WHEN they were safely in their rooms, behind locked doors, Flo threw herself into Mrs. Ponderby’s motherly arms and wept as hard as she could, which was really pretty hard.

Patty stood by, looking at her. It had been a nerve strain for Patty, and now the reaction was coming on. Her lip quivered, and she said: “It isn’t fair of you, Flo, to take up all Mrs. Ponderby; I’m worse off than you are, for I don’t know but what my father is killed in some awful railroad smash-up.”

“He c-couldn’t be,” said Flo, sobbing still; “there c-couldn’t have been a smash-up on that train, unless we had known ab-bout it!”

“Well, I don’t know where father is, anyhow; and he doesn’t know where I am!”

Then Patty burst into real sobs, and the kind-hearted Englishwoman was at her wits’ end to know what to do with these two strange midnight visitors. But she rose nobly to the occasion.

“There, there, my lambs,” she said, soothingly, “you can tell me all about it presently. But first let us get comfortable. Take off your dusty travelling frocks, and—have you any dressing-gowns?”

“No,” said Patty; “only just our night things. I’ve only my furnished toilet bag, and Flo hasn’t even that.”

“Never mind, dearie; we’ll improvise dressing jackets out of these big bath towels. Now shall I ring the bell and order a bite of supper? A sandwich now,—and a cup of coffee?”

“Not coffee,” said Flo, rousing herself a bit, “it keeps me awake. Let’s have chocolate.”

“Yes,” said Patty; “hot chocolate and chicken sandwiches.”

“And t-tongue,” put in sobbing Flo.

“And jam,” said Patty, almost smiling, now.

“Yes, yes,—assorted sandwiches, and nice hot cocoa.”

Mrs. Ponderby rang the bell and gave the order, and by the time the tray was brought, she had helped the girls to bathe their faces, and had deftly pinned huge bath towels round their shoulders in a very good imitation of dressing-sacques. And not until they were sipping their second cups of cocoa, and had made way with a goodly number of the little sandwiches, did she say, “Now tell me all about it.”

Patty told the whole story of their trip from Florence—and how her father had left them to go to the smoking-car for half an hour, and they had not seen him again.

“Do you suppose brigands attacked him?” asked Patty, her eyes wide open with fear and wonder.

“No, dearie; not that. But it’s a strange story you tell, and I can think of only one explanation. Rest here, and don’t think about it for five minutes, till I return.”

Mrs. Ponderby hurried away, and was back again in less than five minutes.

“It’s as I thought,” she said. “That train you took from Florence is really in two sections. That is, half of its cars are for Venice, and half for Milan. At Bologna, the train is divided and sent in two directions. You see, Bologna is the southern point of a triangle. From there, one travels northeast to Venice, or northwest to Milan. Those two cities form the other two points of the triangle. So, when the train was divided at Bologna, some cars, including the one your father was in, went on to Venice; while other cars, including the one you were in, branched off to Milan, and here you are.”

Patty cogitated on this.

“Then,” she said, “when father tried to return to our car, our car wasn’t there.”

“Exactly; it had already been detached and sent to Milan.”

“Could father find this out?”

“Oh, yes; from the train guard. But he should have taken his seats in a car for Venice in the first place.”

“We were put in our places by the man from the hotel in Florence,” declared Patty, “so it wasn’t father’s fault at all.”

“Then you should all have changed cars at Bologna, and taken seats in a Venice car.”

“Yes,” agreed Patty; “that’s where the mistake occurred. And all because neither father nor I understand Italian. I daresay the guard announced that,—he was shouting all sorts of directions,—but of course, I didn’t understand him, and father didn’t either. And, too, I daresay father was asleep. You know, we all thought we were going directly through to Venice, so we spent the evening as pleasantly as we could, never dreaming we had to change cars or anything.”

“Yes, that explains it all, Miss Fairfield, and you have proved yourself a most sensible and capable young woman to manage as well as you have done. An Italian city is no place for two girls alone.”

“I know it, Mrs. Ponderby. Don’t think I didn’t realise the seriousness of it all. But I did the best I could. You know I am an American.” Patty said this so proudly that the Englishwoman gave her a look of admiration.

“True,” she said; “an English girl might not have been so brave.”

“No, I wasn’t,” confessed Flo; “I depended on Patty, for I knew she could take care of things if anybody could.”

“But,” said Patty, suddenly; “think of father! When he tried to return to us, and couldn’t find us, what do you suppose he did!”

“He couldn’t do anything,” said Mrs. Ponderby, “except to find out that you had gone on to Milan.”

“He couldn’t find that out,” said Patty, slowly, “unless he found some one who could explain it to him in English. You see, it’s quite complicated, with the divided train and all. And besides, father was nearly frantic with worry about us.”

“Yes, he must have been,” said Mrs. Ponderby, gravely. “But he could do nothing at all, except to go on to Venice. He’s there now, of course. Shall you not telegraph him that you are safe?”

“Indeed I will!” cried Patty. “Bless you for suggesting it. I seem to have lost my wits. Oh, Flo, what will Snippy say when father gets there without us?”

“She’ll be in an awful way,” said Flo. “And Nan will be ’most crazy. Oh, Patty, they’re really having a worse time of it than we are, now. Just think! They don’t know where we are, even!”

“Yes,” said Patty, thinking. “Father must know we came on to Milan.”

“No, he doesn’t; he may think we got off at some other station. You know the train stopped three or four times. Or he may think we got off at Bologna and staid there.”

“That’s so,” agreed Patty. “Well, he knows me well enough to know that I’ll do the best I can; and I do believe, Flo, that he feels it a worse responsibility to have lost you than me!”

“If he doesn’t, it won’t be Snip’s fault,” said Flo, grimly. “She’ll give him a waxing, I’ll warrant.”

“It wasn’t father’s fault,” said Patty, staunchly. “That hotel man ought to have told us to change cars at Bologna. Nice railroad management! Well, I’ll telegraph at once, for he can’t very well telegraph to us, when he doesn’t know where we are.” Mrs. Ponderby brought blanks, and Patty wrote a long telegram:

“We are nicely fixed at the Palace Hotel, with comfortable rooms, and a dear English duenna. Send Snippy for us as soon as possible, and we will gladly rejoin you.

“Patty and Flo.”

Mrs. Ponderby bustled away to send the telegram, and then returned to tuck her charges into bed.

“It’s lucky you know the hotel your people are staying at in Venice,” she said; “and now go quietly to sleep, for you’ve done all you can. But I doubt me if your poor father is sleeping much.”

“Or Snippy,” said Flo.

“Or Nan,” said Patty. “We’ve got to do the sleeping for all the family, to-night, Flo; so let’s get about it.”

Knowing she had done all she could in the matter, and thoroughly worn out with the journey and the after excitement, Patty turned on her pillow, and was soon sound asleep.

But far from sleep at that moment was Mr. Fairfield. The poor man was passing through an awful experience. As Patty had surmised, he had dropped asleep in the smoking-car, but he had dozed only for a few moments, and, of course, had no thought other than that his two young charges were in their cosy compartment, with the elderly and kind Italian couple.

Then, soon after leaving Bologna, and all unsuspecting that the train had been divided, he started to return to Patty and Flo, and found to his amazement that that car with several others had been disconnected at Bologna. Mr. Fairfield was stunned. He found an official who could talk fairly good English, and laid the case before him. But there was nothing to be done. Although a clever and resourceful man, Mr. Fairfield felt that his hands were tied. He knew Patty was on the train for Milan, but he could not guess at what station she would get off, if indeed she had not left the train at Bologna.

For the moment his anxiety for the girls’ safety was lost in an endeavour to think of some way to get into communication with them. There was nothing to be gained by getting off the train himself, and yet he hated to go on to Venice without them. But to return to Bologna would be a wild-goose chase, and, too, there was no train back for several hours. He felt sure that Patty would be brave and sensible, but he could not imagine what course she would pursue, and he well knew that real dangers beset the two lonely girls.

So he wrote telegrams which he put off to be sent at the next station. He sent one to Bologna, to be called out in the station, on the chance of Patty’s being there. He sent duplicates to Milan, and to every intervening station at which the train stopped. He felt little hope that any of these would really reach Patty, but he could think of no other plan. Had he been sure she would go through to Milan, he would have gone directly there himself, but so few and inconvenient were the trains that this plan was dismissed. And, too, he must go on to Venice, where Nan and Snippy were awaiting them.

An awful dread of Snippy’s reception of his news filled Mr. Fairfield with consternation, but, as he thought, since his own daughter was lost, as well as Snippy’s young charge, his own grief was as great as hers. And try as he would to rely on Patty’s bravery, and capability in an emergency, he shuddered to think of those two girls, carried swiftly through the night, alone, unprotected, and wondering why he did not return to them.

It was some comfort to realise that the kind old Italian pair were with them. Had Mr. Fairfield known that they left the train at Parma, he would have been racked with a worse anxiety. But he hoped that wherever they all were, the quartette were together, and his faith in the kindly old people was such that he felt sure they would look after the girls some way.

So he arrived in Venice a sad, crushed man, and stepped into the beautiful gondola sent to meet him by the Royal Danieli Hotel without a glance at the canals, the bridges, the buildings, and the lights, that are so fascinating to the newcomers to Venice.

With his head bowed in his hands he made the trip to the hotel, and went in to find Nan and Snippy awaiting him in the reception room.

“Where are the girls?” cried Nan, gaily, as she greeted her husband, little thinking of anything more serious than that they had paused outside to look at the scene, or something like that.

“Have you our own rooms, all right?” said Mr. Fairfield, abruptly.

“Yes, Fred,” said Nan, wondering at his manner.

“Then let us go to them at once,” he said, and so grave was his face that, without another word, Nan led the way, and the three went up the magnificent ducal staircase, to their rooms on the next floor. Here, in a few frank statements, Mr. Fairfield told his story. As he concluded, Snippy’s eyes flashed fire, and she glared at him.

“You have lost Miss Flo!” she exclaimed. “I trusted her to your care!”

“Mrs. Postlethwaite,” said Mr. Fairfield, and the fact of his using her name made Snippy pause to listen, “when my own daughter is also lost, you cannot fairly say I betrayed a trust. I admit my culpability in the matter, but I think in this very grave emergency we must all do what we can to find the girls, and not give way to useless recrimination.”

“I think so, too,” said Nan, taking her husband’s hand, “and, Mrs. Postlethwaite, while I sympathise with you regarding Flo, you must also realise what we are suffering regarding Patty; and though you are Flo’s guardian and governess,—yet Patty is our daughter.”

Snippy’s sense of justice came to her rescue, and she said, more quietly:

“Forgive me, Mr. Fairfield; I was so shocked and upset at Miss Flo’s disappearance, I quite overlooked Miss Patty. I won’t admit that you are in a worse case than I, for I am responsible to Miss Flo’s mother, while Miss Patty is your own child. But I appreciate the situation, and we will work together to do all we can to get the children back as soon as possible.”

“That’s the sensible Snippy that you are!” said Mr. Fairfield, as he heartily clasped her hand; “but, alas! I cannot think of anything to do. It doesn’t seem right to refer the case to the police, as I can’t help thinking the girls are safe somewhere with the Italian lady and gentleman, and if I know my Patty, she’ll telegraph me as soon as she can. Thank Heaven she knows our Venice address. Hard as it is, I think the only thing we can do now is to wait until morning.”

The others agreed to this, and so they all went to bed, though not to sleep.