remained watched her breathlessly as she crossed the lawn and ascended the steps of the little porch. Then the door closed behind her and they heard and saw no more.

A nerve-racking period of suspense followed. When it was plain that she would not, in all probability, reappear for two or three hours, Chet suggested that they go back to where the others were waiting, lest Delia become anxious and try to hunt them up.

"We might as well as have some lunch, while we can," he added. "You can tell her that the little mam'selle will join us later, if she asks any questions. There's no telling how long we have to wait, and you'll feel better for some eats. Ted and I will keep watch. But be ready to beat it, any minute, if we give the signal."

They found Delia happily absorbed in arranging the lunch and very little concerned about Patricia's absence and the non-appearance of the Belgian girl. She had struck up a friendship with the inarticulate Ted, and the two were busily occupied in transforming the rear seat of the jitney into a luncheon table.

The food restored Patricia's courage and revived her hopes, which had begun to wane with the disappearance of Virginie. When the meal was over, she told Delia she was going to fetch Virginie. Then she and Chet went back to their post and resumed their long vigil.

Meanwhile, what was happening in the house of the green shutters?

The wrath of Madame at the failure of her plan was all that Virginie had expected it would be, and the girl had to bear the brunt of it when she ventured in at last. Madame had called at the hotel and asked for Patricia. She was not in and had not been seen since breakfast, nor had they, the hotel authorities, any information as to her whereabouts. Neither did they know when she would be back. Madame had waited in the lounge for over an hour, but no Patricia had appeared. Then, fearing to be seen there any longer, she had come away. Where had the little idiot flown to, she inquired in a violent temper? Could it be possible she had joined her father? All her plans were now upset by this unaccountable action of her intended victim.

Virginie, compelled to listen to it all, and fearful of betraying some knowledge of the matter, was more uncomfortable than she dared to show, and could only sit by with downcast eyes and her usual air of terrorized docility.

"It is your fault! I believe it is all your fault!" Madame stormed, and Virginie shrank back physically as well as mentally, though she knew that Madame in no way realized how very much "her fault" it actually was and was only venting her ill-temper on the nearest object.

"Well, let us go to luncheon," Madame at length announced when her ill-humor had spent itself. "It has been a bad day's work, but we must eat, and afterward I will rest and think what to do next."

The meal was consumed in utter silence. Madame was absorbed with her own thoughts, and Virginie was only too thankful for a respite from her angry accusations. All during the hour she was praying, hoping, wondering what Madame was going to do about the sketch still carelessly lying in the drawer of her writing-desk. Would she remember to put it safely away before she retired to her room? Every mouthful choked the girl, but she made a brave pretense of eating. It seemed as if Madame would never be done with this dreadful meal, the most trying that Virginie had ever endured.

But the ordeal was over at last. Madame rose, pushed aside her chair, and left the room without further remark. And Virginie, with loudly beating heart, heard her pass through the living-room and linger a moment at her desk, rustling the papers about. What was she doing? Oh, if she only dared to peep in and see! But Melanie was silently clearing the table, so she passed out to the screened veranda beyond, hearing Madame ascending the stairs as she did so. And she did not even know what had become of the Crimson Patch!

It seemed as if Melanie would never finish her work in the dining-room. Half an hour passed and she was still fussing about, washing, as she usually did, all the silver and glass in the butler's pantry, and passing and repassing in and out on her many errands. Not until she retired to the kitchen would Virginie dare to begin her investigations.

But all things come to an end if one waits long enough, and Melanie at length made her last trip into the dining-room. Virginie heard her retreating footsteps in the direction of the kitchen with a sigh of unutterable relief. Her one terror now was lest Madame might call to her to come upstairs and fan her and read aloud to her, as she frequently did when the mood took her. Besides being an utterly repugnant task, it would in this case put an end to every thought of escape, according to her prearranged plan with the two waiting in the woods. If she could only get away before that happened, all would be well!

The kitchen door closed at last. Virginie gathered all her courage and tiptoed through the dining-room and on into the living-room beyond. Her knees shook so that she could scarcely walk, and a mist seemed to float before her eyes. She felt sure that her pounding heart could be heard by Madame herself in the room above.

The desk stood in a big bay window, and was closed, but not locked. Virginie pulled open the drawer, which gave with a resisting squeak, so loud that her very heart stood still at the appalling sound. She stood motionless for what seemed an hour, but nothing happened and she gradually came to the conclusion that the sound must have passed unnoticed. Then she bent to look at the contents of the drawer.

The Crimson Patch was not there! At least, it was nowhere to be seen on the top. But the drawer was in some confusion, for Madame was by no means a methodical person. Virginie ventured to put in her hand and push the papers about. Could it be?—yes, it must be, that Madame had taken the sketch away, for it was nowhere to be found. Virginie could have wept as she stood there, with the terrible disappointment of it all.

But suddenly her heart gave a leap, for her searching fingers had come in contact with something that felt familiar, far down at the bottom of the drawer. It was the heavy watercolor paper that she remembered so well. Madame, indolent with the desire for her afternoon sleep and reluctant at the moment to go to the trouble of locking away her treasure, had carelessly tucked it away in a far corner of the drawer under a mass of bills and other papers. With a great sigh of joy, Virginie drew out the Crimson Patch.

An instant after she had done so, a slight sound behind her caused her to whirl about in sudden alarm.

Melanie stood in the doorway between the portiÈres, surveying her with stern surprise.