WHAT THE BROWN BAG HELD
At the precise moment that the four companions in the great city hotel
rose to offer each other their Christmas greetings, Florence and Meg
stood over the fascinating bag which had cost Florence so much worry and
trouble. As Florence felt in her purse for the key she found herself
wondering for the hundredth time what it might contain.
"Christmas, my Christmas secret," she whispered. Then, as she felt the
key within her grasp, she turned resolutely to the task. Although she had
looked forward to this hour with pleasure, now it seemed to hold
something of a feeling of fear. She was opening a bag which had belonged
to another. What might it not contain?
With trembling fingers she broke the seal which had so long and
faithfully hidden the secret. Then, with a steadier hand, she inserted
the key.
For a full moment after that she stood there in silence. She was saying
to herself over and over again: "There is nothing, nothing, nothing in
there that I shall care for. Nothing, nothing, nothing."
Thus fortified against disappointment, she at last turned the key, pulled
the flap and threw the bag wide open.
The first look brought a glimpse of a bit of negligee. Nothing so
exciting in this.
"Well anyway," sighed Florence, "it--wasn't a man's bag. It could not
have belonged to that--that man."
"No," said Meg, "it couldn't."
One by one Florence removed the few articles of clothing that had been
packed in the bag. These were of fine texture and well made. But beneath
these was something to bring an exclamation to her lips.
Putting out her hand, she lifted to view a roll of silk cloth, of royal
blue, and of such thinness and fineness as she had seldom seen in all her
life.
"Yards and yards of it," she breathed, throwing it before her in bright,
billowy waves.
"And look!" cried Meg. "Batik!"
It was true; beneath the silk was a bolt of batik. This Meg took to the
light and examined it with great care.
"It's genuine," she whispered at last. "Not the sham stuff that is made
in American factories, but the kind that dark faced women dye with great
skill and much labor, dipping again and again in colors such as we know
nothing of."
Florence examined the cloth, then spread it over the back of a chair.
Then she sat down. There was a puzzled look on her face.
"It's very beautiful," she mused. "One could not hope to buy a more
perfect present, sight unseen, but I'm wondering why a man should be
willing to trace me down at infinite pains and then follow me in the face
of danger and in the teeth of a storm for the sake of getting possession
of two rolls of cloth. That seems strange."
"Does seem odd," said Meg. "But wait! Here's something else." She drew
two long pasteboard tubes from the bottom of the bag.
"What do you suppose?" whispered Florence. Inserting one finger in the
first tube she twisted it about, then began drawing it out. A roll of
papers appeared.
"Papers," she whispered. "Probably important papers; deeds, stocks and
bonds, perhaps."
Imagine her surprise when, having drawn the papers out and partly
unrolled them, she found them to be pictures.
"Pictures!" she exclaimed in disgust. "And only printed pictures at
that."
"But such wonderful pictures!" exclaimed Meg, holding one out to view.
It was indeed a wonderful picture, one of those vague, misty things that
came out of the great war. This one was of a smoke clouded cannon in the
foreground, belching black smoke and fire, and in the midst of the smoke,
forming herself out of it, a most beautiful black-haired woman, her eyes
burning, her hands clawing, leaping straight at the enemy.
"It _is_ a wonderful picture," said Florence when they had gazed at it in
silence for a time. "But after all, it is only a print, and can't be
worth much. I still don't see----"
"Tell you what," Meg broke in, "let's unroll them all and weight them
down on the floor with books so we can have a good look."
"Good idea," said Florence, beginning to unroll one.
It was truly a remarkable collection of pictures which at length carpeted
the floor. War pictures, all of them, and all displaying that strong
spiritual interpretation which was so common in pictures of those times.
A French airplane falling in flames and beneath it an angel waiting to
bear away the soul of the brave aviator; the American flag drifting in
the clouds and seen from afar by a French soldier in the trenches; such
were the themes.
"Don't you think they're grand?" said Meg.
"Yes," Florence responded, "but after all, they are only prints of the
work of some great master. 'Veny LeCarte'" she read at the bottom of one.
"I believe, yes, they're all by the same man."
For some time they sat there in silence. They were at last about to rise
when there came a light rap at their door.
"Let me in," came from outside. "I saw the light in the room as I was
passing and thought I'd come up to say 'Good morning and Merry
Christmas.'" It was Lucile.
"Merry Christmas yourself," exclaimed Florence, throwing wide the door.
"Come in."
"This is Meg, Lucile; and Meg, that's Lucile," she smiled.
"But Florence, where in the world did you get those marvelous etchings?"
exclaimed Lucile after she shook hands with Meg. "And why do you carpet
your floor with them? I nearly stepped on one."
"Etch--etchings!" stammered Florence. "They're mine--at least I bought
them."
"Bought them! You? You bought them!" Lucile stared incredulous. Then,
bending over, she read the name at the bottom of one. After that her eyes
roved from picture to picture.
"Veny LeCarte," she murmured as if in a dream. "And she says she bought
them!" She dropped weakly into a chair.
"Florence," she said at last, "do you know who Veny LeCarte was?"
"N-o."
"Well, I'll tell you. He was one of the most famous artists of France. He
made etchings of the war. No one could surpass him. And unlike his fellow
artists, who allowed a hundred copies to be made from each plate, he
allowed but twenty. Then the plates were destroyed. He made these
pictures. You have nearly all of them. And then he went away to the war,
and was killed.
"Since that time his etchings have been much prized and have brought
fabulous prices. Oh, Florence, tell me how you got them! Surely, surely
you didn't buy them!"
"I did," said Florence unsteadily, hardly knowing whether to laugh or
cry, "but I bought them in a strange way. I'll tell you about it." Then
she told Lucile the whole story.
"And those pictures," she said at the end, "are the reason that man
dogged my footsteps. It had not been his bag. He had not owned the
pictures, but some way he had learned that the pictures were in this bag.
He had meant to buy the bag, but arrived too late."
The hour was late. What did that matter? To-morrow was Christmas.
Florence set about brewing some cocoa, and over the cups the girls
engaged in such a talk fest as they had not enjoyed for months.
Everything that had happened to Lucile during those eventful weeks, from
the first night to the last, had to be told. The wonderful cape, with its
white fox collar, must be displayed. The gold coins must be jingled and
jangled. Meg's story must be told all over again.
After that, problems yet unsolved must be discussed. Was the hawk-eyed
man who had attempted to gain possession of Florence's bag the same one
who had attempted to kidnap Cordie?
"That question," said Lucile to Florence, "can only be settled by you
going down to the police station and looking at him."
"In that case, it will never be answered," said Florence, with a shudder.
Would a romance spring up between the rich girl Cordie and the gallant
young policeman, Patrick O'Hara? Who could tell? So the conversation
rambled on until early morning. At last Lucile hurried away and Meg and
Florence prepared for three winks.
As Florence, with Meg by her side, was drifting off to sleep, she heard
Meg say:
"To-morrow I must go back to the ship."
"Indeed you'll not," she roused up to protest. "You'll stay right here
to-morrow and every day. And you're going to school, too. I need you to
guard all my--my treasure."
How the pictures came to be in the bag which Florence had purchased at
the sale, will probably always remain a secret. Perhaps the one who left
the bag did not realize the value of the etchings. Who knows what may
have been the reason? But they were truly valuable, and Florence learned
this for certain on the following Monday. Later she sold them to a dealer
for a good round sum. This money went far, not only to smooth the road to
her own education, but to enable her to give Meg many a lift along the
way.
The Roy J. Snell Books
Mr. Snell is a versatile writer who knows how to write stories that will
please boys and girls. He has traveled widely, visited many
out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and being a keen observer has found
material for many thrilling stories. His stories are full of adventure
and mystery, yet in the weaving of the story there are little threads
upon which are hung lessons in loyalty, honesty, patriotism and right
living.
Mr. Snell has created a wide audience among the younger readers of
America. Boy or girl, you are sure to find a Snell book to your liking.
His works cover a wide and interesting scope.
Here are the titles of the Snell Books:
_Mystery Stories for Boys_
1. Triple Spies
2. Lost in the Air
3. Panther Eye
4. The Crimson Flash
5. White Fire
6. The Black Schooner
7. The Hidden Trail
8. The Firebug
9. The Red Lure
10. Forbidden Cargoes
11. Johnny Longbow
12. The Rope of Gold
13. The Arrow of Fire
14. The Gray Shadow
15. Riddle of the Storm
16. The Galloping Ghost
17. Whispers at Dawn; or, The Eye
18. Mystery Wings
19. Red Dynamite
20. The Seal of Secrecy
21. The Shadow Passes
22. Sign of the Green Arrow
_The Radio-Phone Boys' Series_
1. Curlie Carson Listens In
2. On the Yukon Trail
3. The Desert Patrol
4. The Seagoing Tank
5. The Flying Sub
6. Dark Treasure
7. Whispering Isles
8. Invisible Wall
_Adventure Stories for Girls_
1. The Blue Envelope
2. The Cruise of the O'Moo
3. The Secret Mark
4. The Purple Flame
5. The Crimson Thread
6. The Silent Alarm
7. The Thirteenth Ring
8. Witches Cove
9. The Gypsy Shawl
10. Green Eyes
11. The Golden Circle
12. The Magic Curtain
13. Hour of Enchantment
14. The Phantom Violin
15. Gypsy Flight
16. The Crystal Ball
17. A Ticket to Adventure
18. The Third Warning
* * * * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this
e-text is in the public domain in the country of publication.
--Obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment;
non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged.
--Promotional material was moved to the end of the book, and the
list of books in the three series was completed using other
sources.