AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY
When Jeanne returned from the Ballet Russe she found Madame Bihari
seated by a low table. Before her, spread out in rows, were her gypsy
witch cards. So intent was her study of these cards that she did not so
much as notice the little French girl’s entrance. When Jeanne had put
away her cape, she pressed one cold hand against Madame’s cheek to
whisper:
“And what do the cards say tonight?”
Madame Bihari started. “Many things,” she murmured low. “Always they
speak of many things, hunger, happiness, sickness, sudden death, great
riches, love, hate, despair. The cards tell of life, and this, my child,
is life.
“But my Jeanne—” her tone changed. “You have often spoken of a visit to
Florence and Danby Force in their so beautiful city. It is well that we
go tomorrow.”
“Do the cards say this?” Jeanne demanded.
“I say this.” There was a solemn note in Madame’s reply, like the deep
tolling of a bell.
“All right.” Jeanne went skipping across the floor. “Tomorrow we shall
go, very early, perhaps at dawn.”
Jeanne was happy once more. The dark lady had escaped her. What of that?
Had that not happened an hour, two hours before? Was it not already of
the past? Was not tomorrow a new day? On with tomorrow! She did a wild
gypsy dance. At last dancing out of her dress of a thousand beads, she
danced into dream robes and then into the land of dreams.
It was on the evening of the next day that Florence went for a long
walk, and made a startling discovery. These evening walks were a source
of real joy to her. She loved the cool damp of falling dew on her check;
the smell of wood smoke from a hundred chimneys brought back pleasant
memories of days spent in the woods along the shores of Lake Huron and
on Isle Royale. She derived a keen satisfaction from looking in at open
windows where little families sat smiling over their evening meal or
reading beside an open fire.
“These are _my_ people,” she would whisper to herself. “It may lie
within my power to do them a great good. Perhaps tomorrow, or even
tonight within the very next hour I may discover the spy who is
threatening their happiness.”
She was in just such a frame of mind when, on passing one of the few
truly modern homes of the town, a rather gaudy Spanish bungalow, she
stopped dead in her tracks. The house stood quite near the street. In
one room the shades were up and the lights on. She could see every
object within. The chairs, the fancy spinet desk, the bed covered with a
silk spread of brilliant hue, all stood out before her as if arranged
for inspection. None of these, however, interested her in the least. The
thing that held her attention was a small picture on the wall.
“It can’t be!” she breathed. “And yet it is!” She moved a little closer.
“Yes, it is the picture of Verna, that matchless painting by a truly
great artist.”
At once her mind was in a whirl. What had happened? Had Mrs. Maver sold
that picture? Impossible. She had said that, whatever happened, they
would never part with that picture. Had she loaned it? This did not seem
probable.
“And yet,” Florence asked herself, “if it had been stolen, would she not
have told me?”
Strangely enough, at that moment a cold sweat broke out on her brow.
Perhaps the Mavers had missed the picture. Perhaps they believed she had
taken it. Perhaps for days, all unknown to her, they had been watching
her movements.
“How terrible!” she murmured. “And I an amateur lady cop!
“It _was_ stolen!” she concluded. “And I know who took it.” Words spoken
only last night came back to her: “I take what I want.”
Like a flash she was up on the steps and ringing the bell.
“Does the person they call Hugo live here?” she asked the lady who came
to the door.
“Oh yes,” the woman replied. “But he’s not here just now. We expect him
back any time. Would you care to wait?”
“No, I—I’ll come back later.” Florence turned away to mutter under her
breath, “Only I won’t.”
For some time after that, in the shadow of a great elm, she stood
watching that room and that one small picture. Hugo did not appear. In
time the woman of the house opened the door to snap off the light.
“Oh!” Florence drew in a long deep breath. Her moment had arrived. She
moved swiftly. Screens had been removed from the house. The window was
not locked. To lift it noiselessly, to step within was the work of
seconds. Moving slowly in the pale moonlight, she crossed the room. Her
hand was on the picture when a footstep sounded outside. Her heart
stopped beating. What if it were Hugo! Supposing the moonlight were
strong enough to expose her?
She thought of the night before, and gained courage. “But tonight I am
not dressed as a man.” Her heart sank.
The footsteps continued. The person did not turn in. For the moment she
was saved.
Swiftly she re-crossed the room, sprang through the window and was once
more her own free self walking in the cool damp of night. The picture
was safely hidden under her jacket.
“He takes what he wants.” She laughed low as she hurried along. “Well,
so do the rest of us—sometimes.”
For all the laugh, she felt depressed. Hugo a thief! She had not thought
this possible. For all he had interfered with her plans, she had for
this dashing young man a certain admiration.
“Well,” she sighed at last, “we must take people as we find them. We—”
Her thoughts broke off suddenly. Some small object bumped against her
leg as she walked. Putting down a hand she grasped a small rubber bulb.
The bulb was attached to a tube. She gave a slight pull and it came free
from the picture, behind which it had doubtless been hidden.
“That’s queer!” she whispered. “One of Hugo’s little secrets.”
At the other end of the tube was a small cube of black material. The
thing did not interest her overmuch. Perhaps it was a small atomizer or
an affair for spraying perfume. That Hugo was fond of costly, quite
faint perfume, she knew well. She dropped it in the pocket of her jacket
and there it remained until the following afternoon when, at Danby
Force’s request, she motored up to the stately old mansion where Danby
lived with his mother.
She found the young man seated with his mother in an out-of-doors
pavilion. The sun was bright. It was a rare autumn afternoon.
“This is my mother,” Danby said simply. The beautiful white-haired woman
smiled her a welcome. “Danby has been telling me of you. We are going to
have some tea,” she said, motioning Florence to a chair.
“It is beautiful up here.” Florence took one long deep breath. It was,
just that. The broad-spreading elms, the wavering shadows, the bright
crimson flowers, all this was marvelous.
“Yes,” Danby Force spoke quietly, “life has always been beautiful up
here. My father and his father before him worked to make it so. But life
down in our little city has not always been beautiful for all. It should
be so.”
At that moment Florence caught some movement in a tree, a whisk of gray.
“A squirrel,” Mrs. Force explained. “There must be hundreds of them. We
feed them, place boxes for them in the trees. The gray ones are
brightest, most friendly. Life is always beautiful for them.”
Just then Florence put her hand in her pocket. Feeling something cold
and hard, without thinking what it might be, she drew it out and held it
to view.
“Where did you get that?” Danby exclaimed on the instant. It was the
curious affair Florence had unintentionally carried away from Hugo’s
room the night before.
“Why—I—I—” the girl stammered.
“Do you know what it is?” Danby broke in.
“No, I—”
“Then I’ll tell you.” He was smiling now. “It is a very small camera,
the sort spies use in taking pictures. If you look closely you will see
that the front is shaped like a button. The tiny lens is in the center
of that button. You put that in a button hole and draw the bulb up under
your arm. Each press of your arm takes a picture.”
“Where did you get it?” he asked a second time.
“Oh please!” Florence was horribly confused. She did not feel ready to
tell the whole story. “Please. I did not know it was of any consequence.
Shows how good a lady cop I am! But I—I got it under very unusual
circumstances. I—I’ll tell you. I’ll have to, but not—not just now,
please.”
“Oh that’s all right.” Danby’s tone was kindly. “Would you mind letting
me have it for a time?”
“Of course not.” Florence held it out to him.
Just then the butler appeared. “James,” said Danby, “give this to Oliver
and tell him to deliver it at once to Mr. Mills at his photo shop. If
there chances to be a film inside, have him instruct Mills to develop it
with extraordinary care, then to make enlargements of all the good
exposures.”
“And now,” he said, turning to the ladies, “we may have our tea.”