"My dears," said Mrs. Cartwright, two days after the accident, coming
into the sitting-room, where Ruth and Bab were idling, "I suppose you
know that you are the heroines of Newport. No one is talking about
anything but your accident. You have almost put the jewel robbery out of
our minds. How do you feel this morning?"
"Oh, as fit as anything," smiled Ruth, though she still looked a little
pale. "I have just written a long letter to father, to assure him that I
shall be well enough to play in the tournament next week."
"That is fine," declared Mrs. Cartwright. "And you, Bab?"
"There never was much the matter with me," Bab answered.
"Then you are just the girls I am looking for," said Mrs. Cartwright,
clapping her hands. "You know, I asked you, Bab, to play gypsy
fortune-teller at my bazaar; now I want to ask Ruth to join you.
Everyone thinks you are both laid up from your accident, and no one will
suspect who you are. The plans for the bazaar are going splendidly. I
think I shall make lots of money for my poor sailors. I shall have it as
simple and attractive as I can--a real country fair, with booths and
lemonade stands. I am going to give these jaded Newport people a taste
of the simple life. Do say you will help me."
Both girls shook their heads. "We do not know how to tell fortunes,"
they protested.
"Oh, it's only fun," argued Mrs. Cartwright. "You can make up any
foolishness you like as you go along. I'll show you how to run the
cards, as they call it. Has either of you ever seen anyone do it?"
Bab confessed she had watched "Granny Ann." Suddenly she left her chair,
and came hobbling over to Mrs. Cartwright, saying, in Granny Ann's own
high-pitched, whining voice: "Lovely lady, would you know the future,
grave or gay, cross my hand with a silver piece and list to what I say."
Gravely, Mrs. Cartwright extracted a dollar from her silver purse, and
made the gypsy sign on Bab's outstretched hand. Barbara immediately told
her such a nonsensical fortune, in a perfectly grave voice, that she and
Ruth both screamed with laughter.
"You'll do, Bab," said Mrs. Cartwright. "Won't you join her, Ruth?"
"Well," said Ruth, "I never desert Mrs. Micawber these days, or, to put
it plainly, Miss Bab Thurston. So I'm game."
"Thursday, then, remember, and this is Tuesday," said Mrs. Cartwright.
"I am the busiest woman in Newport, so I must run away now. You should
see my house and lawn. They are full of workmen. The fair is to begin
promptly at four, and will last until midnight. We shall have dancing on
the lawn, but I want you girls and a few friends to come into the house
after supper. When you finish playing fortune-tellers you can slip up to
my room and dress. Nobody must guess, when you come down, that you have
not just arrived. Now, I positively must be off. Tell Mollie and Grace I
am depending on them to act as waitresses. Gladys isn't willing to help.
She wants all her time for Harry Townsend."
"Ruth," said Aunt Sallie, the afternoon of the bazaar, "I really cannot
permit you to go anywhere, looking as you do, even if you are wearing a
disguise. You are too horrible!"
"Come and see Barbara," Grace called from the next room. "I am sure she
must look worse. Why," she asked, laughing, "do you and Ruth want to
disguise yourselves as such dreadful-looking gypsies. You might just as
easily have arranged to look like young and charming ones."
"Oh, no," said Bab. "We want to look like the real thing, not like stage
gypsies." Barbara had arranged to appear as much like "Granny Ann" as
she possibly could. A red and yellow handkerchief was bound around her
head almost to her eyebrows, her face was stained to a deep brown, with
lines and heavy seams drawn over it; even her hands were made up to look
old and weather beaten.
"Remember, you have never seen nor heard of these extraordinary
fortune-tellers before," warned Ruth. "And don't forget, Barbara and
Ruth are at home at Mrs. Ewing's, but they may feel well enough to come
to the fair in the evening." Ruth caught Bab's arm, and together they
made a low curtsey.
"Beautiful ones," Ruth went on, pointing to Miss Sallie, who was looking
handsome in a gown of pale gray crêpe, with a violet hat and sunshade,
and to Mollie and Grace, who were dressed like Swiss peasant girls,
"your fortunes I would like to tell before you go to the Fair. Easy it
is for my wise eyes to perceive that you will be the belles and beauties
of the entertainment. Now, farewell!"
The "gypsies" were to drive over early to Mrs. Cartwright's in a closed
carriage. Ralph was to take Miss Sallie, Grace and Mollie in the motor
car later on.
"Granny Ann" and "old Meg" slipped inside the gypsy tent before any of
the guests had arrived at the bazaar. They had gazed in wonder at Mrs.
Cartwright's beautiful lawn, changed to look like a country fair. It was
hung with bunting and flags, and had small tables and chairs under the
trees; also a May-pole strung with long streamers of different colored
ribbons. Mrs. Cartwright had planned a May-pole dance as one of the
chief features of the afternoon, and Mollie and Grace were both to take
part.
For the gypsies, life was a serious matter. The tent was divided by a
red curtain; on a low wooden table burned a round iron pot filled with
charcoal and curious odorous herbs; a pack of dirty cards lay near it.
"The cards must be dirty," argued Ruth, "or no one would believe we were
the real thing in gypsies." Two rough stools stood by the table, and the
only daylight shone through the tent flap. On the other side of the
curtain, Mrs. Cartwright had been kinder to her gypsies. Here were a
wicker couch and big chairs, where they could rest and talk; also a
table for refreshments, "for," laughed Mrs. Cartwright, as she left the
tent to welcome her first guests, "I have always heard that gypsies are
a particularly hungry race of people."
Mrs. Cartwright's fair was a huge success. The most fashionable "set" in
Newport were present, entering into the spirit of the occasion with
great zest.
Gladys and Harry Townsend were seen everywhere together; but to-day
there was often a third person with them, the Countess Bertouche, the
woman of the gold-colored brocade, but lately introduced in Newport
society.
"I believe Gladys is engaged to Harry Townsend," whispered Grace to
Mollie, when she had observed Harry bending over Miss Le Baron and
talking to her in a more devoted manner than usual.
"Well," retorted pretty Mollie, with a toss of her head, "I am sure I do
not envy either one of them."
All afternoon the gypsy tent had been flooded with visitors. Barbara and
Ruth had the time of their lives. No one recognized the two automobile
girls in the aged crones who mumbled and told strange fortunes in hoarse
tones.
It was growing late, and the gypsy tent was for the time deserted. Ruth
was resting on the couch in the back of the tent, while Bab sat near
her, talking over their experiences of the afternoon.
Suddenly the tent flap opened, and Grace and Mollie rushed in. Before
either of them spoke, they turned and fastened the flap down again
securely, so no one could enter without their knowing it.
"What's the matter?" asked Ruth and Bab at once, for it was plain to see
their visitors were greatly excited.
Grace and Mollie started talking together. "Mrs. Cartwright's diamond
butterfly----" then they both stopped. "Are you sure no one can hear?
Mollie, you tell," finished Grace.
"The butterfly has gone, vanished right off Mrs. Cartwright's frock,
this afternoon, while she was talking to her visitors. You know, she
changed the ornament she wore in her hair into a brooch. She showed it
to me early this afternoon, when I first came, and now--it is gone! I
tell you, girls, there's a thief among these Newport people. I think it,
and so does Mrs. Cartwright, and ever so many others. Promise you'll
never tell," went on Mollie, "but there are two detectives here watching
all the guests! I'd like to find the thief myself. I'd know Mrs.
Cartwright's butterfly anywhere."
There were noises at the tent door.
Barbara heard Gladys's high, querulous voice, saying, coquettishly: "I
don't want my fortune told, Harry. I would much rather you told it to me
any way." But Mr. Townsend insisted.
"Fly, girls--do, please! They are coming in!" said Barbara. "No; you
can't get out, but you must stay perfectly still behind this curtain,
and not breathe a single word."
It was almost entirely dark in the gypsy tent, the only light coming
from the burning pot of fire on the table. Barbara stooped low, when she
opened the door to allow Harry, Gladys and the Countess Bertouche to
come in.
"It groweth late," Bab began, croakingly. "Evil may come. No good
fortunes fall between dusk and darkness. Beware!"
Gladys shuddered. "Let's not go in," she urged.
But Harry Townsend only laughed. "Don't let the old hag frighten you,"
he retorted, lightly. "Here," he turned to the gypsy and spoke in a
voice no one of the girls had ever heard him use, "here, you old
swindler, speak out! What kind of fate do you read for me in the stars?"
Barbara picked up the pack of dirty cards, and began to shuffle them
slowly. An idea was revolving in her head. Dared she do it? But Barbara
was a girl who was not easily daunted.
[Illustration: Harry Townsend's Face Grew Livid.]
After a minute of silence she shook her head. "What I see I dare not
reveal," she whined. "All black, dark, dark mystery!"
"Oh, stuff!" jeered Mr. Townsend. "Don't try that dodge on me. Tell what
you know."
Barbara flung down the cards and blew three puffs into the smouldering
pot of fire. Ashes and tiny flames shot up from it. She started back,
then pointing a finger, she hissed: "Something is moving toward you,
curving and coiling and twisting round you. Mercy!" she cried. "It is a
green snake, and its fangs have struck into your soul!"
Harry Townsend's face grew livid. In a moment the look of youth vanished
from his face, his lips turned blue, and his eyes narrowed to two fine
points.
The Countess Bertouche came forward. "Harry," she said, "come away. You
forget yourself. Don't listen to such nonsense."
"Harry!" thought Gladys to herself, angrily. "She certainly presumes on
a short acquaintance! Harry, indeed!"
But Barbara had not finished.
"Stay!" she said, holding up a warning finger. "Another messenger
appears. It is a beautiful, bright thing, sparkling and darting toward
you. Why," she added, quickly, "it is lighting on your coat. It has
flown inside--a beautiful butterfly, born of summer time and flowers.
Or"--this time Barbara leaned over and whispered in his ear--"or it may be
made of diamonds and come from a jeweler's shop."
For an instant, Harry Townsend's hand flew to his vest pocket. He rose,
saying quietly to his companions: "Come away from here. Did you ever see
such a stupid old fraud? A snake and a butterfly--a curious fortune
indeed!"