Dawn comes. The enchanted ones disappear through the gate of the castle. Prince Ivan, in the abandon of love, follows. There comes the unearthly din of gongs and bells. A host of weird creatures come out to attack him. They are powerless because of the magic feather, gift of the Fire-Bird. Ivan is not afraid.
Then comes the terrible wizard who, if he could, would destroy Ivan with his very breath.
For the time Jeanne forgot the mysterious dancer who had once more appeared upon the scene. Carried away by the story, Jeanne had eyes only for the brave little Prince and the terrible creature who seeks his destruction. As the wizard approaches step by step, his hand trembling with rage, his small hard foot stamping the floor, Jeanne actually trembled with fear. Then, as Prince Ivan waved the magic feather and called upon the Fire-Bird to aid him, when the splendid dancing Fire-Bird appeared upon the scene, Jeanne wanted to scream for joy.
Such enchantment passes rapidly. When at last Ivan had triumphed and the wizard been destroyed, Jeanne thought again of the mysterious dancer who had, she was sure, played some part in her past life.
“If you please—” she spoke to her nearest neighbor whose opera glass dangled idly from a ribbon. “Just for one moment, may I borrow it?”
“Certainly.” The lady smiled.
Strangely enough, as she put the glass to her eyes, the little French girl found herself all atremble. “Coming events cast their shadows before them.” Scarcely had the glass been focussed upon the mysterious dancer than her hand dropped limply to her lap.
“It cannot be!” she murmured aloud. “But yes! It is she! It can be no other. There is the dark face. Even beneath her make-up one feels it. There is the torn ear. I can’t be wrong. It is the dark lady! It is the spy!”
Twenty seconds later the opera glasses were in their owner’s hands. Jeanne had vanished.
CHAPTER XX
SOMEONE VANISHES
Poor red devil! He surely was in for it!
What a pity that anyone so jolly, so full of the froth and bubble of life, should find any hard spots on his joyous glide through life! Pity or no pity, he was in for it!
He was soft from too much eating, too much drinking and too many good times. There was jazz in his blood, plenty of it. But one cannot defend one’s self with the jittering rhythm of jazz. Hugo, the red devil, went down and came up again. He went down and was soundly beaten by this mysterious intruder. He roared for help, but there was no help near. He had chosen a lonely spot for his promenade. In the end he began whimpering like a baby. Then the intruder left him. And as he left, Hugo fancied he heard him mutter, “You take what you want.” He was, however, too dazed and befuddled to tell truly whether he had heard aright or no.
When Danby Force came to claim Florence for the last dance of the evening, he was surprised to find an unaccustomed wealth of color in her cheeks. He fancied too that she seemed agitated and quite unusually excited. Her breath seemed to come with a little catch.
He said nothing about it and soon they were floating across the floor to the music of the old but ever beautiful waltz, “Over the Waves.”
“Ah,” Florence whispered as, like light row boats on moonlit waters they glided on and on, “how beautiful! Nothing could be more wonderful. I wish it might go on forever.”
Danby Force did not answer. A slight tightening of the hand was his only reply.
“But look!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Your knuckles are bleeding!”
“It’s nothing,” she laughed. “I can’t make the silly things stop.” Deftly she twisted her handkerchief about the offending knuckles. Then the dance went on.
“I fell upon something rather rough and bad,” she said after a time in quite an absent-minded manner.
“Have you found our spy?” Danby Force asked, after thanking her for his good time when the dance was over.
“Not yet.” Suddenly Florence felt very weary.
“I’m working on it. There’s a hunchback German and two dark-faced ladies and a little fellow like an ape who rakes leaves. It must be one of these.”
“But may not be,” he said quietly. “You will do well to keep right on looking.”
“Now what did he mean by that?” she asked herself after he was gone. “Does he suspect someone else, someone who has not even caught my attention? Perhaps I’m not much good as a lady cop after all.”
With that she entered the little cottage that for the time was her home.
The instant she entered her room she shot an anxious look toward Verna’s bed. Then she heaved a sigh of relief. Verna was sleeping peacefully. A single tear that glistened on her cheek detracted not one whit from her beauty.
The big girl smiled as her eyes fell upon the crumpled fairy’s wings that lay upon a chair. “Wings all crumpled but the fairy’s safe, tha—thank God!” She choked a little over these last words.
For a long time after her light was out, she lay in her bed looking at the moon shining through her window. Had one been present who could see in the dark, he might have found her lips smiling. Florence was large, too large and strong for a girl. Many a time she had shed bitter tears over this. Many a time too she had looked upon her slim and willowy sisters and felt her heart burn with envy. But tonight as she stirred beneath the covers, as she sensed the glorious strength of her arms, her limbs, her whole superb body, she was filled with such a warmth of gladness as one does not soon forget.
“Thank you, God!” she whispered. “Thanks for making me big and strong!” At that she fell asleep.
And tomorrow was another day.
Back in Chicago the night was not over for the little French girl. To her unutterable surprise, she had discovered among the dancing girls of the Ballet Russe the dark lady who she believed was the industrial spy. At once Jeanne had stepped from her place and vanished.
How she managed to make her way unchallenged to the wings of the stage, she will never quite know. Enough that she at last was there, nor, unless carried away by the heels, would she budge from the place until she had gotten one good look at that mysterious lady.
“And after that,” she told herself, “I shall call the police.”
By the time she had made her way to the wings of the stage, the last production of the evening, “The Beautiful Blue Danube,” had begun. Nothing ever done by the Ballet Russe is more charming than the Blue Danube. The music and dancing were so lovely that for a space of time Jeanne quite forgot her mission. But not for long. Soon her eyes were upon the dancing girls. As, swinging and swaying, rising on tip-toe, seeming to float in air, they approached her, she caught her breath, then whispered: “It is this one. No, that one—or that one.”
In the end, to her great disappointment, she discovered that it was not one of them all. They all had perfect ears.
What had happened? Had she been mistaken? Impossible. Had she been tricked? This was possible.
“But no,” she thought to herself. “That dark lady will come on later. In this picture she has a separate part.”
So, standing on tip-toe, longing every second to throw away her purple cape and join the dancers, she watched and waited—waited in vain for, when the curtain fell, no dark lady with a torn ear had appeared upon the stage.
Then of a sudden someone said, “Well! How did you get here?”
“I am a dancer,” Jeanne replied quick-wittedly. “Perhaps after a while I shall be given a chance to try my skill.”
“Perhaps, and again perhaps not.” The tall, dark man looked at her doubtfully. But Jeanne, in her gown of many silver beads and her purple cape, was very charming. Few could resist her. So she stayed.
“But tell me!” she exclaimed. “There was one of the dancing girls I have known. She was third in the Fire-Bird. Where is she?”
“Ah yes.” The tall, dark man shrugged. “Where is she? She is gone.”
“Gone?” Je
anne felt her knees sink. “She is gone?”
“Ah yes, Mademoiselle. She came as a substitute to this country with us. She has been away. Tonight she comes back. She asks that she may dance. She is very clever, that one. We say, ‘You may dance.’ You have seen, she danced very well. And now she is gone.” He spread his hands wide.
“But where has she gone?” Jeanne demanded eagerly.
The tall, dark man spread his hands wider still. “Who knows? Not one among us here. We are through at this city. She will not come back here. Shall we see her again? Who can say? She is a queer one, that dancer.”
“Yes,” Jeanne murmured low, “she is a queer one.”
At that she made her way from the fast clearing house out into the cool, damp night. She had wanted to dance on that broad stage. She wanted to dance no more. The dark lady had appeared before her very eyes. Now she was gone. She, Petite Jeanne, had failed.
CHAPTER XXI
AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY
When Jeanne returned from the Ballet Russe she found Madame Bihari seated by a low table. Before her, spread out in rows, were her gypsy witch cards. So intent was her study of these cards that she did not so much as notice the little French girl’s entrance. When Jeanne had put away her cape, she pressed one cold hand against Madame’s cheek to whisper:
“And what do the cards say tonight?”
Madame Bihari started. “Many things,” she murmured low. “Always they speak of many things, hunger, happiness, sickness, sudden death, great riches, 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 to Florence and Danby Force in their so beautiful city. It is well that we go tomorrow.”
“Do the cards say this?” Jeanne demanded.
“I say this.” There was a solemn note in Madame’s reply, like the deep tolling of a bell.
“All right.” Jeanne went skipping across the floor. “Tomorrow we shall go, 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 of the past? Was not tomorrow a new day? On with tomorrow! She did a wild gypsy dance. At last dancing out of her dress of a thousand beads, she danced into dream robes and then into the land of dreams.
It was on the evening of the next day that Florence went for a long walk, and made a startling discovery. These evening walks were a source of 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 pleasant memories of days spent in the woods along the shores of Lake Huron and on Isle Royale. She derived a keen satisfaction from looking in at open windows where little families sat smiling over their evening meal or reading beside an open fire.
“These are my people,” she would whisper to herself. “It may lie within my power to do them a great good. Perhaps tomorrow, or even tonight within the very next hour I may discover the spy who is threatening their happiness.”
She was in just such a frame of mind when, on passing one of the few truly modern homes of the town, a rather gaudy Spanish bungalow, she stopped dead in her tracks. The house stood quite near the street. In one room the shades were up and the lights on. She could see every object within. The chairs, the fancy spinet desk, the bed covered with a silk spread of brilliant hue, all stood out before her as if arranged for inspection. None of these, however, interested her in the least. The thing 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 truly great artist.”
At once her mind was in a whirl. What had happened? Had Mrs. Maver sold that picture? Impossible. She had said that, whatever happened, they would never part with that picture. Had she loaned it? This did not seem probable.
“And yet,” Florence asked herself, “if it had been stolen, would she not have 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 had taken it. Perhaps for days, all unknown to her, they had been watching her movements.
“How terrible!” she murmured. “And I an amateur lady cop!
“It was stolen!” she concluded. “And I know who took it.” Words spoken only 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 came to the door.
“Oh yes,” the woman replied. “But he’s not here just now. We expect him back any time. Would you care to wait?”
“No, I—I’ll come back later.” Florence turned away to mutter under her breath, “Only I won’t.”
For some time after that, in the shadow of a great elm, she stood watching that room and that one small picture. Hugo did not appear. In time 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. She moved swiftly. Screens had been removed from the house. The window was not locked. To lift it noiselessly, to step within was the work of seconds. Moving slowly in the pale moonlight, she crossed the room. Her hand was on the picture when a footstep sounded outside. Her heart stopped beating. What if it were Hugo! Supposing the moonlight were strong enough to expose her?
She thought of the night before, and gained courage. “But tonight I am not dressed as a man.” Her heart sank.
The footsteps continued. The person did not turn in. For the moment she was saved.
Swiftly she re-crossed the room, sprang through the window and was once more her own free self walking in the cool damp of night. The picture was 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 thought this possible. For all he had interfered with her plans, she had for this 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 her leg 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 free from 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. The thing did not interest her overmuch. Perhaps it was a small atomizer or an affair for spraying perfume. That Hugo was fond of costly, quite faint perfume, she knew well. She dropped it in the pocket of her jacket and there it remained until the following afternoon when, at Danby Force’s request, she motored up to the stately old mansion where Danby lived with his mother.
She found the young man seated with his mother in an out-of-doors pavilion. The sun was bright. It was a rare autumn afternoon.
“This is my mother,” Danby said simply. The beautiful white-haired woman smiled her a welcome. “Danby has been telling me of you. We are going to have 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 bright crimson flowers, all this was marvelous.
“Yes,” Danby Force spoke quietly, “life has always been beautiful up here. My father and his father before him worked to make it so. But life down in our little city has not always been beautiful for all. It should be 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. We feed them, place boxes for them in the trees. The gray ones are brightest, most friendly. Life is always beautiful for them.”
Just then Florence put her hand in her pocket. Feeling something cold and hard, without thinking what it might be, she drew it out and held it to view.
“Where did you get that?” Danby exclaimed on the instant. It was the curious affair Florence had unintentionally carried away from Hugo’s room 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 see that the front is shaped like a button. The tiny lens is in the center of that button. You put that in a button hole and draw the bulb up under your 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 to tell 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 unusual circumstances. 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 letting me 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 Oliver and tell him to deliver it at once to Mr. Mills at his photo shop. If there chances to be a film inside, have him instruct Mills to develop it with extraordinary care, then to make enlargements of all the good exposures.”
“And now,” he said, turning to the ladies, “we may have our tea.”
CHAPTER XXII
THE SILVER SHIP
Early on the following morning two planes left the airport. One was small. It resembled a dragon fly. In it rode Jeanne and Madame Bihari. The other was a great bi-motored cabin plane. It carried as its stewardess our good friend Rosemary Sample. Her passengers were as interesting a group as you might hope to meet.
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