THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS
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."