As the car rattled on downtown, her blood cooled and she realized that there was a very slight hope. With these broad hints thrown out to them, all those who had been following the doings of this mysterious lady would be eagerly on the alert. There may have been some, perhaps many, who had found the crimson thread and had marvelled at it. Perhaps, like her, they had seen the Mystery Lady’s face and would recognize her if they saw her on the Boulevard. There may have been many who had seen and marvelled at the diamond set iron ring.
“Ah well,” Lucile whispered to herself, “there is yet hope. ‘Hope springs eternal—’”
At the downtown station she dismissed the subject for matters of more immediate importance, the last great day of sales before Christmas.
Trade until noon was brisk; mostly business men rushing in for “cash and carry.” At noon she arranged to have lunch with her old chum, the elevator girl and, because it was the day before Christmas, instead of the crowded employees’ lunch room, they chose as their meeting place the tea room which was patronized for the most part by customers. Here, in a secluded corner, they might talk over old times and relate, with bated breath, the events of the immediate past and the future.
Enough there was to tell, too. Lucile’s Mystery Lady, who had turned so suddenly into the one of the Christmas Spirit, her Laurie Seymour, her hoped for $200 in gold, her James, the bundle carrier and last but not least, Cordie. And for Florence there was her mystifying double and the bewitching bag that contained her Christmas surprise. Did ever two girls have more to tell in one short noon hour?
As Florence finished her story; as she spoke of seeing her double talking with the broad shouldered man of the seaman-like bearing, Lucile suddenly leaned forward to exclaim:
“Florence, that man must have been our bundle carrier, James. He has told Cordie of his trips upon the sea. There could scarcely be two such men in one store.”
“It might be true,” smiled Florence, “but don’t forget there are two such persons as I am in this store. You never can tell. I’d as soon believe he was the same man. Wouldn’t it be thrilling if he should turn out to be a friend of my double’s and we should get all mixed up in some sort of affair just because I look exactly like her. Oh, Lucile!” she whispered excitedly, “the day isn’t done yet!” And indeed it was not.
“And this man who followed you after you had bought the bag,” said Lucile thoughtfully. “He sounds an awful lot like the one who tried to carry Cordie away. Do you suppose——”
“Now you’re dreaming,” laughed Florence as she reached for her check, then hurried away to her work.
Florence’s opportunity for following her surprising double came sooner than she expected; that very evening, in fact. She had quit work at the regular time, had donned hat and coat, had gone to the checking room to retrieve her Christmas bag. She was just leaving by a side door when, ahead of her in the throng, she caught a glimpse of that splendid cross fox which her double had insisted on her wearing the day before.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Here’s where I solve a mystery.”
Without a thought of what it might lead to, she followed the girl to a surface car and boarded it just behind her. At Grand Avenue the girl got off and Florence followed her again, boarded an eastbound car and, almost before she knew it, found herself following the girl through a blinding swirl of snow that swept in from the lake.
The street the girl had taken was covered with untrodden snow. It led to the Municipal Pier, the great city pier that like some great black pointing finger of destiny reached a full half mile out into the white ice-bound lake.
“Where—where can she be going?” Florence asked herself.
“Boo! How cold!” she shivered.
The next moment she shivered again, but this time it was from fear. Having chanced to look about, she was startled to see a man all but upon her heels. And that man—no, there could be no mistake about it—that man was the one of the night before, he of the burning black eyes.
Not knowing what else to do, the girl redoubled her speed. A half formed hope was in her mind, a hope that she might catch up with the other girl. Two were better than one, even if both were girls.
Hardly had this hope come when it vanished. In the shadows of the three-story brick structure that formed the base of the pier, her double suddenly disappeared and left her, a lone girl on a wind-swept, deserted street that led to an empty pier. And here was a dark-faced, villainous looking man at her heels.
She could see but one chance now; that she might find her way out upon the pier and there, amid its labyrinth of board walks, freight rooms and deserted lunch rooms, lose herself from her pursuer. She resolved to try it. The next moment she dashed into the shadows of that great black building.
The pier, upon which she had placed hopes of escape, was used in summer as a recreation center. On warm days its board walks and its wind-swept pavilions were thronged. Now it was still as a tomb.
Florence had once been here with the throng, but had taken little notice of things then. The very silence of the place was confusing. She fancied that she heard her own heart beat. Which way should she turn? Above, two stories up, she remembered was a broad board walk a half mile long. She might race up the stairs to this; but after all it offered no place of hiding. To her right was a hallway which led to a long narrow loading place for trucks. At this place, in summer, ships docked; here their hundreds of tons of fruit, grain, flour, manufactured articles, and a hundred other commodities, were unloaded. She had a vague notion that just back of this loading place, beyond the fast closed doors, was a labyrinth of freight rooms.
“If only one of those doors were open,” she breathed. “Perhaps one is unlocked. It’s my best chance.”
All this thinking consumed less than a moment of time. The next instant she went racing over the cement floor. She was across it and out upon the landing in a moment. This she knew was a perilous position. There was a night watchman about somewhere. Here she was in plain view. What would the watchman do if he found her? Her pursuer was not far behind.
With a trembling hand, she gripped the latch of a door. It lifted, but the door did not open.
“Locked,” she whispered in a tone of despair.
“Try another,” was her next thought. She was away like a shot.
Again the latch lifted; again the door refused to budge. She thought she saw a dark figure pass from pillar to pillar in the place she had just left. She could not see him, but she caught the thud-thud of his feet on the cement platform.
Fighting her way against the wind, racing fast, breathing hard, she battled onward. And all the time something within her was whispering: “It’s no use, no use, no use.” Yet, setting her teeth hard, she raced on.
The man was gaining, she was sure of that. Yes, now as she looked back she saw him, only some fifty yards behind her.
This drove her to frantic effort. But to no avail. He continued to gain; a yard, two yards, five, ten, twenty.
“It’s no use,” she panted sobbingly.
And then—she could not believe her eyes—before her, to the right, was an open door.
Like a flash she was inside. Grasping the door she attempted to shut it, but the snow blocked it.
One glance about her showed great dark bulks on every hand.
“Freight,” she breathed, “piles of freight. Here—here is a chance yet.”
The next instant she was tip-toeing her way softly in and out among the innumerable piles of boxes, bags and crates that extended on and on into the impenetrable darkness.
She ran along as softly as she could, yet each time as she paused she fancied that she caught the stealthy footsteps of that horrible man.
“What does he want? Is it the bag that he wants? Whose bag was it? Was it his? If so, why did he let it get away from him?” These questions kept racing through her brain. Then came another question even more disturbing. Perhaps this man had been unfortunate, had been sick or had lost all his property. It might be that he had returned just in time to miss the opportunity of redeeming this lost possession which contained something he prized, perhaps of great value.
“In that case he is more to be pitied than feared,” she thought.
For an instant she contemplated going back to him; yet she dared not.
So, in the end, she continued tip-toeing about. Round a great pile of sacks, filled with sugar or beans, past boxes of tin cans and in and out among massive pieces of machinery, she wandered, all the time wondering in a vague sort of way what was to be the end of it all.
The end to her stay in the store-room came with lightning-like rapidity. She had just tiptoed around a huge steel drum of some sort when all of a sudden there burst upon her ear a deafening roar that shattered the stillness of the place.
The next instant a great black dog leaped at her.
He was not three feet from her when, with an agility that surprised her, she leaped from box top to box top until she found herself ten feet above the floor.
But the dog, who appeared to be an utterly savage beast, could climb too. She could hear him scrambling and scratching his way up, growling as he came. Her head was in a whirl. What was to be done? Suddenly she realized that just before her, beyond the boxes, was a window. Dragging her bag after her, she succeeded in reaching the window. She found it locked. In her desperation she dropped her bag and began kicking at the sash. With a sudden snap the fastenings gave way. She was caught so unawares that she plunged straight out of the window.
With a bump that knocked all the wind from her lungs and most of her senses from her head, she landed on something hard. Without being able to help herself, she rolled over once, then fell again. This time, to her surprise and consternation, she did not bump; she splashed. She sank. She rose. With all her nerves alert, she swam strongly in the stinging lake water. She had fallen from the narrow pier ledge and had landed in the lake.
A white cake of ice loomed up before her. She swam to it and climbed upon it. What was to be done? The thermometer was near zero. She was soaked to the skin, and far from anyone she knew.
“Got—got to get to shore somehow,” she shivered. “I’ll freeze here, sure. Freeze in no time.”
She looked back at the place from which she had come. The window was still open. The dog had stopped barking. She wondered in a vague sort of way what had become of her pursuer.
“And—and my bag,” she chattered. “It—it’s in there.” She was coming almost to hate that bag.
“Can’t get up there anyway,” was her final comment. It was true; between the water line and the surface of the pier landing was a sheer wall of cement, eight feet high and smooth as glass.
Her gaze swept a broad circle. Off to her right was a solid mass of ice which appeared to reach to shore.
“One swim and then I can walk to land,” she shuddered.
Two steps forward, a sudden plunge, and again she was in the freezing water.
Once on the ice she dashed away at top speed. It was a race, a race for her life. Already her clothing was freezing stiff.
Here she leaped a chasm of black water; there she tripped over a hole and fell flat; here dodged a stretch of honeycomb ice and raced across a broad level stretch.
Almost before she knew it she was alongside a row of steamships tied up in a channel close to shore. Then, to her surprise, she caught the gleam of a light in a cabin on the upper deck of the smallest boat tied there.
“There’s a rope cable hanging over the side,” she told herself. “I—I could climb it. There must be someone up there, and—and a fire. A fire! Oh, a fire and warmth! I must do it, or I’ll freeze.
“Of course they are strangers—a man, two men, maybe a family, but sea folks are kind people, I’m told. They know what it means to be wet and cold. I—I’ll risk it.”
The next moment, hand over hand, she was making her way up the cable.
Once on deck, she raced along the side until she came to a stair. Up this she sprang, then down the side again until she was at the door of the room where the light still gleamed into the night.
Without a moment’s hesitation she banged on the door.
“Who—who’s there?” came in a distinctly feminine voice. Florence’s heart gave a great throb of joy.
“It’s me. Only me,” she answered. “You don’t know me, but let me in. I fell in the lake. I—I’m free—freezing!”
At once the door flew open and she was dragged inside. Then the door slammed shut.
For a fraction of a moment the two girls stood staring at one another, then as in one voice, they burst out:
“It’s you!”
“It’s you!”
The girl in the ship’s cabin was none other than Florence’s double.
There was no time for explaining. The girl began tugging away at her double’s frozen garments. Ten minutes later, with her clothing on a line behind the glowing stove, Florence sat wrapped in a blanket by the fire, sipping a cup of cocoa.
For a time she sat looking at the girl who was so marvelously like herself in appearance. Then she said quietly:
“Would you mind telling me about yourself?”
“Not a bit. Guess I ought to. You did me a good turn. My name’s Meg.”
“I guessed that much.”
“How?”
“That’s what the man and the woman called me.”
“The man and the woman?” For a moment the girl’s face was puzzled. Then, “Oh yes, I——”
She paused for a moment as if about to tell something about the strange man and woman who had told Florence that the train left at eleven-thirty. If this had been her intention she thought better of it, for presently she said:
“My mother and father are dead. Since I was ten years old I’ve lived with my uncle, mostly on ships.”
“How—how thrilling!”
“Well, maybe, but you don’t learn much on ships. There’s an old saying: ‘You can’t go to school if you live on a canal boat.’ Ships are about as bad. I’ve got through eighth grade, though, and I want to go some more. That day I took your place and you wore my clothes I——”
“Who—who’s that?” Florence had heard the movement of feet outside.
“No friend of mine; not this time of night. Must be yours.”
“It might be the man!”
“What man? Your friend?”
“No. Not my friend; an awful man who wanted the bag.”
“What bag?”
“A bag I bought at an auction. My—my Christmas surprise. There—there he is,” she whispered tensely as there came a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Meg.
“Oh, don’t!” Florence struggled to her feet. “Don’t let him in!”
“Why not?” Meg had risen. In her hand was an affair resembling a policeman’s club, only it was made of iron—a heavy belaying pin. “Why not?” she repeated. “If I don’t fancy him, he’ll let himself out fast enough.” At the same time there came a rattle at the door knob. Florence sank back into her chair.
Such a party as it was; that one which was being enjoyed by Lucile and her friends of the juvenile book corner. Such crisp brown cream biscuits! Such breast of turkey with cranberry sauce and dressing! Such pudding! Even in the days of her childhood at home Lucile had never seen a more sumptuous feast. All this, in the midst of the gayest of Christmas spirit, made the occasion one long to be remembered by any person whose mind was not too much occupied by bewitching thoughts of other important things.
As for Lucile, her mind was indeed engaged with dreams that were far from the realm of food and drink. She was thinking of that meeting she had so long dreamed of and which she still had the courage to hope might come to pass, her own meeting with the Mystery Lady of the Christmas Spirit.
“I shan’t fail to recognize her,” she assured herself, “though she be dressed like an Eskimo or a South Sea Island maiden.”
At last the time came for strolling down the Boulevard toward the music hall. Lucile stared at the passing throngs until Laurie teasingly asked her whether she hoped to see in one of them the face of a long lost brother.
At last she found herself in the opera chair of the great hall. Now, at least, she was in the same room as the Mystery Lady, or soon must be, for if the Mystery Lady had not entered she soon would. In ten minutes the first note would be struck. There was a thrill in that.
It was to be a truly wonderful program, such a one as the girl had perhaps never listened to before. And she loved music, fairly adored it. As she thought how her interest this night must be divided between the fine music and the Mystery Lady, she found herself almost wishing that the Mystery Lady had not brought into her life so much that was unusual, perplexing and mysterious.
“Perhaps I shall be able to locate her before the music begins,” she thought to herself. “Then, during a recess, I’ll glide up to her and whisper, ‘You are the Spirit of Christmas.’”
Though she scanned the sea of faces near and far, not one of them all, save those of her own little group, was familiar to her.
It was with a little sigh of resignation that she at last settled back in her seat and allowed her program to flutter to her lap.
The time for the first number had arrived. The musicians had taken their places. The rows of violinists and cornetists, the standing bass viol player, the conductor with his baton, all were there. Like soldiers at attention, they waited for the soloist.
Mademoiselle Patricia Diurno, the country’s most talented young pianist, was to lead that night in the rendition of three master concertos.
There was an expectant lull, then mighty applause. She was coming. At a door to the right she appeared. Down a narrow way between rows of musicians she passed, a tall, slim, gracefully beautiful lady.
In the center of the stage she paused to bow in recognition of the applause, then again, and yet again. Then, turning with such grace as only a trained musician knows, she moved to her place and with a slight nod to the leader, placed her hands upon the keys, then sent them racing over the keys, bringing forth such glorious music as only might be learned beside a rushing brook in the depths of the forest.
Lucile gripped her seat until her fingers ached. She strove to remain seated while her face went white and then was flushed with color.
“It is she,” she whispered to herself. “It cannot be, yet it is! The same eyes, the same nose, the same hair. I cannot be mistaken. It is she! Patricia Diurno, the celebrated, the most wonderful virtuoso, is the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas! And I? How am I to remain in this seat for two mortal hours while before me sits a woman pouring forth bewitching music, a woman who for a handclasp has the power to make me rich, yes, rich? Two hundred in gold. How—how can I?”
Florence started back at sight of the one who opened the door in response to Meg’s “Come in.” It was indeed the small man of the burning, hawk-like eyes. His disposition appeared to have been changed by his battle with the storm. It was plain from the first that he was now a man not to be trifled with; at least not by two girls in a lonely ship’s cabin at an hour fast approaching midnight. He twisted his face into an ugly grin. His smile was more horrible than a snarl would have been. His white teeth showed like an angry dog’s.
“The bag!” he said in a tone that was a command. It was evident that he was both angry and desperate.
“What bag?” said Meg, rising as her companion, wrapping her blanket closer about her, slunk further into the corner.
“My bag!” His tone was threatening. He advanced a step.
Florence could see a deep red stealing up beneath the natural tan of the daughter of the sea as she too advanced a step. Meg showed not the slightest fear.
“There’s no bag here.” Her hand was behind her, gripping the belaying pin. “No bag at all unless you call that thing a bag.” She pointed to a canvas duffel bag that hung in the corner. “That’s mine. You can’t have it. You can’t have anything in this cabin. You can’t even touch anything or anybody, so you better get out.”
“So!” The man’s word was more like a hiss than a real expression of the word. At the same time his teeth were so uncovered that one might count them.
“So!” He advanced another step.
There came a faint click. Something bright gleamed in his right hand. A scream came to Florence’s lips, but she did not utter it; she only sat and stared.
“Yes,” said Meg in an even tone, while the red mounted to the roots of her hair. “We get your kind on the ships too. We get all kinds.”
Then, like a tiger in the jungle, she leaped forward. There followed a resounding thwack; a heavy knife went jangling to the floor. The stranger’s usually dark face turned a sickly white as, gripping a bruised wrist, he backed out of the room.
Stepping to the door Meg closed it, but did not bother to lock it.
Stooping, she picked up the knife and examined it carefully.
“That,” she said in a matter of fact tone, “is a good knife, much better than the one I use for slicing bacon. I shall keep it.
“See,” she said, holding it close to Florence, “it has a six-inch blade that locks when you open it. That’s what made it click.”
Florence shrank from the thing.
“He had no right to carry it,” said Meg, closing it and dropping it into a chest. “It’s a concealed weapon, and they’re against the law. So I’ll keep it. Now what about this bag?” she asked suddenly.
“Why, you see,” smiled Florence, “to-morrow’s Christmas. Since I didn’t expect a surprise from anyone, I decided to buy myself one. So I went down to an auction sale and bought a bag with ‘contents if any.’ I meant to buy a bag anyway, and the ‘contents if any’ was to be my surprise.”
“What did you get?” Meg asked, leaning forward eagerly.
“I didn’t look. I meant to keep the bag until to-morrow. It wouldn’t be a Christmas surprise if I opened it before hand. And now it’s gone!”
“What—what did you expect to find?”
“It might have been anything—silk scarfs, some splendid furs, jewelry, a watch—anything. And then again,” her voice lost its enthusiasm, “it might have contained a man’s collar and a suit of pajamas. I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just nothing at all. It was awful light.”
“All those things,” said Meg, her eyes shining, “or any of them. What a pity! What fun you would have had!”
For a moment she sat there in silence. Then suddenly, “Where’s it gone?”
“I—I lost it on the pier.”
“Where?” Meg sat up all alert.
Florence told her as best she could.
“I’ll go get it.” Meg dragged her coat from its hanger.
“No! No! Don’t!” Florence exclaimed, springing up. “It’s dangerous.”
“What’s to be afraid of?” laughed Meg. “Don’t everybody on the pier know me? Even the watch-dog knows me? As for your late friend and follower, I’ll just take my belaying pin along. But I guess he’s far enough away by now. Watch me. I’ll be back in half an hour with that bag—you wait and see.”
With a rush that let in a great gust of cold air and snow, she was out of the cabin and away.
The greater part of what she had said to Florence was true. She did know the dock as well as any ship on which she had ever sailed. She knew the watchman and his dog. But, without her knowledge, there was one person in authority by the pier that night who did not know her and this the two girls were to learn to their sorrow.
* * * * * * * *
Seeing a heavy dressing gown hanging in the corner, Florence rose and, discarding her blanket, put this robe on. Then, after feeling of her slowly drying clothes and moving her skirt closer to the stove, she walked to the door and locked it.
“Meg may not be afraid of that man,” she whispered to herself, “but I am.”
At once, as she began walking the floor of the narrow cabin, her mind went to work on the many unanswered questions stored away in her mind. Like some scientist examining specimens, she drew these questions one at a time from their mental pigeon holes.
Why did this evil looking man with the scar above his eye want her bag so badly? Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be a thief, or a safe blower, and this bag might contain some of his valuable loot. She remembered reading of criminals who had locked their booty in trunks or bags and stored them in some public place until the police had gotten off their trail.
“In that case,” she told herself, “my surprise will be a disappointment. No matter how wonderful the contents may be, I will not keep the least bit of it, but turn it over to the police.
“But then,” she thought again, “probably Meg will not be able to get the bag. She may not be able to get in. Probably the watchman heard the dog and closed the door and window. And again, she may find it and that terrible man may take it from her.”
This last she doubted. Meg appeared abundantly able to take care of herself. Florence could not but admire her strength and bravery. It had been magnificent, the way she had put that villainous intruder to flight. She thought of what the girl had said about being reared on a steamship and wanting more education. She found herself longing to help her. And why not? She roomed alone. Hers was a large bed, large enough for two, and she thought she could get a scholarship for her in the academy connected with the university. Anyway, it could be managed somehow. There were elevators in great hotels close to the school that must be run. Perhaps she could find her a part time position on one of these. She would talk to her about it as soon as opportunity offered.
But who was she, after all? She had been telling her story when that man broke in upon them. Would she have told why she asked Florence to wear her clothes for a half day and play the role of Meg? If she had, what would her reason have been?
During the time that these problems had passed in review in her memory she had been walking the cabin floor. Now she came to a sudden pause. Had she heard footsteps on the deck below? She thought so. Yes, there it was again, more plainly now. They were mounting the stairs. Who could it be? Was it that man? She shuddered. Springing to the corner, she put out a hand for Meg’s belaying pin. It was gone. The door was locked, but the lock looked very weak. What was she to do? It did not seem possible that Meg could be back so soon. She had——
A hand tried the door. What should she do? Should she let the person in?
Certainly she should, for in Meg’s unmistakable voice she heard:
“Let me in.”
When Florence threw open the door she saw at a glance that Meg had the bag and that the seal was unbroken.
“Tell you what,” began Florence, “you go home with me to-night. To-morrow is Christmas. We don’t have to get up early. We’ll have something hot to drink and some cakes, and we’ll talk a little. Then, just as the clock strikes twelve, we’ll break the seal to the bag. Won’t that be romantic?”
“I should say!” said Meg with gleaming eyes. “That would be spiffy! When do we start?”
“At once,” said Florence, pulling her clothing from the line.
They were not destined to get away so easily, however. Unfortunately for them, there was a person near the entrance to the pier that night whom Meg did not know, had in fact never seen.
The wharf to which the boats were tied lay a distance of about a block south of the entrance to the pier, and the particular boat on which Meg had taken up quarters was tied about two blocks from the end of the pier. In order to reach the car line they were obliged to battle their way against the storm, which had increased in violence, until they were near the entrance to the pier.
They had covered these three blocks and had paused to catch their breath and to watch for the light of a street car boring its way through the whirl of snow, when a gruff voice said:
“Where y’ think y’r goin’?”
“Why, we—” Florence hesitated.
“What you got in that bag?”
Florence turned to find herself looking into the face of a young policeman.
She flashed a glance at Meg. That one glance convinced her that Meg did not know him.
“Where—where’s Tim?” Meg faltered.
“Tim who?”
“Tim McCarty. This is his beat.”
“’T’aint now. It’s mine. He’s been transferred. What’s more,” he paused to lay a gloved hand on the travelling bag, “since this is my beat, part of my job’s findin’ out what comes off them ships at night. What y’ got in that bag?”
“I—I don’t know,” Florence said the words impulsively, and regretted them the instant they were said.
“Don’t know—” he ceased speaking to stare at her. “Say, sister, you’re good! Don’t know what you’ve got in that bag! In that case all I can do is take you to the station for questioning.
“No,” he said in a kindlier tone after a moment’s thought, “maybe if you’ll unlock it and let me see what’s inside I’ll let you go.”
Open it and let him see what was inside? Florence’s head was in a whirl. Open it? What if her fears proved true? What if it contained stolen goods? Why, then she would see the first light of Christmas morning behind prison bars. Was ever anyone in such a mess? Did ever a girl pay so dearly for her own Christmas surprise?
But Meg was speaking: “Say, you see here,” she said to the young policeman, her voice a low drawl. Florence heard them indistinctly against the roar of the storm. So there she stood with her back to the wind, clinging tightly to the handle of her bag and hoping against hope that she would not be obliged to reveal her secret there and then.
The revelation that had come to Lucile as she sat there listening to the first notes of a great concerto, led by a famous virtuoso, was so unusual, so altogether startling, that she felt tempted to doubt her senses.
“Surely,” she whispered to herself, “I must be mistaken. There is a resemblance, but she is not that woman. Imagine a great virtuoso, one of the famous musicians of our land, being in a department store at two hours before midnight! Fancy her going up and down streets, in and out of the stores and shops dressed in all manner of absurd costumes, playing the star role in a newspaper stunt to increase circulation! How impossible! How—how utterly absurd!”
She paused for reflection and as she paused, as if to join her in quiet thought, the great musician allowed her flying fingers to come to rest on the keyboard while a violin soloist did his part.
Then, quick as light, but not too swiftly for Lucile’s keen eyes, she slipped something from her finger, a something that sent off a brilliant flash of light. This she placed on the piano beside the keyboard.
To Lucile, resting as it did against the black of the ebony piano, this thing stood out like a circle of stars against the deep blackness of night. She felt her lips forming the words:
“Don’t put it there! A hundred people will see it!”
That dull gray circle with the flashing spot of light was a ring; Cordie’s iron ring with its diamond setting. There was no longer a single vestige of doubt in the girl’s mind regarding the identity of the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas. They were one and the same, and together they were Patricia Diurno, the celebrated virtuoso.
Somehow Lucile got through that two hours without screaming or jumping from her seat to hurl herself upon the platform, but she will never quite know just how she did it. At times she drove the whole affair from her mind to think of other unsolved problems—of Laurie and the lost author; of Cordie, and of Sam. At other times she found herself completely absorbed by the wonderful music which poured forth.
The majesty of the music grew as the evening passed. When at last the orchestra struck out into that masterpiece, Tschaikowsky’s Concerto in B minor, she forgot all else to lose herself in the marvelous rise and fall of cadent sound that resembled nothing so much as a storm on a rockbound coast.
The piano, leading on, called now to the violin to join in, then upon the cello, the bass viols, the cornets, the saxophones, the trombones, the trap-drums, until all together, in perfect unison, they sent forth such a volume of sound as shook the very walls.
The great virtuoso, forgetful of all else, gave herself completely to her music. Turning first this way, then that, she beckoned the lagging orchestra on until a climax had been reached.
Then, after a second of such silence as is seldom experienced save after a mighty clap of thunder, as if from somewhere away in a distant forest there came the tinkle, tinkle of the single instrument as her velvet tipped fingers glided across the keys.
A single violin joined in, then another and another, then all of them, until again the great chorus swelled to the very dome of the vast auditorium.
This was the music that, like the songs of mermaids of old, charm men into forgetfulness; that lifts them and carries them away from all dull care, all sordid affairs of money and all temptation to the mean, the low and the base.
It so charmed Lucile that for a full moment after the last note had been struck and the last echo of applause had died away, she sat there listening to the reverberations of the matchless music that still sounded in her soul.
When she awoke from her revery it was with a mighty start.
“Where is she?” she exclaimed, leaping from her seat.
“Who?” said Laurie.
“Patricia Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Where has she gone?”
Staring to right and left, she found her way blocked. Then with the nimbleness of an obstacle racer, she vaulted over four rows of seats to dash away through the milling crowd toward the platform.
“Where is she?” she demanded of an attendant.
“Who, Miss?”
“The—the Mystery Lady. No, No! Miss Diurno, the virtuoso.”
“Most likely in the Green Room, Miss. Who—who—is some of her folks dead?”
“No, no! But please show me where the Green Room is, quick!”
Leading the way, he took her to the back of the stage, through a low door, down a long passage-way to a large room where a number of people stood talking.
A glance about the place told her that Miss Diurno was not there.
“Is this the Green Room?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Then where is she?”
“I don’t know, Miss. You might ask him.”
He nodded to a large man in an evening suit.
“Where—where is Miss Diurno?” she asked timidly.
“Miss Diurno did not stay. She left at once.”
“Gone!” Lucile murmured. “And my opportunity gone with it.” Sinking weakly into a chair, she buried her face in her hands.
This lasted but a moment; then she was up and away like the wind. Miss Diurno, the Mystery Woman, Spirit of Christmas, had gone out on the Boulevard. She had promised, through the news columns, to be about the Boulevard until midnight. There was still a chance.
Hurrying back to the now almost deserted hall, she found Laurie and Cordie waiting for her.
“Well now, what does this mean?” Laurie laughingly demanded. “Did you recognize in the hands of some violinist the Stradivarius that was stolen from your grandfather fifty years ago?”
“Not quite that,” Lucile smiled back. “I did discover that someone has vanished, someone I must find. Yes, yes, I surely must!” She clenched her hands tight in her tense excitement. “I want you two to promise to walk the Boulevard with me until midnight, that is, if I don’t find her sooner. Will you? Promise me!”
“‘Oh promise me,’” Laurie hummed. “Some contract! What say, Cordie? Are you in on it?”
“It sounds awfully interesting and mysterious. Let’s do.”
“All right, we’re with you till the clock strikes for Christmas morning.”
Lucile led the way out of the hall. They were soon out in the cool, crisp air of night. There had been a storm but now the storm had passed. The night was bright with stars.
To promenade the Boulevard at this hour on such a night was not an unpleasant task. Out from a midnight blue sky the golden moon shone across a broad expanse of snow which covered the park, while to the left of them, as if extending their arms to welcome jolly old St. Nicholas, the great buildings loomed toward the starry heavens.
The street was gay with light and laughter, for was not this the night of all nights, the night before Christmas?