The afternoon wore away, finding the two girls still in each other's company, still exchanging girlish confidences over fancy-work and books. But they did not refer again to Virginie's father, and both seemed to avoid any reference to war subjects in general. Patricia longed to take the girl more into her own confidence about her father and his affairs; but, mindful of Captain Meade's constantly reiterated warnings, she resisted the impulse.
At half past five Virginie remarked that she must return to her room and dress for dinner, as Madame Vanderpoel would soon be back.
"Tell me," asked Patricia, "why do you not call her aunt, as she is your mother's sister-in-law? It would be natural."
Virginie suddenly retired to her shell again. "I never have," was all she vouchsafed. "I—do not know why—that is—" They were walking toward the door as she replied. All at once she stopped, tensely rigid. "There it is again!" she whispered. "Do you not hear it?" There was indeed a curious intermittent sound, as of some one cautiously tiptoeing down the carpeted corridor. Patricia opened the door with a quick jerk.
"You see?" whispered Virginie, clinging to Patricia spasmodically!
The hall again was empty. But at the far end of the corridor, where it turned into another, the wall was illumined by a brilliant patch of sunlight from some window out of sight. And blackly on that patch of sunlight, as on a lighted screen, was outlined the silhouette of a man's form, and of something else that he evidently carried in his hands.
"You see?" whispered Virginie, clinging to Patricia spasmodically.
"Yes, I see!" answered Patricia.
The motionless silhouette was unmistakably the form of Peter Stoger, carrying a tray.