_A Mystery Story for Girls_
GREEN EYES
_By_
ROY J. SNELL
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago New York
COPYRIGHT 1930
BY
THE REILLY & LEE CO.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Mysterious Islander 11
II The Lady of the Island 22
III A Gypsy Secret 29
IV Why? 35
V The Gypsy Child 45
VI Haunting Melody 51
VII Gypsy Moon 57
VIII Sun-Tan Tillie 61
IX Banging a Bear 68
X A Gasp in the Dark 73
XI A Secret Begun 80
XII Three Rubies 87
XIII Charmed Days 100
XIV The Dance of Death 107
XV Fishing and Fighting 119
XVI Ships That Pass in the Twilight 128
XVII Voices in the Forest 132
XVIII Reveries 139
XIX The Stolen Trunk 147
XX 13-13 And Other Signs 157
XXI “Fishin’” 163
XXII Kidnapped 175
XXIII Strange Deliverance 181
XXIV Outbound in the Night 188
XXV A Scream in the Night 195
XXVI “A Boat! A Boat!” 204
XXVII The “Spank Me Again” 212
XXVIII Glowing Waters 219
XXIX Fading Shore Lines 227
XXX Their Crowded Hour 232
XXXI Petite Jeanne’s Dark Hour 238
XXXII Petite Jeanne’s Triumph 243
XXXIII Fast Work 251
XXXIV The Treasure Chest 257
GREEN EYES
CHAPTER I
THE MYSTERIOUS ISLANDER
It was night on Morton’s Bay. A bright half moon painted a path of silver
over water as still as the night.
At the very center of this narrow bay some dark object cast a shadow.
This was a rowboat. It was painted black. The anchor lay in its prow. The
boat did not drift. There are times of perfect calm on the upper waters
of Lake Huron.
One figure was noticeable in this boat. A slight girl, she sat bent over
as if in sleep, or perhaps in deep meditation.
There was another person in the stern of the boat. A large girl, she lay
in perfect repose against a pile of pillows. Was she asleep? Did she
dream? She was thinking. One thinks best when at perfect repose. Where
could be found more perfect repose? Perhaps nowhere. Yet this girl, who
was none other than our old friend, Florence Huyler, was slightly
disturbed.
The rowboat had but now ceased rocking. The moment before, a powerful
speed boat, passing at a terrific rate, had stirred the waters and had
sent deep ridges and furrows to lift and drop it, lift and drop it many
times.
Florence did not like speed boats. They hurried too much. She was seldom
in a hurry. She and this other girl had come to the little settlement to
seek repose. More than once a speed boat had interrupted her meditations.
Now it had happened again.
“They’re taking a wide circle,” she told herself. “More than likely
they’ll come back. Why can’t they leave us in peace?”
The circle made by the speed boat widened. Perhaps they would not return
after all. Her thoughts shifted to other matters.
The figure in the forward seat was that of the blonde French girl, Petite
Jeanne. She had not moved for a quarter of an hour. What were her
thoughts? Or did she think?
“Perhaps she is asleep,” Florence told herself. She had not stirred when
the speed boat rocked them.
“Ought I to warn her if they return?” Florence asked herself. “Might
topple over into the bay. She can’t swim.”
Yet, even as she thought this, Florence smiled at the idea of danger.
What if the French girl could not swim? One swimmer was enough. And
Florence could swim. Few better. Once she had swum the Ohio river, a mile
wide, on a wager.
“Easy to rescue her,” she thought. “But then, why get wet?”
She shuddered at the thought of a plunge. It was August, but the season
was late. These northern waters were still cold.
Once more her thoughts shifted. To her right she had caught the gleam of
a light. This light suggested mystery. Where the light shone was an
island; not much of an island, a pile of rocks overgrown with cedars, but
an island all the same. And in the midst of the cedars, dark, mysterious,
all but hidden, was a cottage. And in the cottage lived a lady who
dressed in somber garments and rowed a black boat. She visited no one,
was visited by no one, and was seldom seen save in early morning, or at
night. This much Florence had learned by watching the cabin from a
distance.
“Mystery!” she whispered. “Of all places, on these northern waters in a
community where no man locks his doors. Mystery! Oh, well, probably
nothing.”
For all her whispered words, she was convinced that there _was_
something. She meant to find out what that something was.
But now her thoughts were rudely broken off. With a roar that was
deafening, the racing speed boat was once more upon them.
Coming closer this time, it set a current of air fanning their cheeks and
showered them with fine spray.
The little French girl, waking from her reverie, stared wildly about her,
then clutched at the seat. Just in time. The rowboat, rocking violently,
threatened to tumble them into the water.
“Selfish!” Florence muttered. “As if there wasn’t room enough for both of
us in all Lake Huron!”
Just then a question entered her mind. Was there a purpose in all this?
What purpose?
To these questions she could form no answer. She resolved to remain right
there, all the same; at least until Petite Jeanne had finished her
meditations and asked to be taken in.
“What can so completely fill the mind of little Jeanne?” she asked
herself. “Perhaps it is her part in the play. Ah yes, that must be it.”
That wonderful play! At once her mind was filled with bright dreams for
the little French girl.
Petite Jeanne, as you will remember if you have read our other book, _The
Gypsy Shawl_, had once lived and traveled with the gypsies of France.
Florence and her friend Betty had found her there in France. In her
company they had passed through many thrilling adventures. When these
were over, Florence had invited her to visit America. She had come.
More than that, a marvelous future had appeared like a bright, beckoning
star before her. In France she had taken part in a great charity play,
staged in the famous Paris Opera. There she had performed the ancient
gypsy dance in the most divine manner. She had won the acclaim of the
elite of Paris. Not alone this; she had caught the eye of a renowned
producer of drama. Finding himself prepared to stage a drama in which the
French gypsies had a part, he had sent to France for Petite Jeanne. A
prolonged search had ended in America. He had found Petite Jeanne with
her friend Florence Huyler in her own city, Chicago.
The director had laid his plans before her. Her most important part in
the drama was to be exactly that of her feat in Paris, to dance the gypsy
dance with a pet bear beneath a golden moon. There were, of course, minor
parts to be played, but this was to be the crowning glory.
“Would Petite Jeanne do this?”
Would she? The little French girl had wept tears of joy. Since her
success at the Paris Opera she had dreamed many dreams. This engagement
promised to make these dreams come true.
Only one sorrow had come to her. There was no part in the drama for
Florence.
To Florence this was no deprivation. Acting had never appealed to her.
Life, to her, was more than acting on a stage. Life, vivid life, physical
strength, the great out-of-doors, this was her world.
“But when you are rich and famous,” she had said to Petite Jeanne, “I
will be your ‘mother.’ Every star, you know, must have a ‘mother’ to
protect her from impudent and stage-struck people.”
“Yes, and well you are able to protect me!” laughed Petite Jeanne,
squeezing her arm. “_Parbleu!_ Your arm, it is hard and strong as a
man’s!”
Florence had not waited until the French girl was rich and famous to
become her guide and protector. She had entered upon the task at once.
“At least until she is safely launched upon her career, and well
accustomed to America, I will stay by her side,” she had said to the
great producer, Jeffry Farnsworth.
To this Farnsworth agreed. He at once made provisions for their immediate
needs.
Rehearsals had begun. They proceeded in a satisfactory manner for three
weeks. Then Farnsworth announced a four weeks’ breathing spell.
“Go north, where it is cool,” he had said to Florence. “Our French lily
droops a little in this humid climate. The north waters and woods will be
medicine to her body and religion to her soul.”
So here they were, drifting on a silent bay, with the moon and the stars
above them and all the world, save one restless speed boat, at rest.
Far back in the bay, on a narrow point among the pines and cedars, was
their temporary home. A log cabin it was, with a broad fireplace at its
back, with heavily cushioned rustic chairs in every corner, and with such
an air of freshness, brightness and peace hovering over it as is found
only where sky, water and forest meet in the northland.
Thinking of all this, Florence, too, had fallen into a deep reverie when,
with the suddenness of a world’s end, catastrophe befell them.
With a rush and a roar, a demon of speed sprang at them.
“The speed boat!” she screamed in Jeanne’s ear. “Jump!”
The words were not out of her mouth when, with a swirling swing, she was
lost in a mountain of foam. Their rowboat toppled over, casting them into
the chilling water of the bay.
At once Florence was on the surface, swimming strongly.
“But what of Jeanne? She does not swim. I must save her.” These were the
thoughts uppermost in her mind when a blonde head bobbed up close beside
her.
Her hand flew out. It grasped something, the girl’s cape. It was loose.
It came away. Jeanne began to sink. One more desperate effort and
Florence had her, first by the hair, then by an arm.
“Jeanne!” she panted. “Jeanne! Get hold of my blouse and cling tight!”
The frightened French girl obeyed.
When she had secured a firm hold, Florence swam slowly. She must have
time to think. The boat was overturned, perhaps smashed. At any rate she
could not right it. The speed boat had not paused. It was far away. The
night and dark waters were all about them.
“They never slackened their pace!” she muttered bitterly. “And they
laughed! I heard a laugh. It was a woman. How could they?”
What was to be done?
On the shore a single light gleamed.
“It’s the light of that mysterious islander,” she told herself. “That
woman who goes out only at night. That is by far the nearest point. We
must try for that. It is our only chance. She must let us in; make a
fire; dry us out. Jeanne will perish of cold.”
With that she turned her face toward that light and, swimming strongly,
glided silently through the dark water. The waters were not more silent
than her fair burden, who floated after her like a ghost.