LEFT ALONE
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.