“The three rubies, set in the strangest manner, were part of a rare collection gathered from the corners of the earth only after years of search. It is little wonder that the owner was indignant when it was broken into.
“The collection was in the girl’s home. She had access to it. In a moment of bravado, at her chum’s suggestion, she slipped about her neck a chain, to which the jewels were attached by a sort of pendant.
“Some other fancy seized her and she promptly forgot the jewels still gleaming at her throat. A telephone rang. She answered it, consented to join a party of her school friends, and was whirled away into one of those wild nights that too often end in disaster.
“The gambling place they entered was Oriental. At least those who appeared to run it were Japanese men. Back of them was an American, a professional gambler.”
She paused.
“Last night I saw that man.”
“On—on that island!” Florence stared.
“I am sure he is the man. But I want him less than the jewels. I am not on duty. This is my vacation. I am doing this on my own time.”
“Why?”
“Desire for a professional triumph, perhaps. Besides, as I said, I like the girl.”
“Getting back to that night,” the lady cop went on after a pause, “the place that girl and her friends entered was one of those that are quite typical in some big cities. Secret passages, peculiar knock, and all that. And then bright lights, whirling wheels, gleaming balls. All dazzling, and dangerous.
“The little girl gambled with the rest. She won. The narrow eyes of an Oriental had spied that priceless pendant. He knew its value; resolved to play for it.
“For a long time the girl won. Her pockets bulged with money. Her companions applauded. She would break the bank. Her eyes shone. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hands trembled as she placed her wagers.
“But she didn’t break the bank.” The lady cop sighed as she stared at the dying fire. “They never do, except in cheap fiction. Instead, she began to lose. She lost rapidly. Soon all her money was gone. Still the mad gambling craze was upon her. She borrowed and lost again. She offered her I.O.U. It was accepted. Once more she lost.
“At last she gave up in despair. Then the Oriental’s eyes became mere slits as he demanded:
“‘Pay.’
“‘But how am I to pay?’ she asked in despair.
“His slim brown finger pointed to the three rubies that gleamed like three red eyes at her throat.
“It was the first time she had thought of them for hours. Scarcely knowing what she did, she unhooked the chain and left the rubies as a pledge.
“There were other places to visit. There was dancing far into the night.
“She awoke at ten o’clock the next morning with a sense of guilt and fear. She thought of the pendant.
“In horror, she phoned her friends. They promised to go to the place and redeem the pledge.
“There was no longer such a place. In the night the gamblers had folded their tents like the Arabs and silently stolen away. They were in possession of a priceless bauble. They would make the most of it.
“That,” she concluded, “was the last seen of the three rubies in their Oriental setting. Where are they now? A reward was offered for their return. No answer. The police and highly paid private detectives have been on the trail. They have found nothing. Only last night I saw the man I suspect. I must make the most of a great opportunity. I must return the jewels. Then I will get that man!”
Those words sounded strange, coming as they did from a woman’s lips. Yet, as Florence looked into those flaming eyes she did not doubt that the lady cop would make good.
“But how?” she asked herself. “How?” She was destined to ask that question many times in the days that were to come.
Miss Weightman threw fresh fuel on the fire and hung a pot of water over it to boil. Soon they were sipping tea and munching strangely delicious biscuits.
As they sat listening to the steady beat of the rain on the skylight of that mysterious cabin, Florence allowed her eyes to wander from corner to corner of the place as she speculated upon the possible motives that might induce one to erect such a home.
“May belong to old Indian days,” she told herself. “Or, since we are near the border, it may have been a smuggler’s cabin.”
Neither of these solutions satisfied her. She was about to ask the lady cop what she knew concerning its history, when she heard the sound of a voice, rising above the storm.
“Rollin’ along. Just rollin’ along.” It was the voice of a girl. “Just rollin’ along. Just singin’ a song.”
“That,” said Florence, “is Sun-Tan Tillie.”
“And who is Sun-Tan Tillie?” asked her hostess with evident interest.
“She is Turkey Trot’s sister.”
“And who is Turkey Trot?” The young lady seemed amused.
“They are native people here—run a tourist camp; rent boats; catch minnows, and all that. Tillie’s a dear.”
“What is she doing in the rain?”
“I’ll ask her.” Springing to the door, she threw it open.
“Yoo-hoo!” she shouted. “Yoo-hoo! Tillie! What are you doing?”
“Just rollin’ along,” Tillie came back with a laugh.
That expressed it. She was out rowing in the rain. To her inevitable bathing suit had been added a yellow slicker and a black rubber hat.
“Tell her to come in and get warm,” said Miss Weightman, joining Florence at the door.
Florence obeyed instructions. Tillie acquiesced readily, so the three of them might soon have been seen sitting before the fire.
They had not talked long before Florence discovered the motive behind the lady cop’s interest in Tillie.
Tillie had lived here all her life. She knew every nook and cranny of the islands, points and bays. More than that, she knew a great deal about the inhabitants of Gamblers’ Island and Erie Point. It was plain to see that this information was given out freely enough, and would prove of great service to the lady cop in her future movements.
But Miss Weightman was not, as you may have learned, a totally selfish person. A friendship to her was never one-sided.
There was born in that strange cabin, on that rainy afternoon, a loyal little club of three friends: the lady cop, Florence and Tillie, which was to lead to many a secret meeting, for the most part in this very cabin, and many an undertaking which in the end was to result in benefit to all.
CHAPTER XIII
CHARMED DAYS
For Florence, the days that followed were filled with glorious adventure. The wind, the sun, the forest and the water of that north country have moods for every hour. Florence, the strong, healthy, joyous child of nature, had a mood to match each change.
There were days when sky and water were gray, and the forest full of shadows. At such times Florence wandered far into the forest’s depths to sit and wonder about many things. What was this world she lived in? Who had created it? What were these creatures called human beings that had been allowed to wander for a time upon its surface? Why were they not like horses and dogs and monkeys? Or were they very different from these, after all?
“Yes, yes!” she would cry out to the trees that appeared to ask the questions. “They are different! They think! Think! Do you think, you trees? Do you think?” she would demand of a whisking chipmunk. The answer never came except in that still small voice that was never far away. That voice whispered, “Only men think.”
When the sky cleared and the waters sparkled, she was another person. No problems came to her then. Enough that she was alive; that all the world lay spread out before her. Then all her being called for action.
And to Florence, as long as water was near, action meant oars and a boat. To her the very touch of an oar, the lift and fall of a tossing wave, imparted a magic charm. Her splendid muscles responded to the touch of water on the tips of her oars as the robin responds to the first beam of
the morning sun.
Oars, a boat, and away. Sometimes they entered little land-locked bays where spotted perch lay fanning the water among the pike weed. Again, they sought out a great submerged rock, beneath whose shadows the black bass lurked.
Often, too, they left rod and reel untouched to watch a mother duck and her young busy themselves at the task of gathering the day’s supply of young frogs, bugs and snails.
There were wild, windy days, too, that seemed to shout at the wanton spirit of youth that was hers. This seemed always a challenge. Leaving Petite Jeanne to sit by the fire and dream of her beloved France, she would push her frail craft off from the shore to battle winds, waves and foam for hours on end.
As the wind rose and screamed at her, she would turn her face to it, let her hair fly wildly out, and scream back in wild defiance.
At such times as these, it seemed to her that she must have lived before, that for years on end she had battled winds and waves.
There are those who believe that we live our lives many times; that in some new form we return to earth to face life’s problems anew. Florence knew of this belief. As she battled the elements, it pleased her to assume the role of a Norseman’s bride. In fancy, riding at the head of some sturdy crew, she faced the battling waves of the fierce Atlantic and entered dark caves at night, to sit by a great roaring fire munching hard bread and venison roasted over the coals.
Florence Huyler’s love of nature amounted almost to a religion. And who will say that she might not have found a less desirable subject for devotion?
What is sweeter and finer than the heart of the forest, what purer than the soul of a crested wave?
For Petite Jeanne, too, woods and water held a great charm. Only her manner of responding to it differed. She lay for hours on the warm, sandy beach beneath a great umbrella, half asleep, dreaming. She, too, wandered in the forest. From these wanderings she returned in a pensive mood. These trees, these winding paths, reminded her of the forests of France. They whispered all too loudly of many happy days spent on the edge of those forests with the gypsies.
On a certain day Florence learned in a forceful manner just what the little French girl’s feelings were toward the strange people of her adoption. They were rowing past the end of a private dock which extended some distance into the waters of the bay, when Petite Jeanne suddenly cried out:
“Oh look! Look! Stop! Let me read it!”
Florence looked in the direction indicated, then stared at her in astonishment. She saw before her only a large post, part of the dock, which rose some three feet above the water. On the post was no note, sign or any other manner of writing that might be read.
Yet Petite Jeanne seized an oar to turn them about and bring their boat up close to the post.
Then for the first time Florence saw what had attracted her companion’s attention—three twigs pinned together by a small nail and fastened securely to the post.
To the uninitiated this would have seemed the work of a playful child. To Jeanne it spoke volumes. Even Florence understood enough of its meaning to cause her worry.
“Now she will know,” she whispered to herself.
The three sticks were a gypsy “patteran,” a part of the sign language left by these wandering people at every crossroad.
“See!” exclaimed Jeanne. “There are gypsies about. And oh! they are French gypsies!” She clapped her hands. “Only in France do they make a patteran like that.
“See! I will read it. They say they are three; a man, a woman and a little girl. They have gone up the bay and will stay tonight at a small island.”
Florence marveled that so much could be told by three crossed sticks. Still, she did not doubt the French girl’s reading.
Yet more astonishing was Jeanne’s attitude toward the whole matter. She appeared bubbling over with joy. Such a smile illumined her face as had not been there for weeks.
“But, Jeanne,” said Florence, “do you not fear the gypsies? Once you were kidnapped and nearly killed by them.”
“Oh—” Jeanne spread her hands, then pretended to blow a feather from her fingers. “That is all long ago. In spirit I am still a gypsy. And the gypsies live, not for the past, not for to-morrow, but for this day only. This day is quite enough.
“Besides,” she added after a moment, “I do not know fear as many do. Gypsies are not afraid. They love life so much that danger, even death itself, is forgotten. See! I must tell you a story; then you will understand.”
CHAPTER XIV
THE DANCE OF DEATH
“In France, at one time,” Jeanne began, as she settled back in her place and Florence rested on her oars, “the gypsies were treated as outlaws. They were hunted from province to province. Many were hanged on trees. Perhaps—” She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps this was their own fault. They may have behaved badly.
“All this did not rob them of their love for life. They danced and sang all the same.
“Sometimes they had rifles and bullets. One time they had none. A company of soldiers were stealing upon them through the forest. They were expected at midnight, when a young man, Bratu Vaicu, who was in love with the old chief’s daughter, said to him:
“‘This is the time Tinka promised to marry me.’
“‘Spoken like a brave gypsy!’ exclaimed the chief. ‘Let the wedding go on.’
“Danger meant nothing to these gypsies when a bridal feast and a dance were at hand. They kindled fires. The women prepared the feast.
“Stan and Marga decided to be married, too. Two other couples joined them. Four couples, four weddings in all. What a night of joy for a gypsy camp!
“They cleared a space among the trees. Old Radu took down his fiddle. He began to sing. They all started dancing, doing the tarantella, the most beautiful dance in the world.”
“Yes, the most beautiful,” Florence agreed.
“Shots sounded in the distance,” Jeanne went on, in a tone that was musical, dramatic. “The shots did not disturb the gypsies. Bullets meant death. But what was death? Were they not living now as they had never lived before?
“The dance grew wilder. Shots came closer. Bullets whizzed by. Still they danced.
“A soldier peered through the branches. He expected to see grim faces and muzzles of rifles. Instead, he saw laughing eyes and flashing heels. What did it mean? He did not understand.
“He was joined by another, another, and yet another. A beautiful gypsy girl saw them. She seized one soldier and drew him into the dance. Others followed. Soon all the soldiers were dancing.
“Morning found the soldiers without swords or rifles. Who cared? They had found true happiness. They would join the gypsies. And they did.
“So you see,” Jeanne ended with a sigh, “by their very love of life, their disregard for danger and death, they won more abundant life. But surely you can see, too, that gypsies are not really afraid.
“Neither am I. If there are gypsies from France in these forests, I wish to see them, to speak their language, to hear them speak my own beloved tongue. In this strange land we have a bond of brotherhood.”
“So that is the way she feels about it!” Florence thought in some surprise. “Then I must find her some gypsies.”
She did find them, and that very soon—the same three who had left their patteran on the dock post. She lost them, too, only to be found by them long weeks afterward under the most unusual circumstances.
In the meantime, there was the rowboat and water that was like glass. She rowed on and on down the bay until the cottages, the store, the ancient sawmill, the dock, were all but specks in the distance. Then, with a fir tree on a point as her guide, she rowed straight for their cabin.
They ate their lunch on the beach that evening. Then Jeanne went for a stroll along the shore.
Florence pushed her boat out into the bay and rowed toward the open lake. She loved this spot. No small lake could have so won her affection. Here in this land-locked bay she was always safe from sto
rms. Yet, just beyond, through the gap between two points of land, she could see Lake Huron. “Makes you feel that you are part of something tremendous,” she had said to Tillie, once. And Tillie had understood.
Now she dropped her oars and sat there alone, watching the light fade from the sky while “some artist Saint spilled his paint adown the western sky.”
She was glad to be alone. She wished to think. Jeanne had a disturbing way of reading one’s thoughts, or very nearly reading them, that was uncanny. It was of Jeanne, in part, that she wished to think.
“It is positively weird,” she told herself, “the way exciting happenings keep bobbing up in this quiet place. Just when I think those gypsies have left these parts and Jeanne is free from any harm they might do her, she discovers that patteran and gets excited about it.”
She had not expected Jeanne to be so anxious to see the gypsies. Now she was in a quandary. Should she attempt to find the gypsies and bring them to Jeanne? She did not doubt that this could be done.
“Their camp is just over there,” she told herself, nodding toward the little island that lay across the bay. “But if I find them; if they meet Jeanne face to face, what then?”
Who could answer this question? Certainly it was beyond her. There were times when she felt certain that this gypsy band had come to America for the purpose of revenge; that they had somehow secured possession of a speed boat, had perhaps stolen it, and that it had been they who tipped over the rowboat and had come near drowning Jeanne on that other night.
Just now she was not so sure of this. “If they stole a speed boat they would not dare remain so long in one place,” she thought. “But, after all, what other motive can they have for remaining in this vicinity?” What, indeed? They were not to be seen at the village, nor along the shore selling baskets and telling fortunes as gypsies are accustomed to do. Yet they did not go away.
“If they did not run us down, who did?” she asked herself for the hundredth time. She all but hated herself for clinging so tenaciously to this question.
She thought of the rich people who lived on Erie Point. At first she had blamed them for the near catastrophe—had thought of it as a cruel prank. The lady cop’s opinion of rich young people had cast a deep shadow upon this theory. Still she had not wholly abandoned it.
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