“Now you’re dreaming,” laughed Florence as she reached for her check, then hurried away to her work.
CHAPTER XVII
AN ICY PLUNGE
Florence’s opportunity for following her surprising double came sooner than she expected; that very evening, in fact. She had quit work at the regular time, had donned hat and coat, had gone to the checking room to retrieve her Christmas bag. She was just leaving by a side door when, ahead of her in the throng, she caught a glimpse of that splendid cross fox which her double had insisted on her wearing the day before.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Here’s where I solve a mystery.”
Without a thought of what it might lead to, she followed the girl to a surface car and boarded it just behind her. At Grand Avenue the girl got off and Florence followed her again, boarded an eastbound car and, almost before she knew it, found herself following the girl through a blinding swirl of snow that swept in from the lake.
The street the girl had taken was covered with untrodden snow. It led to the Municipal Pier, the great city pier that like some great black pointing finger of destiny reached a full half mile out into the white ice-bound lake.
“Where—where can she be going?” Florence asked herself.
“Boo! How cold!” she shivered.
The next moment she shivered again, but this time it was from fear. Having chanced to look about, she was startled to see a man all but upon her heels. And that man—no, there could be no mistake about it—that man was the one of the night before, he of the burning black eyes.
Not knowing what else to do, the girl redoubled her speed. A half formed hope was in her mind, a hope that she might catch up with the other girl. Two were better than one, even if both were girls.
Hardly had this hope come when it vanished. In the shadows of the three-story brick structure that formed the base of the pier, her double suddenly disappeared and left her, a lone girl on a wind-swept, deserted street that led to an empty pier. And here was a dark-faced, villainous looking man at her heels.
She could see but one chance now; that she might find her way out upon the pier and there, amid its labyrinth of board walks, freight rooms and deserted lunch rooms, lose herself from her pursuer. She resolved to try it. The next moment she dashed into the shadows of that great black building.
The pier, upon which she had placed hopes of escape, was used in summer as a recreation center. On warm days its board walks and its wind-swept pavilions were thronged. Now it was still as a tomb.
Florence had once been here with the throng, but had taken little notice of things then. The very silence of the place was confusing. She fancied that she heard her own heart beat. Which way should she turn? Above, two stories up, she remembered was a broad board walk a half mile long. She might race up the stairs to this; but after all it offered no place of hiding. To her right was a hallway which led to a long narrow loading place for trucks. At this place, in summer, ships docked; here their hundreds of tons of fruit, grain, flour, manufactured articles, and a hundred other commodities, were unloaded. She had a vague notion that just back of this loading place, beyond the fast closed doors, was a labyrinth of freight rooms.
“If only one of those doors were open,” she breathed. “Perhaps one is unlocked. It’s my best chance.”
All this thinking consumed less than a moment of time. The next instant she went racing over the cement floor. She was across it and out upon the landing in a moment. This she knew was a perilous position. There was a night watchman about somewhere. Here she was in plain view. What would the watchman do if he found her? Her pursuer was not far behind.
With a trembling hand, she gripped the latch of a door. It lifted, but the door did not open.
“Locked,” she whispered in a tone of despair.
“Try another,” was her next thought. She was away like a shot.
Again the latch lifted; again the door refused to budge. She thought she saw a dark figure pass from pillar to pillar in the place she had just left. She could not see him, but she caught the thud-thud of his feet on the cement platform.
Fighting her way against the wind, racing fast, breathing hard, she battled onward. And all the time something within her was whispering: “It’s no use, no use, no use.” Yet, setting her teeth hard, she raced on.
The man was gaining, she was sure of that. Yes, now as she looked back she saw him, only some fifty yards behind her.
This drove her to frantic effort. But to no avail. He continued to gain; a yard, two yards, five, ten, twenty.
“It’s no use,” she panted sobbingly.
And then—she could not believe her eyes—before her, to the right, was an open door.
Like a flash she was inside. Grasping the door she attempted to shut it, but the snow blocked it.
One glance about her showed great dark bulks on every hand.
“Freight,” she breathed, “piles of freight. Here—here is a chance yet.”
The next instant she was tip-toeing her way softly in and out among the innumerable piles of boxes, bags and crates that extended on and on into the impenetrable darkness.
She ran along as softly as she could, yet each time as she paused she fancied that she caught the stealthy footsteps of that horrible man.
“What does he want? Is it the bag that he wants? Whose bag was it? Was it his? If so, why did he let it get away from him?” These questions kept racing through her brain. Then came another question even more disturbing. Perhaps this man had been unfortunate, had been sick or had lost all his property. It might be that he had returned just in time to miss the opportunity of redeeming this lost possession which contained something he prized, perhaps of great value.
“In that case he is more to be pitied than feared,” she thought.
For an instant she contemplated going back to him; yet she dared not.
So, in the end, she continued tip-toeing about. Round a great pile of sacks, filled with sugar or beans, past boxes of tin cans and in and out among massive pieces of machinery, she wandered, all the time wondering in a vague sort of way what was to be the end of it all.
The end to her stay in the store-room came with lightning-like rapidity. She had just tiptoed around a huge steel drum of some sort when all of a sudden there burst upon her ear a deafening roar that shattered the stillness of the place.
The next instant a great black dog leaped at her.
He was not three feet from her when, with an agility that surprised her, she leaped from box top to box top until she found herself ten feet above the floor.
But the dog, who appeared to be an utterly savage beast, could climb too. She could hear him scrambling and scratching his way up, growling as he came. Her head was in a whirl. What was to be done? Suddenly she realized that just before her, beyond the boxes, was a window. Dragging her bag after her, she succeeded in reaching the window. She found it locked. In her desperation she dropped her bag and began kicking at the sash. With a sudden snap the fastenings gave way. She was caught so unawares that she plunged straight out of the window.
With a bump that knocked all the wind from her lungs and most of her senses from her head, she landed on something hard. Without being able to help herself, she rolled over once, then fell again. This time, to her surprise and consternation, she did not bump; she splashed. She sank. She rose. With all her nerves alert, she swam strongly in the stinging lake water. She had fallen from the narrow pier ledge and had landed in the lake.
A white cake of ice loomed up before her. She swam to it and climbed upon it. What was to be done? The thermometer was near zero. She was soaked to the skin, and far from anyone she knew.
“Got—got to get to shore somehow,” she shivered. “I’ll freeze here, sure. Freeze in no time.”
She looked back at the place from which she had come. The window was still open. The dog had stopped barking. She wondered in a vague sort of way what had become of her pursuer.
“And—and my bag,” she chattere
d. “It—it’s in there.” She was coming almost to hate that bag.
“Can’t get up there anyway,” was her final comment. It was true; between the water line and the surface of the pier landing was a sheer wall of cement, eight feet high and smooth as glass.
Her gaze swept a broad circle. Off to her right was a solid mass of ice which appeared to reach to shore.
“One swim and then I can walk to land,” she shuddered.
Two steps forward, a sudden plunge, and again she was in the freezing water.
Once on the ice she dashed away at top speed. It was a race, a race for her life. Already her clothing was freezing stiff.
Here she leaped a chasm of black water; there she tripped over a hole and fell flat; here dodged a stretch of honeycomb ice and raced across a broad level stretch.
Almost before she knew it she was alongside a row of steamships tied up in a channel close to shore. Then, to her surprise, she caught the gleam of a light in a cabin on the upper deck of the smallest boat tied there.
“There’s a rope cable hanging over the side,” she told herself. “I—I could climb it. There must be someone up there, and—and a fire. A fire! Oh, a fire and warmth! I must do it, or I’ll freeze.
“Of course they are strangers—a man, two men, maybe a family, but sea folks are kind people, I’m told. They know what it means to be wet and cold. I—I’ll risk it.”
The next moment, hand over hand, she was making her way up the cable.
Once on deck, she raced along the side until she came to a stair. Up this she sprang, then down the side again until she was at the door of the room where the light still gleamed into the night.
Without a moment’s hesitation she banged on the door.
“Who—who’s there?” came in a distinctly feminine voice. Florence’s heart gave a great throb of joy.
“It’s me. Only me,” she answered. “You don’t know me, but let me in. I fell in the lake. I—I’m free—freezing!”
At once the door flew open and she was dragged inside. Then the door slammed shut.
For a fraction of a moment the two girls stood staring at one another, then as in one voice, they burst out:
“It’s you!”
“It’s you!”
The girl in the ship’s cabin was none other than Florence’s double.
There was no time for explaining. The girl began tugging away at her double’s frozen garments. Ten minutes later, with her clothing on a line behind the glowing stove, Florence sat wrapped in a blanket by the fire, sipping a cup of cocoa.
For a time she sat looking at the girl who was so marvelously like herself in appearance. Then she said quietly:
“Would you mind telling me about yourself?”
“Not a bit. Guess I ought to. You did me a good turn. My name’s Meg.”
“I guessed that much.”
“How?”
“That’s what the man and the woman called me.”
“The man and the woman?” For a moment the girl’s face was puzzled. Then, “Oh yes, I—”
She paused for a moment as if about to tell something about the strange man and woman who had told Florence that the train left at eleven-thirty. If this had been her intention she thought better of it, for presently she said:
“My mother and father are dead. Since I was ten years old I’ve lived with my uncle, mostly on ships.”
“How—how thrilling!”
“Well, maybe, but you don’t learn much on ships. There’s an old saying: ‘You can’t go to school if you live on a canal boat.’ Ships are about as bad. I’ve got through eighth grade, though, and I want to go some more. That day I took your place and you wore my clothes I—”
“Who—who’s that?” Florence had heard the movement of feet outside.
“No friend of mine; not this time of night. Must be yours.”
“It might be the man!”
“What man? Your friend?”
“No. Not my friend; an awful man who wanted the bag.”
“What bag?”
“A bag I bought at an auction. My—my Christmas surprise. There—there he is,” she whispered tensely as there came a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Meg.
“Oh, don’t!” Florence struggled to her feet. “Don’t let him in!”
“Why not?” Meg had risen. In her hand was an affair resembling a policeman’s club, only it was made of iron—a heavy belaying pin. “Why not?” she repeated. “If I don’t fancy him, he’ll let himself out fast enough.” At the same time there came a rattle at the door knob. Florence sank back into her chair.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MYSTERY LADY’S NEW ROLE
Such a party as it was; that one which was being enjoyed by Lucile and her friends of the juvenile book corner. Such crisp brown cream biscuits! Such breast of turkey with cranberry sauce and dressing! Such pudding! Even in the days of her childhood at home Lucile had never seen a more sumptuous feast. All this, in the midst of the gayest of Christmas spirit, made the occasion one long to be remembered by any person whose mind was not too much occupied by bewitching thoughts of other important things.
As for Lucile, her mind was indeed engaged with dreams that were far from the realm of food and drink. She was thinking of that meeting she had so long dreamed of and which she still had the courage to hope might come to pass, her own meeting with the Mystery Lady of the Christmas Spirit.
“I shan’t fail to recognize her,” she assured herself, “though she be dressed like an Eskimo or a South Sea Island maiden.”
At last the time came for strolling down the Boulevard toward the music hall. Lucile stared at the passing throngs until Laurie teasingly asked her whether she hoped to see in one of them the face of a long lost brother.
At last she found herself in the opera chair of the great hall. Now, at least, she was in the same room as the Mystery Lady, or soon must be, for if the Mystery Lady had not entered she soon would. In ten minutes the first note would be struck. There was a thrill in that.
It was to be a truly wonderful program, such a one as the girl had perhaps never listened to before. And she loved music, fairly adored it. As she thought how her interest this night must be divided between the fine music and the Mystery Lady, she found herself almost wishing that the Mystery Lady had not brought into her life so much that was unusual, perplexing and mysterious.
“Perhaps I shall be able to locate her before the music begins,” she thought to herself. “Then, during a recess, I’ll glide up to her and whisper, ‘You are the Spirit of Christmas.’”
Though she scanned the sea of faces near and far, not one of them all, save those of her own little group, was familiar to her.
It was with a little sigh of resignation that she at last settled back in her seat and allowed her program to flutter to her lap.
The time for the first number had arrived. The musicians had taken their places. The rows of violinists and cornetists, the standing bass viol player, the conductor with his baton, all were there. Like soldiers at attention, they waited for the soloist.
Mademoiselle Patricia Diurno, the country’s most talented young pianist, was to lead that night in the rendition of three master concertos.
There was an expectant lull, then mighty applause. She was coming. At a door to the right she appeared. Down a narrow way between rows of musicians she passed, a tall, slim, gracefully beautiful lady.
In the center of the stage she paused to bow in recognition of the applause, then again, and yet again. Then, turning with such grace as only a trained musician knows, she moved to her place and with a slight nod to the leader, placed her hands upon the keys, then sent them racing over the keys, bringing forth such glorious music as only might be learned beside a rushing brook in the depths of the forest.
Lucile gripped her seat until her fingers ached. She strove to remain seated while her face went white and then was flushed with color.
“It is she,” she whispered to her
self. “It cannot be, yet it is! The same eyes, the same nose, the same hair. I cannot be mistaken. It is she! Patricia Diurno, the celebrated, the most wonderful virtuoso, is the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas! And I? How am I to remain in this seat for two mortal hours while before me sits a woman pouring forth bewitching music, a woman who for a handclasp has the power to make me rich, yes, rich? Two hundred in gold. How—how can I?”
CHAPTER XIX
MEG WIELDS A BELAYING PIN
Florence started back at sight of the one who opened the door in response to Meg’s “Come in.” It was indeed the small man of the burning, hawk-like eyes. His disposition appeared to have been changed by his battle with the storm. It was plain from the first that he was now a man not to be trifled with; at least not by two girls in a lonely ship’s cabin at an hour fast approaching midnight. He twisted his face into an ugly grin. His smile was more horrible than a snarl would have been. His white teeth showed like an angry dog’s.
“The bag!” he said in a tone that was a command. It was evident that he was both angry and desperate.
“What bag?” said Meg, rising as her companion, wrapping her blanket closer about her, slunk further into the corner.
“My bag!” His tone was threatening. He advanced a step.
Florence could see a deep red stealing up beneath the natural tan of the daughter of the sea as she too advanced a step. Meg showed not the slightest fear.
“There’s no bag here.” Her hand was behind her, gripping the belaying pin. “No bag at all unless you call that thing a bag.” She pointed to a canvas duffel bag that hung in the corner. “That’s mine. You can’t have it. You can’t have anything in this cabin. You can’t even touch anything or anybody, so you better get out.”
“So!” The man’s word was more like a hiss than a real expression of the word. At the same time his teeth were so uncovered that one might count them.
“So!” He advanced another step.
There came a faint click. Something bright gleamed in his right hand. A scream came to Florence’s lips, but she did not utter it; she only sat and stared.
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