by Roy J. Snell
Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morganand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net
_A Mystery Story for Girls_
_The_ CRYSTAL BALL
_By_ ROY J. SNELL
The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago
_Printed in the United States of America_
COPYRIGHT 1936 BY THE REILLY & LEE CO. PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I Midnight Blue Velvet 11 II "Just Nothing at All" 28 III Danger Tomorrow 36 IV The "Tiger Woman" 45 V Florence Gazes into the Crystal 51 VI Gypsies That Are Not Gypsies 62 VII The Bright Shawl 75 VIII A Vision for Another 86 IX Jeanne Plans an Adventure 104 X A Voodoo Priestess 113 XI Fireside Reflections 128 XII Jeanne's Fortune 134 XIII A Startling Revelation 148 XIV Fire Destroys All 157 XV The Interpreter of Dreams 169 XVI The Secret of Lost Lake 177 XVII From Out the Past 189 XVIII D.X.123 195 XIX One Wild Dream 199 XX Some Considerable Treasure 213 XXI Battle Royal 228 XXII Little Lady in Gray 238 XXIII Strange Treasure 252 XXIV Through the Picture 266 XXV A Visit in the Night 274 XXVI In Which Some Things Are Well Finished 279
THE CRYSTAL BALL
CHAPTER I MIDNIGHT BLUE VELVET
Florence Huyler read the number on the door. She wondered at the lack oflight from within; the glass of the door was like a slab of ebony.
"No one here," she murmured. "Just my luck."
For all that, she put out a hand to grasp the knob. In a city officebuilding, ten stories up, one does not knock. Florence did not so much asallow the yielding door to make a sound. She turned the knob as oneimagines a robber might turn the dial of a safe--slowly, silently.
Why did she do this? Could she have answered this question? Probably not!Certainly she was not spying on the occupants of that room--at least, notyet. Perhaps that was the way she always opened a door. We all have ourways of doing things. Some of us seize a door knob, give it a quick turn,a yank, and there we are. And some, like Florence, move with the slynessand softness of a cat. It is their nature.
One thing is sure; once the door had yielded to her touch and she hadushered herself into the semi-darkness that was beyond, she was glad ofthat sly silence, for something quite mysterious was going on beyond thatdoor.
She found herself in a place of all but complete darkness. Only beforeher, where a pair of heavy drapes parted, was there a narrow slit of eeryblue light.
There was no need of tiptoeing as she moved toward that long line oflight. Her sturdy street shoes sank deep in something she knew must be arich Oriental rug.
"In such a building!" she thought with increasing surprise. The buildingwas old, might at any time be wrecked to make parking space for cars. Theelevator, as she came up, had swayed and teetered like a canary bird'scage on a coiled spring.
"And now this!" she whispered. "Oriental rugs and--yes, a heavy velvetcurtain of midnight blue. What a setting for--"
Well, for what? She did not finish. That was the reason for her visit, tofind out what. She was engaged, these days, in finding out all manner ofcurious and fantastic goings on. Was this to be one of the strangest,weirdest, most fantastic, or was it, like many another, to turn out as asimple, flat, uninteresting corner of a sad little world?
Moving silently to that narrow streak that could barely be called light,she peered boldly within.
What she saw gave her a start. It was, she thought, like entering the"Holy of Holies" of Bible times or the "Forbidden City" of Mongol kings.For there, resting in a low receptacle at the exact center of a largeroom, was a faintly gleaming crystal ball. This ball, which might havebeen six inches in diameter with its holder, rested on a cloth ofmidnight blue. Before it sat a silent figure.
This person was all but hidden in shadows. A head crowned by a circle offluffy hair, a pair of youthful, drooping shoulders; this for the momentwas all she could see. The eyes, fixed upon the crystal ball, were turnedaway from her.
Even as she wondered and shuddered a little at what she saw, a voice,seeming to come from nowhere, but everywhere at once, said:
"It is given to some to see. Observe that which thou seest and record itwell upon the walls of thy memories, for thou mayest never look upon itagain."
That voice sent a shudder through Florence's being. Was it the voice of awoman or a man? A woman, she believed, yet the tone was low and huskylike a man's. As Florence looked she wondered, for the girl sitting therebefore the crystal ball did not shudder. She sat gazing at the ball withall the stillness of one entranced.
Nor was the strange girl's perfect attention without purpose. Even asFlorence stood there all ears and eyes, she was ready to fly on theinstant, but just as determined to stay.
The whole affair, the midnight blue of the curtains, the spot of lightthat was a crystal ball, the girl sitting there like a statue, all seemedso unreal that Florence found herself pinching her arm. "No," shewhispered, "it is not a dream."
At that instant her attention was caught and held by that crystal ball.Things were happening within that ball, or at least appeared to behappening.
The gleaming ball itself changed. It was grayer, less brilliant. Then, toFlorence's vast astonishment, she saw a tiny figure moving within theball. A child it was, she saw at a glance. A fair-haired, animated childwas moving within that ball. She came dancing into the center of whatappeared to be a large room. There she paused as if expecting someone.The room the child had entered was beautiful. Real oil paintings hung onthe wall. There was a gorgeous bit of tapestry above the large openfireplace. A great golden collie lay asleep before the fire. All this waswithin the ball. And the animated child too was within the ball.
Florence thought she had been bewitched. Surely nothing like this couldbe seen within a solid glass ball.
Just then the voice began again to speak. This time the voice was low.Words were said in a distinct tone and all just alike. This is what itsaid:
"Sit quite still. Let your mood be one of tranquillity. Look with dreamyeyes upon the crystal. Do not stare. It is not given to all to have magicvision. Some see only in symbols. Some see those whom they seek--face toface. You--"
The voice broke off. The girl, seated in that mahogany chair, surroundedby midnight blue velvet, had been gazing at the crystal all this time;yet at this instant she appeared suddenly to become consc
ious of thechange within the crystal ball. Perhaps, since she looked at it from adifferent angle, her vision had been obscured.
The effect on the girl was strange. She shook like one with a chill. Shegripped the arms of the black chair until, in that strange light, herhands appeared glistening white. Then, seeming to gain control ofherself, she settled back in her place and, at the command of that slow,monotonous voice, "Keep your eyes on the crystal," fell into an attitudeof repose. Not, however, before Florence had noted a strange fact. "Thatgirl in the glass ball," she told herself, "is the one sitting in thatblack chair.
"But no! How could she be? Besides, the one in the ball is younger, muchyounger. This is impossible. And yet, there are the same eyes, the samehair, the same profile. It is strange."
Then of a sudden she recalled that she was within the room of acrystal-gazer, that the crystal ball had been credited with magicproperties, that one who gazed into it was supposed to see visions. Was_she_ seeing a vision?
"How could I see that girl as a child when I have never before seen herat any age?" she asked herself. It was unbelievable. Yet, there it was.
Could the crystal ball bring back to the girl memories of her childhood?That did not appear so impossible. But--
Now again there was a change coming over the crystal ball. A suddenlighting up of its gray interior announced the opening of a door in thatfanciful house, the letting in of bright sunshine. The door closed. Grayshadows reappeared. Into those shadows walked a distinguished appearing,tall, gray-haired man. At once, into his arms sprang the fair-hairedchild. All this appeared to go forward in that astonishing crystal ball.
At this instant Florence's attention was distracted by a low cry that wasall but a sob. It came from the lips of that girl sitting close to thecrystal ball. As Florence looked she saw her staring with surprisingintensity at the ball. At the same time Florence, who read lips almost aswell as she could hear with her ears, made out her words:
"Father--that must be my father! My long lost father! It must be! It--"
At that instant something touched Florence's shoulder. As she looked backshe saw only the hand and half an arm. It was a woman's hand. From thethird finger, gleaming like an evil eye, shone a large ruby. The hand waslong, hard and claw-like. It grasped Florence's shoulder and pulled herback. She did not resist, though she might very successfully have doneso. She was strong, was Florence--strong as a man. But about that handthere was something terrifying and altogether sinister. Florence hadstudied hands. She had come to know their meanings. They tell as much ofcharacter as do faces. And this, a left hand, seemed to say, "My mate,the right hand, is hidden. In it is a dagger. So beware!"
Florence did not resist. Before she knew what had happened she was out inthe dark and dusty hallway. The door she had entered was closed andlocked against her.
"So that's that!" she said with a forced smile. But was that that? Wasthere to be much more? Very much more? Only time would tell. When onediscovers an enthralling mystery, one does not soon forget. Such amystery was contained in that crystal ball.
"That's one of them!" Florence declared emphatically to herself. "Itsurely must be!
"That girl," she thought with a sigh, "can't be more thansixteen--perhaps not that. And her appearance speaks of money. Clothesall fit perfectly and in exquisite taste. Didn't come from a departmentstore, that's sure.
"But the look on her face--sad, eager, hopeful, all in one. How easy itis to lead such a person on and on and on.
"On to what?" she asked herself with a start.
"This," she concluded, "is a case that calls for action. I'll see FrancesWard first thing in the morning.
"And then," she laughed a low laugh, "perhaps I'll take a few lessons incrystal gazing. Just perhaps. And again, perhaps not." She recalled thatclaw-like hand and the ruby that appeared to burn like fire. "Anyway,I'll try."
Florence, as you may have guessed by this time, was back in Chicago. Ithad been late autumn when she arrived. So often these days she had beenin need of friends. She had found friends, two of them. And suchwonderful friends as they were! One, Frances Ward, had given her work ofa sort, a very strange sort. The other, Marie Mabee, had given her ahome, and a marvelous home it was. Florence had not dreamed of such goodfortune. And best of all, Petite Jeanne, the little French girl, was withher.
Jeanne's airplane, the Dragonfly, was stored away. For the time at least,her flow of gold from France had ceased. Her chateau in her native landlay among the hills where grapes were grown. It was surrounded by grapearbors, miles of them. Some strange blight had fallen upon the vines.Grapes failed to ripen. There was no more money.
"And why should there be?" Jeanne had exclaimed when the letter came."Who wants money? One is happier without it. I have my friends, thegypsies. They seldom have money, yet they never starve. I shall go tothem. Perhaps I may find a bear who will dance with me. Then how thecoins shall jingle!"
To her surprise and great unhappiness, she found that her gypsy friendswere now living in a tumbled-down tenement house, that they had partedwith their vans and brightly colored cars and were living like thesparrows on what they might pick up on the unfriendly city streets.
Disheartened, the little French girl had gone to the park by the lake fora breath of God's pure air. And there, in a strange manner, she had foundglorious happiness.
Jeanne never forgot her friends. She hunted up Florence and made for hera place in that path of happiness quite as broad as her own.
Just now, as Florence hurried down the wind-driven, wintry streets, asshe dodged a skidding cab, rounded a corner where the wind took herbreath away, then went coursing on toward the south, she thought of allthis and smiled.
Two hours later, just as a distant clock tolled out the hour of nine, shefound herself seated in the very midst of all this glorious happiness.
She was seated in a room above the city's most beautiful boulevard. Theroom was beneath the very roof of a great skyscraper. It was a largeroom, a studio. Not a place where some very rich person played at beingan artist, but a real studio where beautiful and costly works of art wereproduced by a slim and masterly hand.
Had Florence turned artist? She would have laughed had you asked her. "I,an artist!" she would have exclaimed. She would have held out twoshapely, quite powerful hands and have said, "Paint pictures with these?Well, perhaps. But I was born for action. How could I stand for hours,touching a canvas here and there with a tiny brush?"
No, Florence had not turned artist, nor had Petite Jeanne. For all this,the most wonderful thing had happened to them. Often and often they haddreamed of it. In days of adversity when they sat upon stools and washeddown hamburger sandwiches with very black coffee, Jeanne had said,"Florence, my very good friend, would it not be wonderful if someone verygood and very successful would take us under her wing?"
"Yes." Florence had fallen in with the dream. "A great opera singer, orperhaps one who writes wonderful books."
"Or an artist, one who paints those so marvelous pictures one sees in thegalleries!" Jeanne dreamed on.
Even in days of their greatest prosperity, when Jeanne had gone flittingacross the country, a "flying gypsy," and Florence was happy in her work,they had not given up this dream. For, after all, what in all this worldcan compare with the companionship of one older than ourselves, who is atone and the same time kind, beautiful, talented, and successful?
And then, out of the clear October sky that shone over the park by thelake there in Chicago, their good angel had appeared.
It was not she who had appeared at once. Far from it. Instead, whenJeanne went to the park that day she had found at first only a group oftired and rather ragged gypsies, who, having parked their rusty cars, hadgathered on the grass to eat a meager lunch.
Jeanne had spied them. She had hurried away without a word, to returnfifteen minutes later with a bundle all too heavy for her slender arms.Inside that bundle were, wonderful to relate, three large meat pies, fourapple pies, a small Swiss cheese
such as gypsies love, and all manner ofcurious French pastry. There were a dozen gypsy children in the groupgathered there in the park. How their dark eyes shone as Jeanne spreadout this rich repast!
These strange people stared at her doubtfully. When, however, she laughedand exclaimed in their own strange tongue, "I too am a gypsy!" and when,seizing the oldest girl of the group, she dragged her whirling andlaughing over the grass in her own wild gypsy dance, they all cried,"Bravo! Bravo! She is one of us indeed!"
Then how meat pies, apple pies, cheese and pastry vanished!
When the feast was over, having borrowed a bright skirt, a broad sash andkerchief, Jeanne led them all in a dance that was wilder, more furiousthan any they had known for many a day.
"Come!" they shouted when the dance was over. "We were sad. You havebrought us happiness. See!" They pointed to a dark cloud that was a flockof blackbirds flying south. "You must come with us. We will follow thesebirds in their flight. When winter comes we shall camp where roses bloomall the winter through, where oranges hang like balls of gold among theleaves and the song of spring is ever in the air."
Jeanne listened and dreamed. But her good friend Florence? She was notfaring so well. Winter was at hand. How could Jeanne leave her in thisgreat dark city alone?
Just then a strange thing happened. A tall woman of striking appearancecame up to the group. She wore a green smock all marked up with red andblue paint. There was a smudge of orange on her cheek, and in her hand adozen small brushes.
"See!" She held up an unfinished sketch. It was a picture of PetiteJeanne, Jeanne in her bright costume dancing with the raggedest gypsy ofthem all. On the face of Jeanne and the ragged child was a look ofinspired joy.
"You are a genius!" Jeanne cried in surprise, "You have painted mypicture!" She was overjoyed.
"I am a painter," the lady, who was neither young nor old, said."Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail. But you?" She turned to Jeanne."Do you know many of these people?"
"I--" Jeanne laughed. "I am related to them all. Is it not so?" Sheappealed to her new-found friends.
"Yes! Yes! To us all," they cried in a chorus.
When, a half hour later, Jeanne bade a reluctant farewell to the gypsyclan, it was in the company of the artist. The leader of the gypsies hadbeen presented with a bright new twenty-dollar bill, and Jeanne had madea friend she would not soon forget. What a day! What a happy adventure!
