THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
During that sleepless night, however, Patricia laid some plans of her
own, which she purposed to put into execution the next day. She felt
weary and lifeless after the excitement and worry of the previous night
and the hours of restless tossing that followed. Her father, likewise,
seemed fatigued and depressed, though he strove hard, for her sake, as
she privately surmised, to appear cheerful and hopeful.
"We'll hurry through breakfast," he told her, as they left the room,
"and then I'll start out on the hunt. I've been thinking over a few of
the possibilities during the night, and some ideas have occurred to me
that I didn't think of at first. I want you to stay rather close to the
room to-day—that is, don't go out for any length of time till I get
back. I may not return before late afternoon, but don't let that worry
you. And don't lose heart, honey! It will probably turn out all right.
By the way, when we get down to the dining-room, please try to act as
nearly normal as possible, and as if nothing were wrong. It might be
fatal to let the world at large notice that all is not as usual. And, of
course, don't touch this subject, as far as conversation goes, with a
forty-foot pole!"
His latter injunctions Patricia found rather difficult to carry out. It
was far from easy to appear her usual care-free self when weighed down
with such a hideous burden of trouble. If she hadn't felt the thing to
be all her own fault, unwitting though it was, she could have borne it
better.
Most difficult of all was having to face Peter Stoger, who, in his usual
leaden way, waited upon them. His dull stupidity, she always felt,
covered a watchfulness, that being hidden, was more trying than if it
had been open and aboveboard. This morning she felt certain he was
watching them both, with a covert keenness, when he thought himself
unobserved. The captain treated Peter in precisely the same fashion as
usual. Once only did she observe anything unusual in his manner. This
was when the waiter, in passing behind him, brushed his shoulder with
the edge of his tray. It was a trivial matter, and, so Patricia thought,
would, as a rule, have called forth no comment from her father. But,
rather to her surprise, the captain turned on him with an impatient
gesture and the quite sharp remark, "Be careful, Peter!" The man
apologized almost servilely and backed away.
"That shows how worried and tired and upset Father is!" thought
Patricia. "He doesn't usually act that way over such a little thing. He
probably has his suspicions of that horrid man, too. I'm afraid he's
wishing he'd taken my advice about him at first."
Many times during the meal did she glance over toward the table usually
occupied by Virginie and Madame Vanderpoel, hoping, yet almost dreading,
to see them. But the table remained empty, nor did they appear at all in
the dining-room during that meal.
"Stay in the room as much as possible to-day," the captain again warned
her before he went away. "I don't want to think of these premises being
left free for any more queer things to happen."
"I will, but may I see Virginie?"
"I don't see any reason why you shouldn't, especially if it comes about
naturally. It won't do to seem to avoid these people, either. But don't
force any meeting, and above all things, I hardly need warn you to say
nothing about what has happened. That would spoil everything."
For some time after her father left, Patricia sat maturing her plans.
See Virginie this day she must, and she thought it could be effected in
the most natural manner possible. She would ask her to bring her
water-colors and sketches in again, and they would try to do some work,
she (Patricia) attempting to make some copies of the sketches under
Virginie's direction. In some such natural way the conversation might be
led around to her father's sketches, and she might have a chance to
determine whether the girl were at all involved in this dreadful affair.
Nothing about it need be mentioned directly. Patricia felt sure she
could determine, from Virginie's manner, how much she knew.
At ten o'clock she went over to the telephone and called up the office,
asking to be connected with room 404. The reply she received, caused her
a veritable shock.
"The room is vacant."
"_Vacant?_" she demanded. "You mean that Madame Vanderpoel and
Mademoiselle de Vos are out?"
"They have gone—left the hotel. They gave up the room this morning and
went away for good.... No, they didn't say where they were going or if
they intended to return."
Patricia hung up the receiver and crept over to a chair by the window. A
sort of black mist seemed to float before her eyes and her mind would
register no impressions save trivial ones for a long while. She was
aware of the distant roar of the city, borne across the more quiet
stretches of the park outside her window, of the sparrows chattering in
the branches, of the children romping in the quiet walks, the honking of
an arriving automobile, and of little else.
Then gradually her numbed brain recovered its normal action. Virginie
and her aunt were gone and without a single word to her, a single
farewell! Could their abrupt and mysterious departure indicate any but
one fact? After the strange disappearance of her father's sketch, what
could it mean except that one or both of them were guilty and they were
trying to conceal it by flight? One or both of them! No it _could_ not
be that Virginie was concerned. She would never, never believe that. And
yet, if it were not so, why had Virginie gone away without a single word
to the friend whom she declared she loved next best to her father?
Surely she could have managed to say a word or two over the telephone,
or scribble a tiny note! Perhaps she _had_ written a note and it would
arrive later in the mail. Patricia quite brightened for a few moments,
at the thought. She would wait and see what the day's post brought. That
would doubtless explain.
The morning hours dragged by. The weather was stifling and humid, and
Patricia sat by one of the opened windows of the darkened room. Try as
she would, she could not keep her depressed thoughts from picturing the
darkest aspect of everything. How her pleasant life had changed since
yesterday at this time, her bright hopes and plans collapsed like a
fragile castle of cards! Who would have dreamed such a calamity could
have befallen her?
At noon she telephoned down to the office to ask for the mail, and also,
as she felt no appetite, requested that some crackers and a glass of
milk be sent up at the same time, to the room. That was all the luncheon
she felt she could possibly manage.
Chester Jackson arrived with the letters and her order a few moments
later. The former she shuffled over nervously and hopefully. But they
were only communications for her father, and nothing at all for her. The
boy, watching her interestedly, noted the disappointment in her face.
"Miss your side-partner, don't you?" he queried.
"What's that?" she asked, absent-mindedly.
"You miss the mam'selle across the way a bit, I figure. You and her
seemed pretty thick."
"Yes, I do miss her very much," acknowledged Patricia, actually glad to
have any one to speak to on the subject. "But I'm awfully surprised that
she went away so suddenly. I never even knew she was gone."
"You didn't, hey? Well, looka here! She gave me a message to give to
you—that is, she _meant_ it for a message, I reckon, only she didn't get
it all off her mind."
"Oh, what _was_ it?" cried Patricia, excitedly, her darkest suspicions
of her friend vanishing at once. "I knew she would want to send some
word to me."
"Well, it was this way. They sent down word to the office they was
leavin', and for some one to come up and help bring down their hand
luggage. So I went up to get 'em. The missus was bustlin' about good an'
lively, but the gal was sort of teary and not doin' much. But when the
little mam'selle handed me her grip,—the t'other one's back was turned
for a minute,—she whispered to me low, 'Tell Miss Meade I'm going—' But
she didn't get no further, 'cause the other one turned round quick like
an' called me to come an' help her strap a bag. An' from that time till
they left the place she never took her eyes offen the young 'un, an'
_she_ never got no chance to finish it up. But I thought I'd jest tell
you that much, anyway."
"Oh, thank you so much for that, anyhow!" breathed Patricia. "But I
can't understand why she was afraid to say it right out and let her aunt
hear. It seems very strange."
"You needn't think that's the only queer thing about that pair," he
hinted darkly. "I could tell you an earful if I chose!"
Patricia was just on the point of begging him to do so, when some
delicate instinct bade her desist. Was it, after all, kind, or even
honorable, to pry into the affairs of a friend, to hear "back-stair"
gossip about them from a bell-boy in a hotel?
"Well, thank you very much for delivering the message," she remarked,
"and please drop this letter in the mail-chute as you go out."
And after he was gone, curious as she had been to hear what he had to
say about them, she was glad she had resisted the temptation.
The stifling afternoon dragged on. Patricia found ample food for thought
in the news she had heard from the bell-boy, and spent the hours in
fruitless surmise. On one score at least, she was relieved, almost
happy. Virginie had not tried to slip away without letting her know she
was going—perhaps she was trying to tell her destination; perhaps she
was promising to write. But whatever it was, she had at least tried to
send her some word. But why had her companion seemed to suspect it, to
make it impossible? If indeed, she _had_! Why had not Madame Vanderpoel
herself left a pleasant message of regret at leaving, when she had
seemed so cordial, so friendly? Patricia could not but admit that the
action had a very dark and suspicious aspect, after what had happened
the night before.
And that brought her back again to her own troubles: The Crimson
Patch!—who had taken it? Which one of the four that had had access to
the room last night had concealed and carried it away? All of a sudden
she sat up very straight. There were _not_ four—there were only _three_!
For beyond all question she was certain now that Chester Jackson was in
nowise concerned in the matter. She could not explain how she knew—she
simply _knew_. Something in that honest, snub-nosed, smiling face, those
candid, merry eyes, assured her. Chet Jackson was unquestionably
eliminated from the subject, and the puzzle was reduced to a triangle.
Half an hour later there was another knock at the door and Chester,
re-appearing, presented her with a special delivery letter. He stood
informally watching her while she tore it open and read it breathlessly.
It was from her father, written that morning from New York, and it told
her that he thought he was on the track of something that seemed
important. The matter would keep him over night, but she must not be
alarmed. She was to put herself in Mrs. Quale's care from dinner-time
on, and he would return the next day and tell her all about things. That
was all.
Though he had touched on nothing directly, Patricia was certain, of
course, that he referred to the matter of the Crimson Patch. She was
glad that he seemed to be in the way of discovering anything at all that
would lead to the unraveling of their difficulty, but she felt suddenly
very forlorn at the thought of his being away over night for the first
time. And Chet, watching her keenly, saw her face fall.
"Any bad news?" he inquired casually.
"No," she replied, rather pleased to have some one to talk to, so lonely
had been her day. "Father's going to be away over night on some
important business. I'll miss him awfully."
"Say!" ventured Chet, in a confidential tone, "I ask your pardon for
speakin' about it, but you folks have had some trouble since yesterday,
haven't you?"
Rather startled, Patricia nodded her head. Then she looked alarmed, to
think that, by even so much, she had revealed something of her father's
secret.
"Never you mind!" Chet assured her. "Don't get scared because you think
you're giving anything away. I know a heap more than any one thinks I
do." And at her amazed expression, he added:
"I'm goin' to tell you somethin'. It's a secret and don't you let on to
anybody. I ain't goin' to be a bell-hop all my life, I ain't. I got
ambition, and this here hotel life ain't for me."
"What—what are you going to be then?" stammered the astonished Patricia.
"I'm goin' to be a detective or a secret service agent or somethin' like
that. I got it in me, I have. Sort of sense things out an' nose 'em down
when no one suspects I'm anything but a 'buttons' in this here hotel.
It's great sport. You see, not suspectin' I got more'n enough sense to
carry me through the day's work, folks lets out a lot of things before
me that they think I don't catch on to, an' I see a whole heap I'm not
supposed to see. An' this here war has made a lot of lively doings about
this place, I can tell you."
Patricia listened breathlessly. Here was confirmation of her own ideas,
and more. Chet Jackson, beside being undoubtedly innocent of any
complicity in the matter of the Crimson Patch might even become a
valuable ally, if she did but dare to enlist his aid. She suddenly
decided on a bold move.
"Chester," she said, "if you're going to do any detective work, try and
do a little for us. The only trouble is, I can't tell you anything much
about things, because they are very, very important secrets. So I don't
know how you're going to get to work on it."
"Don't worry about tellin' me so much. I know a whole lot about you
folks that you don't think I do. You'd be s'prised if I told you how
much I _do_ know!" Chet assured her darkly. "I gotta go now, because I
been away from the office long enough. But next time I see you I'll tell
you what I know an' we can decide what I'd better do. So long!"
And he was gone, leaving her in a maze of wonder over this new
development.