Patricia lifted a book from the table, took something from it, and laid it on her father's knee.
"I hate to contradict you," she remarked gaily, "but I think the Crimson Patch is at this minute in the possession of the one who has most right to it!"
It was long after midnight. The rest of the household was all asleep, but Patricia still sat with her father by the open fire, for the night had turned chilly. She sat on his knee, her head snuggled comfortably in his coat collar. The ensuing interval, after she had told her story, had been a confusion of telephoning and interviews, not only with Chester Jackson, but also with a mysterious Mr. Brainerd, a curly-haired, light-complexioned, athletic young man with whom her father had been closeted for three quarters of an hour in close conference. Patricia was glad when it was over and they had all gone and left them alone together.
"But, Daddy," she was saying, "there are still a whole lot of things I don't understand about this thing at all. You kept saying, 'We were hunting for it in New York.' Now who is 'we'? I thought you shared this secret with no one."
The captain laughed. "You are right. There's quite a little you've still to learn. 'We' is mainly Mr. Tom Brainerd, whom you saw here to-night. He's a government secret-service man, the best around these parts, and he's been near me for protection ever since we first came to the hotel."
"He has?" cried Patricia. "Why, I never saw him before in my life."
"Oh, yes, you have!" contradicted the captain. "You saw him every day of your life, only you didn't know him. I confess he looked a little different. Mr. Tom Brainerd was no other than your pet spy, poor Peter Stoger, my dear!"
Patricia's jaw dropped and her face was a study in bewilderment. "Then—then he—he wasn't Franz?" she stammered.
"He certainly was not! He elected to come here, disguised as he was, because his countenance in real life is a little too familiar to the German spy-system in general. The manager of the hotel is fortunately a good friend of mine and an ardent patriot, so 'Peter's' task was made easy. But there was a 'Franz' here, though he went by another name, and he, too, was one of the waiters. I do not believe you remember him. He was a short, thin, light-haired young fellow, who had a table at the other end of the dining-room. Curiously enough, both he and Peter rather suspected each other and were constantly watching each other's movements.