by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XXI AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY
When Jeanne returned from the Ballet Russe she found Madame Bihariseated by a low table. Before her, spread out in rows, were her gypsywitch cards. So intent was her study of these cards that she did not somuch as notice the little French girl's entrance. When Jeanne had putaway her cape, she pressed one cold hand against Madame's cheek towhisper:
"And what do the cards say tonight?"
Madame Bihari started. "Many things," she murmured low. "Always theyspeak of many things, hunger, happiness, sickness, sudden death, greatriches, love, hate, despair. The cards tell of life, and this, my child,is life.
"But my Jeanne--" her tone changed. "You have often spoken of a visit toFlorence and Danby Force in their so beautiful city. It is well that wego tomorrow."
"Do the cards say this?" Jeanne demanded.
"I say this." There was a solemn note in Madame's reply, like the deeptolling of a bell.
"All right." Jeanne went skipping across the floor. "Tomorrow we shallgo, very early, perhaps at dawn."
Jeanne was happy once more. The dark lady had escaped her. What of that?Had that not happened an hour, two hours before? Was it not already ofthe past? Was not tomorrow a new day? On with tomorrow! She did a wildgypsy dance. At last dancing out of her dress of a thousand beads, shedanced into dream robes and then into the land of dreams.
It was on the evening of the next day that Florence went for a longwalk, and made a startling discovery. These evening walks were a sourceof real joy to her. She loved the cool damp of falling dew on her check;the smell of wood smoke from a hundred chimneys brought back pleasantmemories of days spent in the woods along the shores of Lake Huron andon Isle Royale. She derived a keen satisfaction from looking in at openwindows where little families sat smiling over their evening meal orreading beside an open fire.
"These are _my_ people," she would whisper to herself. "It may liewithin my power to do them a great good. Perhaps tomorrow, or eventonight within the very next hour I may discover the spy who isthreatening their happiness."
She was in just such a frame of mind when, on passing one of the fewtruly modern homes of the town, a rather gaudy Spanish bungalow, shestopped dead in her tracks. The house stood quite near the street. Inone room the shades were up and the lights on. She could see everyobject within. The chairs, the fancy spinet desk, the bed covered with asilk spread of brilliant hue, all stood out before her as if arrangedfor inspection. None of these, however, interested her in the least. Thething that held her attention was a small picture on the wall.
"It can't be!" she breathed. "And yet it is!" She moved a little closer."Yes, it is the picture of Verna, that matchless painting by a trulygreat artist."
At once her mind was in a whirl. What had happened? Had Mrs. Maver soldthat picture? Impossible. She had said that, whatever happened, theywould never part with that picture. Had she loaned it? This did not seemprobable.
"And yet," Florence asked herself, "if it had been stolen, would she nothave told me?"
Strangely enough, at that moment a cold sweat broke out on her brow.Perhaps the Mavers had missed the picture. Perhaps they believed she hadtaken it. Perhaps for days, all unknown to her, they had been watchingher movements.
"How terrible!" she murmured. "And I an amateur lady cop!
"It _was_ stolen!" she concluded. "And I know who took it." Words spokenonly last night came back to her: "I take what I want."
Like a flash she was up on the steps and ringing the bell.
"Does the person they call Hugo live here?" she asked the lady who cameto the door.
"Oh yes," the woman replied. "But he's not here just now. We expect himback any time. Would you care to wait?"
"No, I--I'll come back later." Florence turned away to mutter under herbreath, "Only I won't."
For some time after that, in the shadow of a great elm, she stoodwatching that room and that one small picture. Hugo did not appear. Intime the woman of the house opened the door to snap off the light.
"Oh!" Florence drew in a long deep breath. Her moment had arrived. Shemoved swiftly. Screens had been removed from the house. The window wasnot locked. To lift it noiselessly, to step within was the work ofseconds. Moving slowly in the pale moonlight, she crossed the room. Herhand was on the picture when a footstep sounded outside. Her heartstopped beating. What if it were Hugo! Supposing the moonlight werestrong enough to expose her?
She thought of the night before, and gained courage. "But tonight I amnot dressed as a man." Her heart sank.
The footsteps continued. The person did not turn in. For the moment shewas saved.
Swiftly she re-crossed the room, sprang through the window and was oncemore her own free self walking in the cool damp of night. The picturewas safely hidden under her jacket.
"He takes what he wants." She laughed low as she hurried along. "Well,so do the rest of us--sometimes."
For all the laugh, she felt depressed. Hugo a thief! She had not thoughtthis possible. For all he had interfered with her plans, she had forthis dashing young man a certain admiration.
"Well," she sighed at last, "we must take people as we find them. We--"
Her thoughts broke off suddenly. Some small object bumped against herleg as she walked. Putting down a hand she grasped a small rubber bulb.The bulb was attached to a tube. She gave a slight pull and it came freefrom the picture, behind which it had doubtless been hidden.
"That's queer!" she whispered. "One of Hugo's little secrets."
At the other end of the tube was a small cube of black material. Thething did not interest her overmuch. Perhaps it was a small atomizer oran affair for spraying perfume. That Hugo was fond of costly, quitefaint perfume, she knew well. She dropped it in the pocket of her jacketand there it remained until the following afternoon when, at DanbyForce's request, she motored up to the stately old mansion where Danbylived with his mother.
She found the young man seated with his mother in an out-of-doorspavilion. The sun was bright. It was a rare autumn afternoon.
"This is my mother," Danby said simply. The beautiful white-haired womansmiled her a welcome. "Danby has been telling me of you. We are going tohave some tea," she said, motioning Florence to a chair.
"It is beautiful up here." Florence took one long deep breath. It was,just that. The broad-spreading elms, the wavering shadows, the brightcrimson flowers, all this was marvelous.
"Yes," Danby Force spoke quietly, "life has always been beautiful uphere. My father and his father before him worked to make it so. But lifedown in our little city has not always been beautiful for all. It shouldbe so."
At that moment Florence caught some movement in a tree, a whisk of gray.
"A squirrel," Mrs. Force explained. "There must be hundreds of them. Wefeed them, place boxes for them in the trees. The gray ones arebrightest, most friendly. Life is always beautiful for them."
Just then Florence put her hand in her pocket. Feeling something coldand hard, without thinking what it might be, she drew it out and held itto view.
"Where did you get that?" Danby exclaimed on the instant. It was thecurious affair Florence had unintentionally carried away from Hugo'sroom the night before.
"Why--I--I--" the girl stammered.
"Do you know what it is?" Danby broke in.
"No, I--"
"Then I'll tell you." He was smiling now. "It is a very small camera,the sort spies use in taking pictures. If you look closely you will seethat the front is shaped like a button. The tiny lens is in the centerof that button. You put that in a button hole and draw the bulb up underyour arm. Each press of your arm takes a picture."
"Where did you get it?" he asked a second time.
"Oh please!" Florence was horribly confused. She did not feel ready totell the whole story. "Please. I did not know it was of any consequence.Shows how good a lady cop I am! But I--I got it under very unusualcircumstances. I--I'll tell you. I'll have
to, but not--not just now,please."
"Oh that's all right." Danby's tone was kindly. "Would you mind lettingme have it for a time?"
"Of course not." Florence held it out to him.
Just then the butler appeared. "James," said Danby, "give this to Oliverand tell him to deliver it at once to Mr. Mills at his photo shop. Ifthere chances to be a film inside, have him instruct Mills to develop itwith extraordinary care, then to make enlargements of all the goodexposures."
"And now," he said, turning to the ladies, "we may have our tea."
