And even as this passed through her mind, the languid voice of Madame floated down the stairs, calling to her to come up and read aloud and fan her till she got to sleep. In an agony of anxiety, Virginie stood, reluctant to answer, yet scarcely daring not to, till at length Melanie came hurrying back.
"Here it is," she whispered, and crushed a scrap of paper into Virginie's hand. "Now go!" she ended, pointing to the door. "I will tell her that you are not in the house. Have no fear and—good-by!"
They clasped each other in a last embrace. Then Virginie, the precious Crimson Patch clutched to her heart, slipped silently out of the door that Melanie held open and fled away across the lawn. And ere the door was closed, she had reached the edge of the woods and flung herself into the arms Patricia held out to her.
It was a mad ride back to the city, a ride in which they broke the speed-limit many times and slowed down to normal pace as the outskirts of the town appeared. Virginie sat with Patricia on the rear seat. So exhausted nervously was she, that she could say almost nothing, and only lay back with her eyes closed and her hand clasped in Patricia's. And Patricia was sensible enough not to urge her to talk, though she was burning with curiosity to know how the girl had made her escape with the Crimson Patch. The precious sketch now lay securely hidden, and she longed for the moment when she could restore it to her father.
And the thought of her father brought her suddenly face to face with the problem of what they were going to do when they got back to town again. She shrank from the idea of returning to the hotel with the half-fainting Belgian girl. It would arouse comment. Beside that, if her father or Mrs. Quale were not there, it might be a dangerous place for them to stay alone. Who could tell but what Madame might trace them there and demand the immediate return of the girl who was supposed to be in her care? What, indeed, were they to do?
She leaned forward and confided her doubts to Chet. And again she was astonished at the foresight of this clever boy.
"You bet I worked that all out some little time ago. It sure wouldn't be healthy for you to go back there—at least not till your father gets back. But I got a scheme that'll work all right—that is, if you care to do it. You come right to our place and stay with my mother. I told her this morning she might have some company before night, so she's half expectin' you. I'll go back an' hang around the hotel, an' the minute your father or Mrs. Quale comes along, I'll tip 'em off to the lay of the land an' fetch 'em right over. How about it?"
"Oh, Chester, you're wonderful!" sighed Patricia. "You certainly do think of everything. I never saw any one like you."
"Don't take much brain to think of that!" protested Chet, modestly. "There sure is a chance that that bunch will try to trace the girl an' get her back, an' they'd probably guess right away that she's swiped the paper an' gone back to you. But, on the other hand, they may be scared stiff for fear she's given the game away, an' are tumblin' all over themselves tryin' to get out of sight before the Government gets on to 'em. However, we ain't takin' any chances."
Chet Jackson's home was in an unpretentious side street, a neat little box of a house, and as the car drew up at the curb, a large, comfortable, motherly woman, with a wide smile extremely like that of her youngest son's, appeared at the door. Patricia had been rather dreading the explanations and apologies that she realized must surely be in order on their arrival. So weary and overwrought was she, that she felt almost unequal to undertaking them. But much to her amazed relief, none seemed to be required. Mrs. Jackson acted as if a fugitive party of this nature was an every-day occurrence and needed no comment.