MELANIE
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.
[Illustration:
Melanie stood in the doorway surveying her with stern surprise
]
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.