“I know of an odd old custom which might prove interesting,” said Laurie as the three of them walked arm in arm along the boulevard. “I’ve forgotten to what little out of the way corner of the world it belongs, but anyway, in the villages of that land, sometime near to midnight, on Christmas Eve, friends gather about small tables in their taverns and over the festive board talk of the year that is gone. The strange part is this: Just to make it a clearing up time of unsolved problems, each member of the group may select one other member of that group and may ask him three questions. Each member is pledged to answer all three questions frankly and truthfully.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Cordie. “I’d not like to get caught in a crowd like that.”
“Too bad,” sighed Laurie. “I was about to propose that a half hour before midnight we get together to celebrate in just that way. I think I can pick up a person or two whose secrets would be of interest to some people I know.”
“That would be wonderful,” exclaimed Lucile. “But must we select one person, only one?”
“One, that’s all.”
“And ask him just three questions; no more?”
“Not another one.”
“Eenie-meenie-minie-mo,” exclaimed Lucile, pointing her finger first at Cordie, then at Laurie,
“Catch a monkey by the toe,
If he hollers, let him go,
Eenie-meenie-minie-mo.
“Laurie, you’re my choice,” she laughed. “I’ll ask three questions of you, though goodness knows I’d like to ask them of Cordie.”
“Wait,” said Laurie holding up a warning finger. “There may be someone there who is more interesting to you than we are.”
“There’s only one such person in the world,” exclaimed Lucile, “and—and I hope I may meet her before that hour comes.”
She was a little surprised at the glances Laurie and Cordie exchanged and greatly puzzled by the fact that they did not ask her who that person was.
Laurie and Cordie gave themselves over to the gaiety of the night. The blazing light, the splendid cars that went gliding down the Boulevard, the magnificent furs worn by those who chose to promenade the broad sidewalk, were sights to catch any eye.
They did not hold Lucile’s attention. She had eyes for but one sight, the glimpse of a single face. What that glimpse would mean to her! Room rent paid, term bills paid, a warm coat, other needed clothing, a last minute present which she had been too poor to purchase, and a snug little sum in the bank. All these it would mean, and more; two hundred in gold.
But the face did not appear. For an hour they walked the Boulevard, yet no sight of the Mystery Lady, she of the Christmas Spirit, came to them. One matter troubled Lucile more and more. Often in her search she looked behind her. More than once, four times in fact, she had caught sight of a man who walked always at exactly the same distance behind them. A tall man, it was, with a long gray coat, a high collar turned up and cap pulled low.
“It isn’t just because he happens to be walking in our direction,” she told herself with a little shiver. “Twice we have turned and walked back and once we crossed the street. But all the time he has been directly behind us. I wonder what it could mean?”
At that moment there came the clatter of hoofs and four mounted policemen, clad in bright uniform, came riding down the Boulevard.
“It’s a big night,” exclaimed Laurie. “There’s a special squad of them out.”
“Oh there—there he is!” exclaimed Cordie. “There’s Dick! That’s Patrick O’Hara riding him! Aren’t they splendid? And right beside him is Tim, good old Tim. See! They recognized me. They touched their hats!”
“Who’s Tim?” asked Lucile.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” taunted Cordie. “If only you were going to ask your questions of me you’d be sure to find out.”
“Don’t worry,” smiled Laurie. “I’ve just decided that you shall be the person to answer my three questions.”
“You horrid thing! I shan’t go! I’m off your old party!” In mock anger, she sprang away from her companions and went racing on ahead of them.
Then strange and startling things began to happen. A long, low-built blue roadster, which had been creeping along the curb as if looking for someone, came to a grinding stop. A man leaped out. A second later a piercing scream reached the ears of Laurie and Lucile.
“It’s Cordie!” exclaimed Lucile. “Some—something terrible! C’mon!”
As she said this a gray streak shot past her. Even in this wild moment of excitement, she recognized the man who had been dogging their footsteps and she wondered why she had not recognized him sooner.
The next second they were in the midst of things. With wildly beating heart Lucile stared at the panorama that was enacted before her. Powerless to aid, she saw Cordie, the innocent country girl, the center of a battle, snatched from hand to hand until it seemed the very life must be torn from her.
First she caught a glimpse of her fighting frantically but vainly in the grasp of a man. Lucile recognized him instantly.
“The hawk-eyed man!” she whispered. “The one who claimed to be her brother! Quick!” she exclaimed, gripping Laurie’s arm until her fingers cut into the very flesh. “Quick! They’re taking her to the auto. They’ll carry her away!”
Active as he was, Laurie was not the first to leap at the hawk-eyed one. A man in gray, the man who had been following them, sprang squarely at the captor’s throat.
With a howl of rage and fear the villain loosed one hand to strike out at his mysterious assailant. All in vain; the rescuer came straight on. Striking the captor squarely in the middle, he bowled him over like a ten-pin. So sudden was this attack that Cordie was also thrown to the pavement.
Finding herself free and unharmed, she sprang to her feet. She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to look into the face of Laurie Seymour.
“Ah!” she breathed, “I am safe!”
But even as she said this she saw Laurie collapse like an empty sack, and the next instant grasped from behind by two clutching hands, she was again whirled toward the kidnapper’s car.
Half blinded by terror, she caught a vision of police blue that hovered above her.
“Pat! Patrick O’Hara!” she called.
There came the angry crack of an automatic. Then the figure in blue came hurtling off the horse to fall at her feet. At the same instant there was a second catapult-like blow of the man in gray. Again she was snatched free.
“Jiggers! Beat it! Beat it!” she heard in a hoarse whisper. The next instant the door to the blue car slammed shut and its wheels began to move.
For three seconds she wavered there, watching the car move away. Then catching a glimpse of Patrick O’Hara lying at her feet, wounded, perhaps dead, a great courage came to her.
“They must not escape!” she screamed. “They shall not!”
The next instant she leaped into the saddle of the police horse, Dick. Just as the noble animal dashed away she felt the solid impact of someone mounting behind her.
One glance she cast behind her. “Oh!” she breathed. It was the man in gray. To Dick she whispered: “All right, Dick, old dear, Go! Go fast! For the love of Patrick O’Hara and Laurie Seymour; for the love of all that’s good and true, go; go as you never went before!”
There was no need to talk to Dick. He was away like the wind.
It was a moment of high suspense and swift action; one of those moments when success or failure hinges on the right move at the right second.
Dick was no ordinary horse. He was an unusual horse who had very unusual masters. The young policeman had spoken the truth when he said that Pat O’Hara’s horse was the smartest on the force. As Dick felt his young mistress in the saddle and the man in gray behind her, he realized that this was not to be a race, but a fight. He seemed to sense that his task was to keep in sight of that racing blue automobile, and not for one instant to lose sight of it.
Follow it he did, and that at the peril of his own life and the lives of those who rode. Now dashing past a low, closed car, now crowding between two black sedans, now all but run down by a great yellow car, he forged straight ahead.
He not only followed; he actually gained. Leaning far forward in the saddle, Cordie kept her eyes upon the fleeing car. Now they were but three quarters of a block away, now a half, now a quarter.
It was an exciting moment. Beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Cordie’s nose. The hand that held the reins trembled. They were gaining, gaining, gaining. Through narrow passages impossible to a car, old Dick crowded forward like a fleet, sure-footed dog. Now a yard he gained, now a rod, and now a long stretch of open. They were gaining, gaining, gaining! What were they to do once the car was overtaken? That Cordie could not tell. She only knew one thing clearly—the men in the car must not escape and she was determined to prevent their escape.
Then, as they neared a cross street, a man stepped out on the running board and flashed an automatic. Aiming deliberately, he fired. The next instant, with the din of a hundred sets of brakes screaming in their ears, Cordie, the horse and the man in gray were piled all in a heap in the middle of the street.
In the midst of all this there came a crash. What was that? Dared she hope it was the villains’ car? At sound of it the man in gray was up and away like mad.
“What’s this?” she heard an unfamiliar voice saying. A man from the nearest car behind them had come to the aid of the girl and the horse.
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, Lucile was passing through experiences quite as strange.
Laurie Seymour had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head. Patrick O’Hara had been shot from his horse. How serious were the injuries of these, her friends?
To determine this, then to see what might be done for their relief; this appeared to be her duty, even though Cordie was in grave danger still.
Men pressed forward to assist her. They carried the unconscious ones into the lobby of a hotel. There they were stretched out upon davenports and remedies applied by the house physician.
Lucile was engaged in stopping the flow of blood from Patrick O’Hara’s scalp wound. She chanced to look up and there, at the edge of the davenport, she caught sight of a familiar face.
“Miss Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Two Hundred in gold!” her mind registered automatically, but her fingers held rigidly to their task.
* * * * * * * *
As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car, threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there.
There came the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and then down sprang good old Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer.
“He’s a bad one,” growled the one in gray. “If you’ve got handcuffs, put ’em on him.”
Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of this affair.
A hand tugged at his sleeve. “If you please, Tim,” came a girlish voice, “It’s me, the one who stole Patrick O’Hara’s horse. If you’ll believe me you better take his word for it. He’s right.”
“Oh, he is, eh?” rumbled Tim. “Little girl, what you say goes. I’d trust you any time. On they go.”
The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer.
“Now,” said Tim in a sterner voice, “tell me how Pat O’Hara’s horse comes to be lyin’ there in the street?”
“He—he shot him,” Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man.
“He did, did he? Then he should be hung.”
“Pat—Patrick O’Hara’s sho—shot too,” Cordie was very near to tears. “If it hadn’t been for him,” she nodded to the figure in gray, “we—we wouldn’t have got him, though Dick and I would have done our—our best, for he—he shot our good good friend Pat O’Hara.” At this, Cordie’s long pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim’s broad breast.
“That’s all right,” he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. “It’s not as bad as you think. Look! There’s old Dick getting to his feet now.”
It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where Dick lay, had coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb.
“It’s only a flesh wound in the leg,” he explained. “Give him a week or ten days and he’ll be on the beat again. Dick, old boy,” he said huskily, “and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me. I—I’ve had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And it might be they’ll find the fox skins among his plunder.”
The eyes of the man in gray, just now brimming with honest tears, were turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier!
For a moment he gripped the girl’s hand, then turning to Tim, said:
“You’ll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?”
“Oh sure! Sure!”
“Then I’ll be getting over to the police station. They’ll be wanting someone to prefer charges.”
He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said:
“Call me on the phone at that number to-morrow, or else at the Butler House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful silver fox skins back. I—might have a customer for them if you do.”
“It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did,” he smiled. “But it’s going to be all right anyway.”
Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start. “Right on the Gold Coast!” was his mental comment. “Out where there is nothing but palaces and mansions!”
And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all. Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence was thinking fine things about Meg.
“This girl Meg certainly has a way about her,” she thought. “She does things to people.”
She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. “Surely,” she told herself, “she didn’t use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn’t do that, though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve.”
One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman. Florence hadn’t heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told her she might run along. How was she to account for that?
She didn’t bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised to tell.
It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had blown itself out and the stars were shining. They were soon aboard a car bound for home.
An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet, Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts.
Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this would not be surprising.
She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous experiences of an exciting night are all at an end.
At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all; for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence’s Christmas secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the witching hour when secrets are revealed.
“There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before the tower clock strikes midnight,” said Florence, glancing at the small clock on her desk.
“Oh!” laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. “There really isn’t much to tell. I’ve already told you that since I was a slip of a child I’ve lived on ships with my uncle. He’s a mate. We’ve been on a lot of ships because he often drinks too much and can’t hold his position. He’s a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way.”
“That man who——”
“No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim, a sailor. My uncle sent him.
“Well, you know,” she went on, “at first I was just sort of a ship’s mascot and the sailors’ plaything. They rode me on their backs and carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast.
“That didn’t last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me to work. And I’ve been at work ever since.”
She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and hard as a farmer’s wife’s.
“I don’t mind work,” Meg continued. “I love it. But I like to learn things, too; like to learn them out of books, with folks to tell me what it means. I’ve gone to school all I could, but it wasn’t much. I want to go some more.
“Uncle has signed up for a sea voyage through the Canal to England. He wanted me to go along as cook. It’s a lumber ship; sure to be a rough crew. I don’t mind ’em much.”
Something suddenly clattered on the floor. It was Meg’s belaying pin.
“I—I guess you sort of get rough when you go on the sea,” she apologized, smiling. “That’s partly why I didn’t want to go. My uncle would have made me go that day you changed places with me, if he’d found me. He likes to have me along because he can get a better berth himself if he can bring along a good cook. Good sea cooks are scarce.
“I’m not going now. His train’s gone and he’s gone. He left that day.”
“So that was what the man and the woman meant by the train leaving at eleven-thirty?” asked Florence.
“Yes. That woman was the matron of the Seamen’s Home. She thought I ought to go. She didn’t know everything. She didn’t understand. I’m eighteen. My uncle hasn’t any right to claim me now, and I owe him nothing. Everything that’s been done for me I’ve paid for—paid with hard labor.” Again she spread her seamed hands out on her lap.
“But now,” she said after a moment’s silence, “now I’m not sure that I know how I’m going to school. It costs a lot, I suppose, and besides I’ve got to live. They let me stay on that ship. That’s something, but it’s a long way from any school, and besides——”
“Wait,” Florence broke in. “Let me tell you——”
But just then Meg held up a warning finger. Loud and clear there rang out over the snow the midnight chimes.
“Midnight,” whispered Florence, reaching out a hand for the bewitching bag.
“He’s coming round all right.” It was the house doctor of the hotel who spoke. Lucile was still bending over Patrick O’Hara. “He’s regaining consciousness. It’s only a scalp wound. A narrow squeak. An inch to the right, and it would have got him. He’d better go to the hospital for a little extra petting and patching, but he’s in no danger—not the least. And as for your friend Laurie—he’s got a bump on his head that’ll do to hang his hat on for a day or two. But outside of perhaps a bit of a headache, he’s O. K. Your friends are riding under a lucky star, I’d say.”
“A lucky star,” thought Lucile. Again she was free. Had the Lady of the Spirit of Christmas vanished? No. For once fortune was with her. As if fascinated by the scene, the lady still stood there, looking down at Patrick O’Hara.
Twenty seconds later this lady felt a tug at her arm as a girl in a low but excited whisper said: “You are the Spirit of Christmas.”
“What?” the lady stared at her for a second, then a smile lighted her face. “Oh yes, why to be sure! So I am. In the excitement of the moment I had quite forgotten. Surely I am. So it is you who win? I am glad, so very, very glad! I do believe you recognized me five minutes ago, and that you’ve been working over that brave young policeman ever since, when I might easily have slipped away. What wonderful unselfishness! Here is the gold!”
Lucile felt a hard lump of something pressed into her hand and without looking down knew that it was ten double eagles. A warm glow crept over her.
“I did see you,” she said, after murmuring her thanks, “but you see Patrick O’Hara was wounded trying to rescue a friend of mine. So how could I desert him for gold?”
“Yes, yes, how could you? Who was your friend?”
“Cordie.”
“Oh! Cordie? Was she in danger?” the lady exclaimed excitedly. “Where is she? I must go to her at once!”
“Here! Here I am, Auntie!” cried an excited and tremulous young voice. The next moment little Cordie was enfolded in the arms of the Mystery Lady, Spirit of Christmas. And this lady was also Miss Diurno, the great virtuoso, and Cordie had called her Auntie!
* * * * * * * *
At exactly a half hour before midnight on this most exciting Christmas Eve, four people sat at a round table in the Butler House. There was a distinguished looking lady, a young man with a bump on his head that made his hair stand up in a circle, a young lady of college age, and a girl in her teens. They were the Mystery Lady, Laurie Seymour, Lucile and Cordie.
Ice cream and cakes had been served; coffee was on the way. Laurie had finished explaining to Miss Diurno the ancient custom of some long forgotten land, that of answering, truthfully, three questions round.
“But Laurie, old dear,” she protested, “why should I ask three questions of you? I already know far too much about you for my own good peace of mind; and as for Cordie, I fancy I know more about her than she knows about herself. I move we amend the custom a little. How would it do to allow our friend Lucile to ask all the questions—three around for each of us?”
“Oh! That would be darling!” exclaimed Lucile, fairly leaping from her chair. “You are all so very, very mysterious. There are so many, many things I’d like to know.”
“Agreed!” exclaimed Laurie.
“I don’t mind,” smiled Cordie.
“Good. That’s settled,” said Miss Diurno, whose very greatness as a musician so affected Lucile that she found it very difficult to be her usual frank and friendly self. “Miss Lucile, you may have ten minutes for thinking up questions. Then, over our coffee, we will answer them. But remember, only three questions, three around.”
“Only three,” Lucile whispered to herself. “And there is so much I want to know! So much I just must know!”
As she sat there, with her head all in a whirl, trying in vain to form the questions she wished to ask, one conviction was borne in upon her. She had been the center of a plot, a very friendly plot, she was sure of that, and one that had been entered into the truest of Christmas spirit. Cordie had known Miss Diurno all the time, in fact had only a short time ago called her Auntie. Miss Diurno had called Laurie by a familiar name—she had said “Old dear.” She must have known him a long time. Then surely, to be a friend to such an one, he must be something rather great himself. And Cordie? She could scarcely be the simple little country girl she had thought her. Lucile’s mind was in such a daze that when the great pianist tapped her wrist watch and said: “Time’s up. Who’s the first?” she had not formed one question.
“Age before beauty,” laughed Cordie.
“Well, that’s me?” smiled Miss Diurno. “I am ready to be questioned.”
“Why—er—” stammered Lucile. “Why did you, who are such a very great musician, undertake the humble task of assisting in a newspaper stunt?”
“Dear little girl,” said Miss Diurno, a very mellow note of kindness creeping into her voice, “there are no great people in the world, and there are no truly humble tasks. All people who are truly great are also very humble. Tasks called humble by men may be truly great.
“But you have asked me a question. The reason I accepted that newspaper task was this: Marie Caruthers, my very best school chum and lifetime friend, went in for newspaper work. She was to have done the stunt, but just when the time came she was taken to the hospital. So I volunteered to take her place. And it was fun, heaps of it! Just imagine having the whole city looking for you and yet to be walking in and out among the people every day and not a single one of them recognizing you at all.
“But there were times enough when I got into plenty of trouble. That night in the department store was a scream!”
“Not so much of a scream for me,” grumbled Laurie. “I gave you my pass-out. Then after knocking nearly all the skin off my hand going down the bundle chute, I had to sleep in the basement, with corrugated paper for mattress and covers.”
“Poor old Laurie!” smiled Miss Diurno. “But you deserved all you got. Think of the role you have been playing! Think! Just think!” laughed the pianist.
“You see,” she said, turning to Lucile to explain her presence in the store that night, “I had promised to be in the store six hours that day. Then I allowed myself to become absorbed in some new music, and the first thing I knew it was getting late in the afternoon and my six hours not yet begun. Of course there was nothing for it but to remain in the store after closing hours. I hid in that long narrow place, wedged myself between book shelves and stands, then stuck there until the clock struck ten.
“I hadn’t realized that it would be hard to get out. When I did think of it I was terror-stricken. To think of remaining in that great vault of a store all night! Ugh! It gives me the shivers to think of it, even now. I haven’t the least notion what I would have done if I hadn’t come upon good old Laurie. He gave me his pass-out. You saw him do it. I knew this at the time, and I think you were a great little sport not to raise a big rumpus, especially after I took your coat.”
“Why did you take my coat?” asked Lucile.
“I was afraid I couldn’t get out in that fur cape. And besides, I wanted just such a coat as yours for the next day’s stunt. So I traded with you. That was fair enough, wasn’t it?”
“Traded? What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, just traded, and thanked you for the opportunity. And now, my dear, that makes three questions.”
“Three,” Lucile cried excitedly. “Why no, I’ve only asked one.”
“Leave it to the crowd,” beamed the great little lady.
“Three! Three!” agreed Laurie and Cordie with one voice.
“Why—why then I shall be obliged to take up someone else.”
“Heads I’m next, tails I’m not,” said Laurie, tossing a coin in air. “Heads! I’m it. Do your worst.”
“Who is Jefrey Farnsworth?” Lucile asked.
“See!” exclaimed Laurie. “See what I get into right away! Well, since it is Christmas Eve, I dare not tell a lie. I am forced to inform you that the only gentleman at this table was given that name at his birth.”
“You—you are Jefrey Farnsworth?”
“Quite right.”
“Be careful,” warned Cordie, “You’ve used up two questions already.”
Lucile was silent for a moment, then with a smile she said:
“Why did you take an assumed name, and who was Sam, and did he have anything to do with your selling books, and why were you afraid of him?”
“That business of hanging your question on a string is great stuff,” laughed Laurie. “I recommend that you try it out on Cordie.”
Then in a more sober tone, he said:
“You see it was this way: My publishers saw that my book was going to go across rather big and, since I was to benefit financially in its success, they thought it would be nice for me to have a part in making it a still greater—um—um, triumph. So they cooked up that idea about my speaking to ladies’ clubs. I knew I couldn’t do it, but I knew also that Sam would make me do it if I stuck around. Everyone does what Sam wants them to do; that is, they do if they stay where he is.
“So I said to myself, ‘If I must help sell my books, I’ll do it in a straightforward way right over the counter. I’ll get a job.’ I did. And just so Sam couldn’t find me and drag me away, I came to this city and took an assumed name.
“Sam’s a sort of salesman for my publishers; that is, he sells books when he isn’t promoting authors. When I saw him in the store that time I just naturally had to disappear.
“I think, though,” he added, “that even Sam is satisfied. We sold two thousand copies of ‘Blue Flames,’ you and Donnie and Rennie and all the rest.
“As for my knowing the lady of the hour,” he smiled, touching the arm of Miss Diurno, “I’ve known her for some time. And on some future lovely day in June, when my income has come to be half as much as hers, we’re going to move into a certain lovely little vine covered cottage I know about and set up a nest all for ourselves.”
“Good!” exclaimed Lucile. “Can’t I come to see you?”
“My dear,” said the great musician, “you may come and live with us, both you and Cordie, live with us forever.”
“Cordie, your turn to be questioned,” said Laurie.
“Oh!” exclaimed Cordie, throwing her arms about Lucile and hiding her face in the folds of her dress. “I don’t want you to ask me questions. I don’t! I don’t! I just want to confess how mean I have been and what an unkind trick I have played on you.”
“Why Cordie!” Lucile consoled her. “You’ve not been mean to me at all. You—you’ve been the dearest kind of a little pal!”
“Oh, yes I have! I let you think I was a poor little girl from the country, when I wasn’t at all. I allowed you to spend money on me and pay all the room rent when I just knew you thought you were going to have to live on milk toast all next term of school. And I never even offered to do my share at all.
“But if you only knew,” she raced on, “how good it seemed to have one friend who wasn’t one bit selfish, who didn’t want a lot of things for herself and who was willing to do things for other people when she really needed just plain ordinary things for herself. If you only knew! If you only did!” Cordie’s voice rose shrill and high. She seemed about to burst into tears.
“There, there, dear little pal!” whispered Lucile. “I think I understand. But tell me, why did you take a job as wrapper when you really wasn’t poor and didn’t need the money?”
“Money!” laughed Cordie, now quite herself again. “I’ve never had to ask for any in my whole life! My father owns a third of that big store we worked in, and a lot besides.”
“But Dick?” said Lucile.
“I rode Dick on my father’s estate. It nearly broke my heart when they sold him. My father gave up his stables.”
“But you haven’t told me why you wanted to work in the store.”
“Well, you see that day, the first day you ever saw me, just for fun I had dressed up in plain old fashioned clothes and had gone downtown for a lark. Then I did that foolish fainting stunt. I really, truly fainted. And that man, that hawk-eyed man—” she shuddered, “must have recognized me. He must have known he could get a lot of money from father if only he could carry me away. Anyway he tried it and you—saved me!” She paused to give Lucile another hug.
“You are coming to my house for Christmas dinner, and I’ve kept track of everything in a little book and I’m going to pay you every cent, truly I am, and we’ll have the best time.
“But I was going to tell you,” she paused in her mad ramble, “I was——”
“Listen!” Miss Diurno held up a hand for silence, “Cordie, someone is paging your name. Here! Over here!” she called to the bell boy.
“Telephone,” said the boy.
The three sat in silence until Cordie returned.
“What do you think!” she exclaimed as she came bounding toward them. “It was James, my friend the bundle carrier at the phone. They’ve worked fast. They raided the room of—of the hawk-eyed man and they found James’ silver fox skins. And Auntie, I’m going to have father buy them as a present for you. Won’t that be g-grand!”
“I should think it might,” smiled her aunt, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “But, my dear, you hadn’t finished telling Lucile.”
“Oh! That’s a short story now. When I saw how good and kind you were,” Cordie said, turning to Lucile, “when I saw the work there was to do and everything, I was fascinated. I just wanted to play I was just what you thought me to be. So I called up my father and made him let me do it. That was all there was to it.
“But Auntie!” she exclaimed, turning to Miss Diurno. “Why did you steal my badge of serfdom?”
“Your what?”
“My badge of serfdom, the iron ring. In olden days serfs wore iron collars; now it’s an iron ring.”
“Oh, your iron ring!” laughed her aunt. “I needed it for my stunt. But here it is; you may have it and welcome, diamond and all.”
“I shall keep you ever and always,” murmured the girl, pressing the ring to her lips. “I shall cherish you in memory of a grand and glorious adventure.”
“Of course you understood,” said Miss Diurno, turning to Lucile, “that you are to keep the fur lined cape.”
“No, I——”
“Oh yes, you must! It was the one extravagance that I made the paper pay for. I traded with you, and have lost yours, so there is really no other way out. Besides,” her voice softened, “I want you to accept it as a gift from me, a little token of appreciation for your many kindnesses to my little niece.”
Lucile’s head was in a whirl. She found herself unable to think clearly of all her good fortune. A great musician, an author, and a very rich girl for her friends; a magnificent cape of midnight blue and fox skin, and two hundred dollars in gold! Merry Christmas! What a Christmas it would be indeed!
“Listen,” whispered Miss Diurno. From some distant room there came the slow, sweet chimes of a clock.
“Striking midnight,” she whispered. Then from far and near there came the clanging of church bells.
“Christmas morning!” exclaimed Miss Diurno, springing to her feet. “Merry, Merry Christmas to all!”
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” they chorused in return.
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.”