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<h2 id="c21"><span class="small">CHAPTER XXI</span> <br/>AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY</h2> <p>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:</p> <p>“And what do the cards say tonight?”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“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.”</p> <p>“Do the cards say this?” Jeanne demanded.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_203">[203]</div> <p>“I say this.” There was a solemn note in Madame’s reply, like the deep tolling of a bell.</p> <p>“All right.” Jeanne went skipping across the floor. “Tomorrow we shall go, very early, perhaps at dawn.”</p> <p>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.</p> <p class="tb">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.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_204">[204]</div> <p>“These are <i>my</i> 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.”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“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.”</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_205">[205]</div> <p>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.</p> <p>“And yet,” Florence asked herself, “if it had been stolen, would she not have told me?”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“How terrible!” she murmured. “And I an amateur lady cop!</p> <p>“It <i>was</i> stolen!” she concluded. “And I know who took it.” Words spoken only last night came back to her: “I take what I want.”</p> <p>Like a flash she was up on the steps and ringing the bell.</p> <p>“Does the person they call Hugo live here?” she asked the lady who came to the door.</p> <p>“Oh yes,” the woman replied. “But he’s not here just now. We expect him back any time. Would you care to wait?”</p> <p>“No, I—I’ll come back later.” Florence turned away to mutter under her breath, “Only I won’t.”</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_206">[206]</div> <p>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.</p> <p>“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?</p> <p>She thought of the night before, and gained courage. “But tonight I am not dressed as a man.” Her heart sank.</p> <p>The footsteps continued. The person did not turn in. For the moment she was saved.</p> <p>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.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_207">[207]</div> <p>“He takes what he wants.” She laughed low as she hurried along. “Well, so do the rest of us—sometimes.”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“Well,” she sighed at last, “we must take people as we find them. We—”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“That’s queer!” she whispered. “One of Hugo’s little secrets.”</p> <p>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.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_208">[208]</div> <p>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.</p> <p>“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.</p> <p>“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.</p> <p>“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.”</p> <p>At that moment Florence caught some movement in a tree, a whisk of gray.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_209">[209]</div> <p>“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.”</p> <p>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.</p> <p>“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.</p> <p>“Why—I—I—” the girl stammered.</p> <p>“Do you know what it is?” Danby broke in.</p> <p>“No, I—”</p> <p>“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.”</p> <p>“Where did you get it?” he asked a second time.</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_210">[210]</div> <p>“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.”</p> <p>“Oh that’s all right.” Danby’s tone was kindly. “Would you mind letting me have it for a time?”</p> <p>“Of course not.” Florence held it out to him.</p> <p>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.”</p> <p>“And now,” he said, turning to the ladies, “we may have our tea.”</p> <div class="pb" id="Page_211">[211]</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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