CHAPTER II


It was eight o'clock and a crisp, clear morning. A stewardess was
offering tea and toast to Mrs. Patterson, the frail little lady whom
Anne had observed in a wheel-chair the afternoon before. Seen closely,
her face had a pathetic prettiness. With the delicate color in her soft
cheeks, she looked like a fading tea rose. Yet one knew at a glance that
she and bird-like Miss Sarah Drayton were sisters. There was the same
oval face--this hollowed and that plump; the same soft brown hair--this
wavy and that sleek; the same wide-open hazel eyes--these soft and
sombre, those bright as beads.

"If you drink a few spoonfuls, dear, you may feel more like eating,"
Miss Drayton's cheery voice was saying. "And do taste the toast. If
it's as good as it looks, you'll devour the last morsel."

Mrs. Patterson sipped the tea and nibbled a piece of toast. "It lacks
only one thing--an appetite," she announced, smiling at her sister as
she pushed aside the tray. "Did you hear that? I thought I heard--is it
a child crying?"

The stewardess started. "Gracious! I forgot her! A little girl's just
across from you, ma'am--an orphant, I guess. She's travelling alone with
her uncle. And he charged me express when he came on board to look after
her. Of course I forgot. My hands are that full my head won't hold it.
It's 'Vaughan here' and it's 'Vaughan there,' regular as clockwork. Why
ain't he called on me again?"

She trotted out and tapped on the door of the stateroom opposite. There