Tillie pulled her down. “Wait!” she whispered.
At that moment Florence felt her heart sink to her shoes. What if, for once, the uncanny knowledge of the gypsy woman had failed? What if the three rubies were, after all, irrevocably lost?
“The die is cast,” she told herself sternly. “I must go on.”
“You will recall,” she said, turning to the lady cop, “that on the night when we first entered your cabin we, Petite Jeanne and I, had just had our rowboat swamped by some reckless, or willfully wicked people in a speed boat.”
The lady cop nodded.
“You thought they had been after you. I thought it was the reckless prank of some rich young people. You were right. The boat was driven by one of the younger gamblers. His pal and two gypsies were on board. They suspected you; meant to drown you. They got us instead. And that’s that.” Florence sighed.
“Now the trunk.” Everyone moved forward. “Not so fast,” she cautioned. “I am going to account for its presence here.
“You thought—” again she turned to the lady cop, “that the gamblers got your trunk. They meant to. They were a few hours late. Tillie and I got it the night before.”
“You?” There was incredulity in the lady cop’s eyes.
“That’s once when a prank turned out well,” Florence smiled. “Tillie and I meant to fill it with balsam tips and return it. We have. See!”
She threw up the lid of the trunk, and at once the air of the room was heavy with the natural perfume of the forest.
“We kept the trunk till now,” she said quietly. “And that’s that.
“And now we come to our big night, Tillie’s and mine, the night we were kidnapped.
“In this instance there were three possibilities. It might have been a prank indulged in by reckless young people. The gamblers may have done it, or the gypsies. Tillie thought it was the work of the gamblers. Because she came upon a gypsy feast that night, Jeanne blamed the gypsies. They were both right.
“By this time the two rather striking young gypsy girls had learned who Jeanne was. They had hated her in France. They hated her still. They could not get at her. She stayed in the cabin. They proposed to take out their spiteon her friends. The gamblers hated Tillie. They combined forces and prepared to show us a rough time. Well,” she ended grimly, “they succeeded. After cutting our boat loose, they came ashore to prepare a meal and eat it. It was this feast that Jeanne’s bear interrupted. They fled.”
“And all this,” said Petite Jeanne, coming out from among pillows in a dark corner, “goes to prove that we owe a most humble apology to my beloved Green Eyes and to her friends of the Erie cottage. We suspected you of pranks which were quite impossible for you to perform.” She spoke the last to Miss Erie.
“Oh, that’s quite all right!” The rich girl’s tone was friendly. “We do not expect to be entirely understood. We were taught by my father when we were very young that to take advantage of others because of wealth or power is the act of a coward. That there are such rich cowards, one can’t deny. We hope they are very few.”
Jeanne beamed her thanks for this speech. “But, Florence!” she cried suddenly. “This does not explain the green eyes I saw in the deserted lumber camp that night.”
“You must work out your own solution for that.” Again Florence smiled. “Some wild creature was hiding there, or you were having a case of nerves. Our gypsy friend knew a surprising lot. She did not know everything. No more could she tell what caused the fire on Gamblers’ Island.”
“But—but the rubies!” exclaimed Miss Erie, as the story seemed about to end.
“That,” said Florence, true to Jeanne’s dramatic conception, “is to be the last touch. According to our gypsy friend’s story the three rubies are supposed to have been hidden in some secret pocket of this ancient trunk, and there they should be still.”
“The trunk!” “The trunk!” “Trunk!” came from the lips of Tillie, the lady cop and the Erie girl all at once.
“We will now proceed to find out.” Florence’s voice took on a business-like tone. “Jeanne, a blanket. We’ll dump these balsam tips in it and tie up the corners.”
When the trunk seemed empty, all crowded around.
Lighted only by candles, Florence began prodding and thumping with a chisel until at last she brought forth a hollow sound. A section of the trunk’s false bottom was pried up, and then they started back. For, in that dim light, small eyes appeared to gleam up at them.
The spell lasted for but a moment. Then Florence’s hand went down and came out full of gems.
“A regular treasure chest!” There was awe in the lady cop’s voice.
The next instant she had taken something from beneath her coat and was pinning it on Florence’s breast. It was her detective badge.
“Now,” she exclaimed, “that is where it belongs!”
“No! No!” The girl removed the badge and returned it to its place. “I had all the luck. It will be quite different in the future.”
“Who knows?” said the lady cop quite soberly.
The trunk proved to be the hiding place for a noteworthy collection of gems. The police had taken it in a raid and, quite ignorant of its value, had sold it. Some of the jewels were returned to their rightful owners. Several remained unclaimed. So Florence, Petite Jeanne, Tillie, and the lady cop are all richer by a jewel or two; while the “poor little rich girl” regained her standing in her family by returning the much prized bauble to its place in the collection.
The gypsy drama, with Petite Jeanne playing a leading role, enjoyed a long run. In the meantime, Florence was not idle. Fresh adventures came to her. Was the lady cop one of her companions? Was Petite Jeanne? Was Tillie? Did Betty come back? You will find the answer to all these questions in our next book, to be entitled The Golden Circle.
THE PHANTOM VIOLIN, by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER I
THE SHIP’S GHOST
“Flo—Florence! They saw me!”
The little French girl, Petite Jeanne, sprang noiselessly through the cabin door. Then, as if to keep someone out, closed the door and propped herself against it. “They saw me!” she repeated in a whisper. “And they—I believe they thought me a ghost. I’m sure it was so. I heard one of them, he said ‘ghost.’ I heard him!” Jeanne clasped and unclasped her slender fingers.
“Who saw you?” Florence stared at her through the dim light of the moon that came straying through the narrow window.
“Yes. Who saw you?” came from somewhere above them.
“The men.” Jeanne was growing calmer. “There were two of them. They saw me. They had tied their boat to the wreck. They were going to do something. I am sure of that. Then they saw me and acted very much afraid. And then—”
“You do look like a ghost,” Florence broke in. “In that white dressing gown with your golden hair flying in the moonlight, you look just like a ghost. And I suppose you popped right up out of the hatch like a ghost!” She laughed in spite of herself.
“But these men—” her tone sobered. “What were they doing here at this time of the night?”
“That?” said Jeanne. “How is one to know? They rattle chains. They see me, then Old Dizzy lets out one of his terrible screams, and they are gone!”
Closing her eyes, the little French girl saw all that had happened just as if it were being played before her as a drama. She saw dark waters of night, a golden moon, distant shores of an island, black and haunting and, strangest, most mysterious of all, the prow of a great ship rearing itself far above the surface of Lake Superior’s waters.
The ship was a wreck, you would have said a deserted wreck. And yet, even as you said it, you might have felt the hair rise at the back of your neck, for, appearing apparently through the solid deck, a white apparition rose at the prow. Rising higher and higher, it stood at last a wavering ghost-like figure in that eery moonlight. This was her own figure Jeanne was seeing now. Once again, with eyes closed, she seemed to stand
there in her wavy gown of filmy white, bathed in the golden moonlight. Once again she looked at the glory of the night, the moon, the stars, the black waters, the distant, mysterious shores where no one lived.
The distant shore line was that of Isle Royale fifteen miles off the shore of Canada, in Lake Superior.
All this was a grand and glorious dream to her.
They had been here three days, she and Florence Huyler, whom you may have met before, and Greta Clara Bronson, whom you are going to love as Petite Jeanne, who had known her for but two months, loved her.
“Tomorrow,” Jeanne had whispered to herself, standing there in the moonlight, “we are going ashore, ashore on that Mystic Isle.”
Ashore? One would have said she must be standing on a ship lying at anchor. This was not true. The old Pilgrim, a three hundred foot pleasure boat, would never sail again. Fast on the rocks, her stern beneath the black waters, her prow high in air, she would rest there a while until—ah, well, until, who could say what or when?
“This,” the little French girl had whispered, “is our summer home.” How the thought had thrilled her! Three girls, the “last passengers,” they had styled themselves, three girls alone on a great wrecked ship for long summer months.
What fun it had been to fit out the captain’s and the first mate’s cabins—what fun and what work! Bunks had been leveled, chairs and tables fitted with two short and two long legs to fit the slanting floors, a score of adjustments had been made. But now they were all done.
“And tomorrow,” she had repeated in a whisper, “tomorrow—”
But what was that? Had she caught a sound? Yes, there it was again, like the purring of a cat, only louder. It came from the dark waters of night. Listening, intent, motionless, she had failed to fathom its meaning.
“Something on shore,” she had tried to assure herself.
“Ashore.” At once her keen young mind was busy conjuring up fantastic pictures of those shores which, though so near, scarcely a half mile away, were utterly strange to her. Wild moose, wandering about like cattle; wolves, tawny gray streaks in the forest; high ridges; great boulders laden with precious green stones; and in the silent waters of narrow bays such monstrous fishes.
“Ah!” she breathed. “Tomorrow!”
But again her mind was caught and held by that strange sound, a very faint put-put-put.
Even as she listened the sound ceased. Then of a sudden she felt a thud that shook the wrecked ship. At the same instant she made out a dark bulk that was, she felt sure, some form of a craft.
“Men!” she thought with a shudder. “Men coming to the wreck in the night! I wonder why?”
She was frightened, dreadfully afraid. She wanted to escape, to drop through the hatch-way, to go where her friends were in the cabin below. Her feet would not move. So there she stood, white-faced, tossing gold-white hair, waving white robe, a pale ghost in the moonlight.
What did the men on that boat think of her? Of course there were men, two of them, on the deck of that small, black power boat. For the moment they did not see her.
“Why are they here?” Jeanne asked herself. “What will they do?”
This indeed was a problem. The ship had been relieved of her cargo, all but a few barrels of oil in the hold that could not be reached. Even the brass fittings had been removed.
“There is nothing they could want,” she assured herself, “absolutely nothing. And yet—”
Jeanne was gifted with a most vivid imagination. This old ship had sailed the seas for more than forty years. What unlawful deeds might not have been done within this grim old hull! There had been smuggling, no doubt of that. The ship had visited the ports of Canada a thousand times. What secret treasure might still be hidden within this hopeless hulk? She shuddered at the thought.
“All we want,” she breathed, “is peace, peace and an opportunity to explore that most beautiful island.”
Strange to say, the little French girl was not the only person who at that moment felt a cold chill run up his spine. One of the men, the tall one on the little schooner, had caught sight of a patch of wavering white far up on the prow.
“Mart!” he was saying to his companion, and there was fear in his voice, “Do you think anyone ever died on this old ship?”
“Of course. Why not?” His companion’s voice was gruff. “What do you think? She’s sailed the lakes for forty years, this old Pilgrim has, and why wouldn’t people die on her, same as they die on other ships?”
“Then,” the other man’s words came with a little shudder, “then it was a lady that died, for look! Yonder in the prow is her ghost a-hoverin’ still.”
The other man looked at the drifting, swaying figure all in white, and he too began to sway. It seemed he might drop.
Seeming to collect his strength with great effort, he seized the line that held his own tiny craft to the wrecked ship, then grasping a pike pole, was prepared to give it a mighty shove that would send it far out.
At this very moment a strange and terrible sound smote the air; a wild scream, a shrill laugh, all in one it rent the still night air three times, then all was still.
The man with the pike pole shuddered from head to foot. Then, regaining control of his senses, he gave a mighty heave that set his small craft quite free of the apparently haunted ship.
The boat had not gone far when a curious animate thing that seemed neither man nor beast burst from the narrow cabin. The thing began roaring and dancing about the deck like a baboon attacked by hornets. On the creature’s shoulders was something four times the size of a man’s head. The upright body was quite as strange as the head. As the boat continued its course the great round head rolled off and a smaller one appeared. This small head bobbed about and roared prodigiously, but all to no purpose. The little black boat had moved straight on to pass at last from sight into the night.
Then, and not until then, did the wisp of white, which, as you know, was Petite Jeanne, glide forward and vanish. She burst excitedly into a dark cabin.
“I heard chains rattle,” Jeanne repeated, standing still in the cabin doorway. “One of the men spoke. They looked up at me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. My—my feet wouldn’t budge!”
She began dancing around the small cabin in her excitement.
“What happened then?” Florence, a large, ruddy-cheeked girl in knickers, demanded. “What did they do?”
“They—why, it was queer! They seemed in an awful hurry. They untied their boat and—
“Of course,” she added as an afterthought, “there was Dizzy. He let out a most terrible scream, and laughed. How he did scream and laugh! Three times—one, two, three. They shoved off, those men did, as if their very life depended on it!”
“Thought you were a ghost,” Florence chuckled. “Can’t be any question about that. Who’d blame them? Look at you!”
“And then,” Jeanne went on, “then some queer thing with two legs came out and danced wildly about the deck. He had an enormous head. Bye and bye his head tumbled off, at least the awful big part, and I heard him roaring at the other men.”
“Him?”
“Yes. It was a man in a diving rig. He’d taken off the helmet. Now, what do you think of that?”
Quite out of breath, the blonde haired little French girl dropped down upon a berth at the side of the cabin.
“Man in a diving suit.” Florence spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Going to dive, of course.”
“But why?”
“That’s right. Why?” Florence’s brow wrinkled.
“I wish—” she said slowly after a period of silence, “wish they hadn’t come.”
She was to wish this many times in the days that were to follow. And then she was to change her mind.
CHAPTER II
MYSTERIES OF NIGHT
As Florence and Jeanne sat there in the dark, whispering and wondering about the strange black schooner and its purpose in these waters, wondering too whether they dared light a
candle and heat water for tea, something moved in the berth above their heads, and they became once more conscious of the third member of their party, Greta Clara Bronson.
You have been wondering perhaps how it came about that Jeanne and Florence, who spent so much of their time in great cities, were to be found living on this wreck off the primeval shores of Isle Royale. You will find the answer in the third girl, Greta Clara Bronson, who now slid her bare feet over the edge of the berth and prepared to descend.
Greta was slender, rather tall, with black hair, snapping black eyes, and a body that was a fine example of perpetual motion. At this moment she was recovering from an attack of hay fever and asthma. That is why she was here, why they were all here. Isle Royale is a rare retreat for hay fever victims.
Two months before Jeanne had met Greta and had fallen in love with her. Greta could dance almost as well as Jeanne. She played the violin “divinely,” as Jeanne expressed it. So when, one midsummer day, Jeanne found her friend sitting up in bed panting for breath, and was told that only a summer on Isle Royale could bring back to her the joy of life, she had hurried away to find Florence. Together they had plotted and planned. And now, here they were.
But why on a wrecked ship? Are there no hotels on the island? Yes, there are four small hotels on Isle Royale. But what trio of happy, energetic, adventure-loving girls would choose a hotel rather than the deck of a wrecked ship for a summer outing? Some might, but not Florence, Greta, and Jeanne.
The only fear, expressed by them a half hour later over their tea, was that some unforeseen event might drive them from their strange retreat.
“Who’s afraid?” Florence swung her stout arms wide. And who indeed could be, with Florence as her protector? Strong as a man, a physical director and a gymnast, tipping the scale at one hundred and sixty pounds, she could swim a mile, row a boat through tireless hours, and handle a gun with the best of men. Nor was the gun lacking, a short, business-like rifle hung above her berth.
“Not that you’ll ever need it,” Swen Petersen, a fine young fisherman who had loaned it to her, had said. “All us fisher folks are simple and honest. And you’re not allowed to shoot animals on the Island. It’s a game preserve. But you will like to look at my rifle sometimes.” So he had left it.
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