AN EXCITING MESSAGE
Petite Jeanne was a sun-worshipper and a fire-worshipper of the best
sort. She worshipped the One Who created fire and Who sends us light to
dispel the gloom of night. The day following her unusual experiences in
the lower regions of the Opera House found her curled up in a big chair.
The chair stood before a large window of their living room. Here she was
completely flooded with light. On bright days, for a space of two hours,
the sunlight always succeeded in finding its way through the labyrinth of
chimneys and skyscrapers, to fall like a benediction upon this
blonde-haired girl. And Jeanne rejoiced in it as a kitten does the warm
spot before the hearth.
"It's God looking down upon His world," she murmured now.
"Jeanne," Florence stood in the door of her room, "did that man, the
dark-faced one with the evil eye, did he have a scar on his chin?"
"Y-e-s. Let me see." She closed her eyes to invite a picture. It came.
"Yes, now I see him as I did only yesterday. Yes, there was a scar."
"You saw him yesterday?"
Reluctantly Jeanne turned her face from the sunlight. "I'll tell you
about it. It was exciting, and--and a bit terrible. What can he want?"
She told Florence about the previous day's adventure. "But why did you
ask about the scar?" It was her turn to ask questions.
"I was out at the island last night. You'd never dream of the discovery I
made there. But then, you've never seen Aunt Bobby--probably not so much
as heard of her."
Florence had described her experiences up to the time when Meg invited
her to inspect her stateroom, when the phone rang.
"I'll answer it." Florence took down the receiver.
"It's for you," she said, half a minute later.
With a deep sigh Jeanne deserted her spot in the sun.
For all that, her face was flushed with excitement when she put the
receiver down.
"It's the little old lady of the cameo."
In her excitement she found herself talking in a hoarse whisper. "She has
persuaded Hop Long Lee, the rich Chinaman, to let us see the magic
curtain. Better still, his people will stage a little play for us. They
will use the magic curtain."
"When?"
"Next Friday, at midnight."
"Midnight? What an hour!"
"Night is best. And what other hour could one be sure of? There is
Marjory Dean. She must see it. And we must find Angelo."
"Angelo? Have you seen him?"
"Not for months. He went to New York to make his fortune."
Angelo, as you will recall, was the youthful dreamer who had created a
fascinating light opera role for Jeanne.
"But only two days ago," Jeanne went on, "I heard that he had been seen
here in the city."
"Here? Why does he not give us a ring?"
"Who knows?" Jeanne shrugged. "For all that, I will find him. He must
come.
"And to think!" She did a wild fling across the room. "We are to see the
magic curtain. We will weave an opera about it. The opera shall be played
on that so grand stage."
"By whom?"
Jeanne did not hesitate. "By Marjory Dean! She will have the leading
role. I shall insist. And why not? Would she not do so much for me?
Truly. And more, much more!
"As for me!" Again she settled herself in the spot of sunlight. "My time
will come."
She might have added, "Sooner than you could dream of." She did not.