“And, anyway,” she thought to herself, “there can’t be anybody in the smoking-room, or I would hear them talking.”
It was easy to proceed without a sound by stepping softly along the thick rugs, and as Patty knew exactly where the cyclopædias were shelved, she made straight for that bookcase. It was next to the smoking-room doorway, and as Patty reached it, she peeped around the portière to make sure that the next room was unoccupied.
But to her surprise, she saw Philip Van Reypen stretched out in a big arm-chair in front of the fire. His eyes were closed, but Patty saw he was not asleep, as he was slowly smoking a cigar. Patty saw him sidewise, and she stood for a second contemplating the handsome profile and the fine physique of the man, who looked especially graceful in his careless and unconscious position.
Almost holding her breath, lest he should hear her, Patty moved noiselessly to the shelves, being then out of sight behind a portière.
By slow, careful movements, it was easy enough to move the books silently, and at last she discovered the blue envelope, tucked between two of them. She drew it out without a sound,—careful lest the paper should crackle,—and started to retrace her stealthy steps upstairs again, when she saw the hem of the portière move the veriest trifle.
“A mouse!” she thought to herself, with a terrified spasm of fear, for Patty was foolishly afraid of mice.
Unable to control herself, she sprang up into a soft easy-chair and perched on the back of it.
The springs of the chair gave a tiny squeak, scarcely as loud as a mouse might make, yet sufficient to arouse Van Reypen from his reverie.
He sprang up, and pushing aside the portière, switched on the light, to see Patty sitting on the low, tufted back of the chair, her hair streaming about her shoulders, and her face expressing the utmost fear and horror.
“Well!” he observed, looking at her with a smile,—“well!”