As Rosemary attempted to creep between two great piles, one of these toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.
“Come!” Her tone was near despair. “We must find the way out!”
As for Jeanne, she was rapidly regaining her composure. This was not the only time she had been lost in an Opera House. The Paris Opera had once held her a prisoner.
“Yes, yes. The way out!” She took the lead. “I think I see a light, a tiny red light.”
For a second she hesitated. What was this light? Was it held in the hand of the unwelcome stranger? Was it an “Exit” light?
“It’s the way out!” she exulted. A quick turn, a sharp cry and she went crashing forward. Some object had lain in her path. She had stumbled upon it in the dark.
What was it? This did not matter. All that mattered were Rosemary and the way out.
Where was Rosemary? Leaping to her feet, she glanced wildly about. A move from behind demoralized her. One more wild dash and she was beneath that red light. Before her was a door. And at that door, pressing the knob, was Rosemary.
Next instant they had crowded through that door.
But where were they? Narrow walls hemmed them in on every side.
“It’s a trap!” Rosemary moaned.
Not so Jeanne. She pressed a button. They were in a French elevator. They went up.
Up, up they glided. The light of a door came, then faded, then another and yet another.
In consternation lest they crash at the top, Jeanne pressed a second button. They came to a sudden halt. A light shone above them. A second, slower upward glide and they were before still another door. The door swung open. Still filled with wild panic, they rushed into a room where all was dark, and lost themselves in a perfect labyrinth where costumes by hundreds hung in rows.
Crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, with scarcely room to breathe, they stood there panting, waiting, listening.
Slowly their blood cooled. No sound came to their waiting ears. Still Jeanne felt Rosemary’s heart beating wildly.
“To her I am a knight,” she thought. “I am Pierre.”
Then a thought struck her all of a heap. “Perhaps I am not Pierre to her. She may suspect. Yes, she may know!” A cold chill gripped her heart. “If she finds out, what an impostor she will believe me to be!
“And yet,” she thought more calmly, “I have meant no wrong. I only wanted to be near the opera, to be ready for any great good fortune that might befall me.
“Besides, how could she know? Who would tell her? The lady in black? But how could she know? No! No! My secret is safe.
“Come!” she whispered a moment later, “I think we have escaped from those most terrible eyes.”
Creeping out, they made their way along a corridor that welcomed them with ever-increasing brightness until they stood before a passenger elevator. A moment later they stood in the clear bright light of late autumn afternoon.
Throwing back her chest, the little French girl, who for a moment was Pierre, drank in three deep breaths, then uttered a long-drawn:
“Wh-e-w!”
“This,” said Rosemary, extending her hand as she might had she been leaving a party, “has been delightful. So perfectly wonderful. Let’s do it again sometime.
“One more thing!” She whispered this. “They have never found my pearls. But it really does not matter, at least not very much. What are pearls among friends?”
Before Petite Jeanne could recover from her surprise she was gone.
“I suppose,” she sighed as she turned to go on her way, “that some people have many terrible adventures and want none, and some have none but want many. What a crazy, upside-down world this is, after all.”
She was well on her way home when a question, coming into her mind with the force of a blow, left her stunned.
“Why did Rosemary say: ‘The pearls have not been found. It does not matter?’
“Does she believe I took the pearls?” she asked herself, when she had partially recovered her poise. “And was she telling me I might keep them?
“How absurd! And yet, what did she mean?
“And, after all, how could she help believing that I took them? I ran away. There has been no explanation. Unless—unless she knows that I am Petite Jeanne and not Pierre! And how could she know?”
That night as, once more playing the role of Pierre, she entered the boxes, she found Jaeger, the detective, in his place. And, lurking deep in the shadows was the lady in black. She shuddered anew.
That night, by the light of a fickle moon that ever and anon hid himself behind a cloud, Florence made her way alone to the shores of that curious island of “made land” on the lake front. She had determined to delve more deeply into the mysteries of this island. On this night she was destined to make an astonishing discovery.
It was not a promising place to wander, this island. There, when the moon hid his face, darkness reigned supreme.
Yet, even at such times as these, she was not afraid. Strong as a man, endowed with more than the average man’s courage, she dared many things. There were problems regarding that island which needed solving. She meant to solve them. Besides, the place was gloriously peaceful, and Florence loved peace.
She did not, however, love peace alone. She yearned for all manner of excitement. Most of all she was enchanted by sudden contrast. One moment: silence, the moon, the stars, placid waters, peace; the next: a sound of alarm, darkness, the onrush of adventure and unsolved mystery. This, for Florence, was abundance of life.
She had come to the island to find peace. But she would also probe into a mystery.
As she neared the southern end of the island where stood the jungle of young cottonwood trees, she paused to look away at the ragged shore line. There, hanging above the rough boulders, was Snowball’s fishing derrick. Like a slim, black arm, as if to direct the girl’s search out to sea, it pointed away toward black waters.
“No! No!” Florence laughed low. “Not there. The mystery lies deep in the heart of this young forest.”
Straight down the path she strode to find herself standing at last before that challenging door of massive oak.
“Ah!” she breathed. “At home. They can’t deny it.” Light was streaming through the great round eyes above her.
Her heart skipped a beat as she lifted a hand to rap on that door. What sort of people were these, anyway? What was she letting herself in for?
She had not long to wait. The door flew open. A flood of white light was released. And in that light Florence stood, open-mouthed, speechless, staring.
“Wa-all,” came in a not unfriendly voice, “what is it y’ want?”
“Aunt—Aunt Bobby!” Florence managed to stammer.
“Yes, that’s me. And who may you be? Step inside. Let me have a look.
“Florence! My own hearty Florence!” The aged woman threw two stout arms about the girl’s waist. “And to think of you findin’ me here!”
For a moment the air was filled with exclamations and ejaculations. After that, explanations were in order.
If you have readThe Thirteenth Ring, you will remember well enough that Aunt Bobby was a ship’s cook who had cooked her way up and down one of the Great Lakes a thousand times or more, and that on one memorable journey she had acted as a fairy godmother to one of Florence’s pals. Florence had never forgotten her, though their journeys had carried them to different ports.
“But, Aunt Bobby,” she exclaimed at last, “what can you be doing here? And how did such a strange home as this come into being?”
“It’s all on account of her.” Aunt Bobby nodded toward a slim girl who, garbed in blue overalls, sat beside the box-like stove. “She’s my grandchild. Grew up on the ship, she did, amongst sailors. Tie a knot and cast off a line with the best of them, she can, and skin up a mast better than most.
“But the captain would have it she must have book learnin’. So here we are, all high and dry on land. And her a-goin’ off to school every mornin’. But when school is over, you should see her—into every sort of thing.
“Ah, yes,” she sighed, “she’s a problem, is Meg!”
Meg, who might have been nearing sixteen, smiled, crossed her legs like a man, and then put on a perfect imitation of a sailor contemptuously smoking a cob pipe—only there was no pipe.
“This place, do you ask?” Aunt Bobby went on. “Meg calls it the cathedral, she does, on account of the pillars.
“Them pillars was lamp-posts once, broken lamp-posts from the boulevard. Dumped out here, they was. The captain and his men put up the cathedral for us, where we could look at the water when we liked. Part of it is from an old ship that sank in the river and was raised up, and part, like the pillars, comes from the rubbish heap.
“I do say, though, they made a neat job of it. Meg’ll show you her stateroom after a bit.
“But now, Meg, get down the cups. Coffee’s on the stove as it always was in the galleys.”
Florence smiled. She was liking this. Here she was finding contrast. She thought of the richly appointed Opera House where at this moment Jeanne haunted the boxes; then she glanced about her and smiled again.
She recalled the irrepressible Meg as she had seen her, a bronze statue against the sky, and resolved to know more of her.
As they sat dreaming over their coffee cups, Aunt Bobby began to speak of the romance of other days and to dispense with unstinting hand rich portions from her philosophy.
“Forty years I lived on ships, child.” She sighed deeply. “Forty years! I’ve sailed on big ones and small ones, wind-jammers and steamers. Some mighty fine ones and some not so fine. Mostly I signed on freighters because I loved them best of all. They haul and carry.
“They’re sort of human, ships are.” She cupped her chin in her hands to stare dreamily at the fire. “Sort of like folks, ships are. Some are slim and pretty and not much use except just to play around when the water’s sparklin’ and the sun shines bright. That’s true of folks and ships alike. And I guess it’s right enough. We all like pretty things.
“But the slow old freighter, smelling of bilge and tar, she’s good enough for me. She’s like the most of us common workers, carrying things, doing the things that need to be done, moving straight on through sunshine and storm until the task is completed and the work is done.
“Yes, child, I’ve sailed for forty years. I’ve watched the moon paint a path of gold over waters blacker than the night. I’ve heard the ice screaming as it ground against our keel, and I’ve tossed all night in a storm that promised every minute to send us to the bottom. Forty years, child, forty years!” The aged woman’s voice rose high and clear like the mellow toll of a bell at midnight. “Forty years I’ve felt the pitch and toss, the swell and roll beneath me. And now this!” She spread her arms wide.
“The ground beneath my feet, a roof over my head.
“But not for long, child. Not for long. A few months now, and a million pairs of feet will tramp past the spot where you now stand. What will these people see? Not the cathedral, as Meg will call it, nothing half as grand.
“And we, Meg and me, we’ll move on. Fate will point his finger and we’ll move.
“Ah, well, that’s life for most of us. Sooner or later Fate points and we move. He’s a traffic cop, is Fate. We come to a pause. He blows his whistle, he waves his arm. We move or he moves us.
“And, after all,” she heaved a deep sigh that was more than half filled with contentment, “who’d object to that? Who wants to sit and grow roots like stupid little cottonwood trees?”
“Meg, show Florence your stateroom.” Aunt Bobby rose after her soliloquy. “Mine’s more plain-like,” she apologized. “The men set a heap of store on Meg, so they took what was the stateroom of the captain in the balmy days of that old ship and set it up for Meg, right here on the island.
“It’s all there, walls and cabinet all done in mahogany and gold, wide berth, and everything grand.”
“It’s not like sleeping on the water with a good hull beneath you.” Meg’s tone was almost sullen. “Just you wait! I’m going back!”
Once inside her stateroom her mood changed. It became evident at once that she was truly proud of this small room with its costly decorations that had come down from the past. Two great lanterns made of beaten bronze hung one at the head and one at the foot of her berth.
“It’s wonderful!” Florence was truly impressed. “But this island, it is a lonely spot. There must be prowlers about.”
“Oh, yes. All the time. Some good ones, some bad.”
“But are you not afraid?”
“Afraid? No. I laugh at them. Why not?
“And besides. Look!” Her slender finger touched a secret button. A cabinet door flew open, revealing two revolvers. Their long blue barrels shone wickedly in the light.
“But you couldn’t fire them.”
“Oh, couldn’t I? Come over some day just before dark, when the waves are making a lot of noise. I’ll show you.
“You see,” she explained, “I must be careful. If the police heard, they’d come and take them from me.
“But on board ship!” Her eyes danced. “I could out-shoot them all. You know how long a freighter is?”
“Yes.”
“We used that for a shooting range. I could out-shoot all the men. It was grand! If we missed the target, the bullet went plump into the sea! And that was all.
“No,” she said thoughtfully as she dropped into a chair, “I’m not afraid. There was one man, though, who had me almost scared. His face was so dark! He had such ugly eyes!”
“Dark face, ugly eyes!” Florence recalled Jeanne’s description of the man who had hounded her footsteps.
“But I fooled him!” Meg chuckled. “I fooled him twice. And I laughed in his face, too.”
Rising, she pressed a second button in the wall to reveal still another secret compartment. “See that!” She pointed to a black packet. “That was his. It’s mine now.
“I wonder why he put it where he did?” she mused.
“Where?”
“In Snowball’s net.”
“What?”
“That’s just what he did. I was sitting alone among the rocks at night. He came out, acting mysterious. He poured two buckets of water on Snowball’s windlass so it wouldn’t creak and then he threw this package into the net and lowered away.
“It is heavy. Went right to the bottom. I slipped into the water and went after it. Got it, too. See! There it is!
“And do you know,” her voice fell to an excited whisper, “that’s to be my birthday present to myself. It’s to be my surprise.”
“Surprise! Haven’t you unwrapped it?”
“No. Why should I? That would spoil my fun.”
Florence looked at this slim girl in overalls, and smiled. “You surely are an unusual child!”
“He came back next day.” Meg ignored this last. “He made Snowball dive down and look for his package. He didn’t find it. The man was angry. His face got blacker than ever, and how his eyes snapped! An ugly red scar showed on his chin. Then I laughed, and he chased me.
“I dropped into the water and came up where there is a hole like a sea grotto. I watched him until he went away. He never came back. So now this is mine!” Pride of ownership was in her voice.
“But ought you not to open the package? It may have been stolen. It may contain valuables, watches, diamonds, pearls.” Florence was thinking of the lost necklace.
“Ought!” Meg’s face was twisted into a contemptuous frown. “Ought! That’s a landlubber’s word. You never hear it on a ship. Many thingsmustbe done—hatch battened down, boilers stoked, bells rung. Lots of thingsmustbe done. But nothing merelyoughtto be done. No! No! I want to save it for my birthday. And I shall!”
At that she snapped the cabinet door shut, then led the way out of her stateroom.
Ten minutes later Florence was on the dark winding path on her way home.
“What an unusual child!” she thought. And again, “I wonder who that man could be? What does that packet contain?”
Though that which happened to Jeanne on this very night could scarcely be called an adventure, it did serve to relieve the feeling of depression which had settled upon her like a cloud after that dramatic but quite terrible moment when the irate director had driven her from the stage. It did more than this; it gave her a deeper understanding of that mystery of mysteries men call life.
Between acts she stood contemplating her carefully creased trousers and the tips of her shiny, patent leather shoes. Suddenly she became conscious that someone was near, someone interested in her. A sort of sixth sense, a gypsy sense, told her that eyes were upon her.
As her own eyes swept about a wide circle, they took in the bearded man with large, luminous eyes. He was standing quite near. With sudden impulse, she sprang toward him.
“Please tell me.” Her voice was eager. “Why did you say all this was ‘a form of life’?”
“That question,” the man spoke slowly, “can best be answered by seeing something other than this. Would you care to go a little way with me?”
Jeanne gave him a quick look. She was a person of experience, this little French girl. “He can be trusted,” her heart assured her.
“But I am working.” Her spirits dropped.
“There are extra ushers.”
“Yes—yes.”
“I will have one called.”
“This man has influence here,” Jeanne thought a moment later, as, side by side, they left the building. “Who can he be?” Her interest increased tenfold.
“We will go this way.”
They turned west, went over the bridge, crossed the street to the south, then turned west again.
“Oh, but this—this is rather terrible!” Jeanne protested. Scarcely five minutes had passed. They had left the glitter and glory of jewels, rich silks and costly furs behind. Now they were passing through throngs of men. Roughly clad men they were, many in rags. Their faces were rough and seamed, their hands knotted and blue with cold. Jeanne drew her long coat tightly about her.
“No one will harm you.” Her strange companion took her arm.
The street setting was as drab as were those who wandered there: cheap movies displaying gaudy posters, cheaper restaurants where one might purchase a plate of beans and a cup of coffee for a dime. The wind was rising. Picking up scraps of paper and bits of straw, it sent them in an eddy, whirling them round and round. Like dead souls in some lost world, these bits appeared to find no place to rest.
“See!” said her companion. “They are like the men who wander here; they have no resting place.”
Jeanne shuddered.
But suddenly her attention was arrested by a falling object that was neither paper nor straw, but a pigeon.
One glance assured her that this was a young bird, fully grown and feathered, who had not yet learned to fly. He fluttered hopelessly on the sidewalk.
“A beautiful bird,” was her thought. “Such lovely plumage!”
A passer-by with an ugly, twisted face leered up at her as he said:
“There’s something to eat.”
“Some—”
Jeanne did not finish. To her utter astonishment she saw that a very short man in a long greasy coat had captured the pigeon, tucked it under his coat and was making off.
“He—he won’t eat it?” she gasped.
“Come. We will follow.” Her companion hurried her along.
The short man, with the bird still under his arm, had turned south into a dark and deserted street. Jeanne shuddered and wished to turn back. Then she thought of the pigeon. “He is beautiful even now,” she whispered. “What must he be when he gets his second plumage? How proudly he will strut upon the roof-tops.
“Tell me truly,” she said to her companion, “he would not eat him?”
There came no answer.
Having traveled two blocks south, they crossed the street to find themselves facing a vacant lot. There, amid piles of broken bricks and rusty heaps of sheet-iron, many camp fires burned. Moving about from fire to fire, or sitting huddled about them, were men. These were more ragged and forlorn, if that were possible, than those she had seen upon the street.
Then, with the force of a bullet, truth entered the very heart of her being. These men were derelicts. These piles of broken bricks and rusting iron were their homes; these camp fires their kitchens. Soon the young pigeon would be simmering in a great tin can filled with water.
“Wait!” she cried, leaping forward and seizing the short man by the arm. “Don’t—don’t cook him! I will pay you for him. Here! Here is a dollar. Is that enough? If not, I have another.”
Blinking back at her in surprise, taking in her long coat, her jaunty cap, the man stared at her in silence. Then, as the bearded man hurried up, he blinked at him in turn.
“I didn’t mean to eat him,” he protested. “Honest I didn’t. But if you want him—” he eyed the dollar bill eagerly “—if you want him, here he is.”
Thrusting the pigeon into Jeanne’s hands, he seized the bill and muttered:
“A dollar—a dollar, a whole cartwheel, one big iron man! I didn’t know there was one left in the world!” He seemed about to shed tears.
As he turned his face up to Jeanne’s she noticed that he had but one eye.
“What’s your name?” the bearded one asked.
“Mostly they call me the one-eyed shrimp.”
Pocketing the money, he walked away.
“This, too,” said the bearded one solemnly, “is a form of life.”
“But why such cruel, cruel contrasts?” In her mind’s eye Jeanne was seeing jewels, silks and furs. There were tears in her voice.
“To that question no answer has been found,” the bearded man answered solemnly. “The world is very old. It has always been so. Perhaps it is necessary. It gives contrast. Lights and shadows. We must have them or nothing could be seen.
“I am a sculptor, a very poor one, but one nevertheless. Perhaps you may visit my studio. There you will find things I have done in lovely white marble, yet the beauty of the marble can only be brought out by shadows.
“Come! You are cold.” He turned Jeanne about. “We will go back to the Opera House. Always we must be going back.”
Strange as it may seem, Jeanne did not wish to return. That magnificent palace of art and song had suddenly become abhorrent to her.
“The contrasts,” she murmured, “they are too great!”
“Yes. There you have discovered a great truth. Come to my studio some day. I will show you more.” The bearded one pressed a card into her hand. Without looking at it, she thrust it deep into her trousers pocket.
In silence they returned to the Opera House. Once inside, Jeanne experienced a miracle. The dark, cold, bitter world outside had vanished. In her mind, for the moment, not a trace of it remained. For her, now, there was only light and life, melody, color—romance in fact, and opera at its best.
Petite Jeanne was a sun-worshipper and a fire-worshipper of the best sort. She worshipped the One Who created fire and Who sends us light to dispel the gloom of night. The day following her unusual experiences in the lower regions of the Opera House found her curled up in a big chair. The chair stood before a large window of their living room. Here she was completely flooded with light. On bright days, for a space of two hours, the sunlight always succeeded in finding its way through the labyrinth of chimneys and skyscrapers, to fall like a benediction upon this blonde-haired girl. And Jeanne rejoiced in it as a kitten does the warm spot before the hearth.
“It’s God looking down upon His world,” she murmured now.
“Jeanne,” Florence stood in the door of her room, “did that man, the dark-faced one with the evil eye, did he have a scar on his chin?”
“Y-e-s. Let me see.” She closed her eyes to invite a picture. It came. “Yes, now I see him as I did only yesterday. Yes, there was a scar.”
“You saw him yesterday?”
Reluctantly Jeanne turned her face from the sunlight. “I’ll tell you about it. It was exciting, and—and a bit terrible. What can he want?”
She told Florence about the previous day’s adventure. “But why did you ask about the scar?” It was her turn to ask questions.
“I was out at the island last night. You’d never dream of the discovery I made there. But then, you’ve never seen Aunt Bobby—probably not so much as heard of her.”
Florence had described her experiences up to the time when Meg invited her to inspect her stateroom, when the phone rang.
“I’ll answer it.” Florence took down the receiver.
“It’s for you,” she said, half a minute later.
With a deep sigh Jeanne deserted her spot in the sun.
For all that, her face was flushed with excitement when she put the receiver down.
“It’s the little old lady of the cameo.”
In her excitement she found herself talking in a hoarse whisper. “She has persuaded Hop Long Lee, the rich Chinaman, to let us see the magic curtain. Better still, his people will stage a little play for us. They will use the magic curtain.”
“When?”
“Next Friday, at midnight.”
“Midnight? What an hour!”
“Night is best. And what other hour could one be sure of? There is Marjory Dean. She must see it. And we must find Angelo.”
“Angelo? Have you seen him?”
“Not for months. He went to New York to make his fortune.”
Angelo, as you will recall, was the youthful dreamer who had created a fascinating light opera role for Jeanne.
“But only two days ago,” Jeanne went on, “I heard that he had been seen here in the city.”
“Here? Why does he not give us a ring?”
“Who knows?” Jeanne shrugged. “For all that, I will find him. He must come.
“And to think!” She did a wild fling across the room. “We are to see the magic curtain. We will weave an opera about it. The opera shall be played on that so grand stage.”
“By whom?”
Jeanne did not hesitate. “By Marjory Dean! She will have the leading role. I shall insist. And why not? Would she not do so much for me? Truly. And more, much more!
“As for me!” Again she settled herself in the spot of sunlight. “My time will come.”
She might have added, “Sooner than you could dream of.” She did not.
Angelo must be found. It was he who had written the successful light opera,The Gypsy God of Fire. No other could write as he—or so Jeanne thought. Yes, he must be found, and that without delay. Friday midnight would be here before anyone could dream three dreams.
And where was one to look for him save in his old haunts? “His garret studio and at night,” Jeanne said to Florence, next morning. “To-morrow we will go.”
“But to-morrow I cannot go. My work keeps me out late.”
“Ah, well, then I shall go alone.”
“Are you not afraid to be on the streets at night?”
“As Pierre I am afraid. But I shall be Petite Jeanne. As Jeanne I shall be safe enough.”
Knowing the futility of an argument with this strange child of France, Florence smiled and went on her way.
That is how it came about that Jeanne found herself at a late hour climbing the stairway that led to the garret studio that once had witnessed so much lightness and gaiety.
She had expected to find changes. Times were hard. It had come to her, in indirect ways, that her good friend had met with little success in New York. But she was scarcely prepared for that which met her gaze as the door was thrown open by Angelo himself.
Advancing into the center of the room, she found bare floors where there had been bright, rich, Oriental rugs. The unique stage, with all its settings of blue, green, red and gold, was bare.
“Yes,” Angelo spoke slowly, meditatively, as if answering her mood, “they took my things, one at a time. Fair enough, too. I owed money. I could not pay. The piano went first, my old, old friend. A battered friend it was, but its tones were true.
“And what grand times we had around that piano! Remember?”
“I remember.” Jeanne’s tone was low.
“But don’t be sad about it.” Angelo was actually smiling. “They took the piano, the rugs, the desk where I composed your light opera.
“Ah, yes; but after all, these are but the symbols of life. They are not life itself. They could not carry away the memory of those days, those good brave days when we were sometimes rich and sometimes very, very poor. The memories of those days will be with us forever. And of such memories as these life, the best of life, is made.”
After some brief, commonplace remarks, came a moment of silence.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Swen, Angelo’s friend, said, “I will go out to search for a bit of cheer.”
“Yes, yes. He will bring us cheer. Then he will sing us a song.” Jeanne made a brave attempt at being merry.
When Swen was gone, Angelo motioned her to a place before the fire.
“We will not despair. ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast.’ The beautiful spring-time of life will bloom again.
“And see,” he exclaimed, enthusiastic as a boy, “we still have the fireplace! They could not take that. And there is always wood to be had. I found this on the beach. It was washed up high in the storm at a spot where children romp all summer long. Driftwood. Some from a broken ship and some from who knows where?
“See how it burns. The flame! The flame!” He was all but chanting now. “What colors there are! Can you see them? There is red and orange, pink, purple, blue. All like a miniature magic curtain.”
“Yes, like a magic curtain,” Jeanne murmured.
Then suddenly she awoke from the entrancing spell this remarkable youth had woven.
“Ah, yes, but those brave days will return for you!” she cried, springing to her feet and leaping away in a wild dance. “The magic curtain, it will bring them back to you!”
His fine eyes shone as he rose to admire the grace of her rhythmic dance. “Now you are dreaming.”
“Dreaming?” She stopped dead still. “Perhaps. But my dreams will come true. Allow me to congratulate you. You are about to become famous. You will write a grand opera.”
“Ah! The gypsy fortune teller speaks.” He still smiled. Nevertheless he held her hand in a warm clasp.
“Yes,” she agreed, “I am a gypsy, a fortune teller. Well, perhaps. But, for all that, I only speak of things I have seen. Listen, my good friend!” Her tone was impressive. “I have seen that which will form the background for an Oriental opera. Not a long opera, one act perhaps; but an opera, vivid and living, all the same. And you, my friend, shall write it.”
“You talk in riddles.” He drew her to a seat beside him. “Explain, my beautiful gypsy.”
“This much I shall tell you, not more. I have seen a magic curtain that burns but is not consumed. Friday at midnight you shall see it for yourself. And about it you shall weave a story more fantastic than any you have yet dreamed.”
“And you shall be the leading lady!” He had caught the spirit of the hour. “That shall be glory. Glory for me.”
“Ah, no, my friend.” Petite Jeanne’s head drooped a little. “I am not known to grand opera. But you shall have a leading lady, such a grand lady! Marjory Dean! What do you say to that?”
“You are right.” Angelo’s tone was solemn. “She is very grand, marvelous indeed. But, after all, we work best, we write best, we do all things best for those who love us a little.”
“Ah, you would say that!” Jeanne seized him by the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
“But see!” she cried when she had regained her composure. “Marjory Dean, too, is to see the magic curtain. To-morrow at midnight, you shall see her. And then I am sure she will love you more than a little. Then all will be more than well.
“And now see! Here is Swen. He is bringing hot coffee and sweet rolls stuffed, I am sure, with pineapple and fresh cocoanut. On with the feast!”
Angelo produced two ancient plates and three large cups devoid of handles. They settled themselves comfortably before the hearth to enjoy such a communion of good spirits as had never been granted them in those balmy days when purses were lined with gold.
“What is poverty when one has friends?” Angelo demanded joyously, as at last he assisted Jeanne to her feet.
“What, indeed?” Jeanne agreed heartily.
“Friday at midnight,” Angelo said solemnly, as a moment later Jeanne stood at the doorway.
“As the clock strikes the hour,” she breathed. Then she was gone.
At that moment Florence was involved in an affair which threatened to bring her brief career to a tragic end.
It had begun innocently enough. The back of a man’s head, seen in a crowd, had interested her. She had made a study of men’s heads. “There’s as much character to be read in the back of one’s head as in one’s face,” a psychologist had said to her. Doubting his statement, she had taken up this study to disprove his theory. She had ended by believing. For truly one may read in the carriage of the head stubbornness, indecision, mental and physical weakness; yes, and a capacity for crime.
It was this last, revealed in the neck of the man in the throng, that had set her on his trail.
She had not long to wait for confirmation. At a turn in the street the man offered her a side view. At once she caught her breath. This man was dark of visage. He had an ugly red scar on his chin.
“Jeanne’s shadow!” she whispered to herself. “And such a shadow!” She shuddered at the very thought.
For this young man was not unknown to her. Not ten days before, in a crowded police court he had been pointed out to her as one of the most dangerous of criminals. He was not, at this time, in custody. Just why he was there she had not been told. Though suspected of many crimes, he had been detected in none of them.
“And it is he who has been dogging Jeanne’s footsteps!” she muttered. “I must warn her.
“He, too, it was, who sank the package in Snowball’s net. Meg’s birthday present.” She smiled. Then she frowned. “I must warn her. It may be a bomb. Stranger discoveries have been made.”
For a moment she considered another theory regarding the package. A moment only—then all this was driven from her mind. Drama was in the making, real drama from life. The evil-eyed one had paused before a doorway. He had remained poised there for a moment like a bird of prey: then the prey appeared, or so it seemed to Florence.
A short, foreign-appearing man with a military bearing all but came to a position of salute before the dark one of the evil eye. That one essayed a smile which, to the girl, seemed the grin of a wolf.
The short man appeared not to notice. He uttered a few words, waved his hands excitedly, then turned as if expecting to be led away.
“A Frenchman,” Florence thought. “Who else would wave his arms so wildly?”
Then a thought struck her all of a heap. “This is Jeanne’s little Frenchman, the one who bears a message for her, who has come all the way from France to deliver it.”
At once she became wildly excited. She had notions about that message. Strangely fantastic notions they were; this she was obliged to admit. But they very nearly drove her to committing a strange act. In a moment more she would have dashed up to the little Frenchman. She would undoubtedly have seized him by the arm and exclaimed:
“You are looking for Petite Jeanne. Come! I will lead you to her!”
This did not happen. There was a moment of indecision. Then, before her very eyes, the dark one, after casting a suspicious glance her way, bundled his prey into a waiting taxi and whisked him away.
“Gone!” Consternation seized her. But, suddenly, her mind cleared.
“What was that number?” She racked her brain. Tom Howe, the young detective who had pointed out the dark-faced one, had given her the street number believed to be his hangout.
“One, three,” she said aloud. “One, three, six, four, Burgoyne Place. That was it!
“Oh, taxi! Taxi!” She went dashing away after a vacant car.