FLORENCE MEETS THE LADY IN BLACK
The great hour came at last. "To-night," Jeanne had whispered, "'The
Magic Curtain' will unfold before thousands! Will it be a success?"
The very thought that it might prove a failure turned her cold. The
happiness of her good friends, Angelo, Swen and Marjory Dean was at
stake. And to Jeanne the happiness of those she respected and loved was
more dear than her own.
Night came quite suddenly on that eventful day. Great dark clouds,
sweeping in from the lake, drew the curtain of night.
Jeanne found herself at her place among the boxes a full hour before the
time required. This was not of her own planning. There was a mystery
about this; a voice had called her on the telephone requesting her to
arrive early.
"Now I am here," she murmured, "and the place is half dark. Who can have
requested it? What could have been the reason?"
Still another mystery. Florence was with her. And she was to remain. A
place had been provided for her in the box usually occupied by Rosemary
Robinson and her family.
"Of course," she had said to Florence, "they know that we had something
to do with the discovery of the magic curtain. It is, perhaps, because of
this that you are here."
Florence had smiled, but had made no reply.
At this hour the great auditorium was silent, deserted. Only from behind
the drawn stage curtain came a faint murmur, telling of last minute
preparations.
"'The Magic Curtain.'" Jeanne whispered. The words still thrilled her.
"It will be witnessed to-night by thousands. What will be the verdict?
To-morrow Angelo and Swen, my friends of our 'Golden Circle,' will be
rich or very, very poor."
"The Magic Curtain." Surely it had been given a generous amount of
publicity. Catching a note of the unusual, the mysterious, the uncanny in
this production, the reporters had made the most of it. An entire page of
the Sunday supplement had been devoted to it. A crude drawing of the
curtains, pictures of Hop Long Lee, of Angelo, Swen, Marjory Dean, and
even Jeanne were there. And with these a most lurid story purporting to
be the history of this curtain of fire as it had existed through the ages
in some little known Buddhist temple. The very names of those who,
wrapped in its consuming folds, had perished, were given in detail.
Jeanne had read, had shuddered, then had tried to laugh it off as a
reporter's tale. In this she did not quite succeed. For her the magic
curtain contained more than a suggestion of terror.
She was thinking of all this when an attendant, hurrying up the orchestra
aisle, paused beneath her and called her name, the only name by which she
was known at the Opera House:
"Pierre! Oh, Pierre!"
"Here. Here I am."
Without knowing why, she thrilled to her very finger tips. "Is it for
this that I am here?" she asked herself.
"Hurry down!" came from below. "The director wishes to speak to you."
"The director!" The blood froze in her veins. So this was the end! Her
masquerade had been discovered. She was to be thrown out of the Opera
House.
"And on this night of all nights!" She was ready to weep.
It was a very meek Pierre who at last stood before the great director.
"Are you Pierre?" His tone was not harsh. She began to hope a little.
"I am Pierre."
"This man--" The director turned to one in the shadows. Jeanne caught her
breath. It was the great sculptor, Fernando Tiffin.
"This man," the director repeated, after she had recovered from her
surprise, "tells me that you know the score of this new opera, 'The Magic
Curtain.'"
"Y-yes. Yes, I do." What was this? Her heart throbbed painfully.
"And that of the 'Juggler of Notre Dame.'"
"I--I do." This time more boldly.
"Surely this can be no crime," she told herself.
"This has happened," the director spoke out abruptly, "Miss Dean is at
the Robinson home. She has fallen from a horse. She will not be able to
appear to-night. Fernando Tiffin tells me that you are prepared to assume
the leading role in these two short operas. I say it is quite impossible.
You are to be the judge."
Staggered by this load that had been so suddenly cast upon her slender
shoulders, the little French girl seemed about to sink to the floor.
Fortunately at that instant her eyes caught the calm, reassuring gaze of
the great sculptor. "I have said you are able." She read this meaning
there.
"Yes." Her shoulders were square now. "I am able."
"Then," said the director, "you shall try."
Ninety minutes later by the clock, she found herself waiting her cue, the
cue that was to bid her come dancing forth upon a great stage, the
greatest in the world. And looking down upon her, quick to applaud or to
blame, were the city's thousands.
In the meantime, in her seat among the boxes, Florence had met with an
unusual experience. A mysterious figure had suddenly revealed herself as
one of Petite Jeanne's old friends. At the same time she had half
unfolded some month-old mysteries.
Petite Jeanne had hardly disappeared through the door leading to the
stage when two whispered words came from behind Florence's back:
"Remember me?"
With a start, the girl turned about to find herself looking into the face
of a tall woman garbed in black.
Reading uncertainty in her eyes, the woman whispered: "Cedar Point.
Gamblers' Island. Three rubies."
"The 'lady cop'!" Florence sprang to her feet. She was looking at an old
friend. Many of her most thrilling adventures had been encountered in the
presence of this lady of the police.
"So it was you!" she exclaimed in a low whisper. "You are Jeanne's lady
in black?"
"I am the lady in black."
"And she never recognized you?"
"I arranged it so she would not. She never saw my face. I have been a
guardian of her trail on many an occasion.
"And now!" Her figure grew tense, like that of a springing tiger. "Now I
am about to come to the end of a great mystery. You can help me. That is
why I arranged that you should be here."
"I?" Florence showed her astonishment.
"Sit down."
The girl obeyed.
"Some weeks ago a priceless necklace was stolen from this very box. You
recall that?"
"How could I forget?" Florence sat up, all attention.
"Of course. Petite Jeanne, she is your best friend.
"She cast suspicion upon herself by deserting her post here; running
away. Had it not been for me, she would have gone to jail. I had seen
through her masquerade at once. 'This,' I said to myself, 'is Petite
Jeanne. She would not steal a dime.' I convinced others. They spared her.
"Then," she paused for a space of seconds, "it was up to me to find the
pearls and the thief. I think I have accomplished this; at least I have
found the pearls. As I said, you can help me. You know the people living
on that curious man-made island?"
"I--" Florence was thunderstruck.
Aunt Bobby! Meg! How could they be implicated? All this she said to
herself and was fearful.
Then, like a bolt from the blue came a picture of Meg's birthday package.
"You know those people?" the "lady cop" insisted.
"I--why, yes, I do."
"You will go there with me after the opera?"
"At night?"
"There is need for haste. We will go in Robinson's big car. Jaeger will
go, and Rosemary. Perhaps Jeanne, too. You will be ready? That is all for
now.
"Only this: I think Jeanne is to have the stellar role to-night."
"Jeanne! The stellar role? How could that be?"
"I think it has been arranged."
"Arranged?"
There came no answer. The lady in black was gone.