Title: The Golden Circle - A Mystery Story for Girls
Author: Snell, Roy J. (Roy Judson)
Language: English
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                      _A Mystery Story for Girls_



                                 _The_
                             GOLDEN CIRCLE


                                  _By_
                              ROY J. SNELL

                          The Reilly & Lee Co.
                                Chicago


                             COPYRIGHT 1931
                                   BY
                          THE REILLY & LEE CO.
                        PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.



                                CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
  I Her Lucky Day                                                     11
  II From Out the Wreckage                                            17
  III The Magic Umbrella                                              26
  IV Six Ferocious Bears                                              32
  V Coffee for Three                                                  38
  VI The Place of Chance                                              44
  VII The Marble Falcon                                               50
  VIII The Gypsy God of Fire                                          60
  IX The Shadow on the Window Pane                                    66
  X The Hole in the Floor                                             80
  XI Happy Days                                                       87
  XII A Face of Gray Steel                                            98
  XIII The Circle of Brass                                           108
  XIV The Flutter of Wings                                           117
  XV A Touch in the Dark                                             122
  XVI The Battle of Maxwell Street                                   132
  XVII Traveling Mysteries                                           141
  XVIII Bags of Forbidden Treasure                                   148
  XIX Within the Hour Glass                                          158
  XX “Kidnaped”                                                      164
  XXI A Falcon Comes to Life                                         170
  XXII The Falcon’s Flight                                           175
  XXIII Through One Long Night                                       181
  XXIV The Falling Sand                                              187
  XXV A Dark Dawn                                                    194
  XXVI The Sainted Beggar                                            201
  XXVII “This Is Our Golden Hour”                                    214
  XXVIII A Queen from Another World                                  226
  XXIX A Shadow Falls                                                233
  XXX Tilting Floors                                                 240
  XXXI The Pursuit                                                   254
  XXXII A Top-Stage Seat                                             260
  XXXIII A Prisoner Escapes                                          266
  XXXIV Florence Springs a Surprise                                  274
  XXXV Florence Gets Her Man                                         281
  XXXVI The Golden Triumph                                           287



                           THE GOLDEN CIRCLE



                               CHAPTER I
                             HER LUCKY DAY


“Friday, the thirteenth! This is my luck-e-e day!”

Petite Jeanne half sang these words as she sat bolt upright in bed and
switched on the light.

“You’ll be entirely out of luck if you don’t lie right down and go to
sleep!” Florence Huyler, her pal, exclaimed, making a significant
gesture toward a sofa pillow which, as the little French girl had reason
to know, was both heavy and hard. And Florence had muscle. Of late she
had been developing herself. She had gone back to her old work as
physical director in one of the many gymnasiums of this great city.

“But why?” the slim girl protested. “It is morning. I am awake. Who
wants to sleep after waking up?”

“But look at the clock! Such an hour!”

Petite Jeanne looked. Then her small mouth formed a perfect circle.

“But yet I am awake!” she protested.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she pleaded, “you with your hundred and sixty
pounds, and poor me, just a little bit of nothing.”

No, Florence would not harm her little French friend. She adored her.

“See!” The exquisite little dancer tossed her blonde head, danced out of
bed, flipped out one light, flipped on another, and then continued, “I
shall be away in one little minute. This is my luckee day. I must go to
dance the sun up from the lake where he has been sleeping, the lazee
fellow!”

Florence turned her face to the wall.

“There’s no resisting her,” she whispered to herself.

“And yet many have been resisting her,” she thought sorrowfully.

This was true. All that is life—each joy, every sorrow—must come to an
end. The run of the gypsy drama in which Jeanne had played so important
a role had ended in June. At first they had believed it would be easy to
secure a booking for the coming season. It was not easy. Jeanne’s
talents were limited. No dramatic production of any sort was being
prepared for the coming year which had a part she could play. They had
gone from booking house to booking house, from manager to manager. All
had returned Petite Jeanne’s smile, but none had offered her a contract.

All this had not discouraged the little French girl in the least. She
believed in what she called her “luck.” Fortunate child! Who can fail if
he but believes hard enough and long enough in his luck?

So, though the booking season was all but at an end and prospects were
as dark as a December dawn, Jeanne was keeping up her training. Just
now, two hours before dawn, she was preparing to go to the park and
dance the dew off the grass while the sun came creeping up from the
waters of Lake Michigan.

As Jeanne peered into the closet a spot of flaming red smote her eye.

“My luckee dress!” she whispered. “And this is my luckee day! Why not?”

Without further ado, she robed herself in a dress of flaming red which
was as short as a circus rider’s costume and decorated with so many
ruffles that it was impossible to tell where dress ended and ruffles
began.

After tying a broad sash of darker red about her waist, she slipped on
socks that rose scarcely above her shoetops, kicked on some pumps,
switched out the light and tripped down the stairs to step out into the
dewy night.

There are those who are thrilled as they prowl about a city in the dead
of night. Others are fascinated by the white lights that gleam before
midnight. As for Petite Jeanne, she preferred the hour before dawn, when
all the world is asleep. Then, like some wood nymph, she might haunt the
dew-drenched park and dance to her heart’s content.

But now, as she left her home at the edge of the park to go skipping
down the deserted street, a strange feeling stole over her.

“It’s the dress,” she told herself.

And so it was. She had worn that dress, no, not in America at all. And
yet she had called it her lucky dress.

It had been in France. Ah yes, in France, her beloved France! That was
where it had brought her good fortune. There, as a girl in her early
teens, she had traveled with the Gypsies and danced with her pet bear.
When she danced in this flaming gown, spinning round and round until the
ruffles seemed a gay windmill wheel, how the coins had come thumping in
around her tiny feet!

“But now I am fourteen no more,” she sighed. “And yet, perhaps it is a
lucky dress for Petite Jeanne, even now. Who can tell?”

As she spoke these words half aloud, she cast a furtive glance down a
dark alley. Instantly her mood changed. On her face came a look of
horror. Her lithe limbs trembled. She seemed about to fall.

She did not fall. Instead, summoning all her courage, she went bounding
down the street.

What had happened? She had seen a face, a gypsy face. It was an evil
face, and one she had seen before. But not in America. In France.

She had read the look in those burning eyes. The man had seen the dress
before. He could not but know the one who wore it.

“And he is bad! Bad!” she panted.

One quick glance back, and she doubled her pace. The man was coming. He
was gaining.

What had she to fear from him? What had she not? Was he not the leader
of a gypsy clan who bore a deadly hate for every member of the Bihari
Tribe? And had she not traveled for many months with the Bihari?

She rounded a corner. Before her stood an open basement window. “Any
port in a storm.” With a sprightly spring she cleared the window sill
and disappeared.

And then—confusion! Where was she? What had happened?



                               CHAPTER II
                         FROM OUT THE WRECKAGE


When she thrust a foot through the open window, Jeanne felt some solid
object beneath her and was thankful. But scarcely had she thrown the
full weight of her body on that object and swung herself through than
the thing beneath her veered to the right, swayed for a second, and then
gave way and went down with a terrifying crash.

And Petite Jeanne, when she had regained her scattered senses, found
herself in the midst of it all. What was worse, it appeared to be a
total wreck.

“Wha—where am I? What have I done?” she moaned.

“Well, anyway, I escaped him,” she philosophized.

But was she better off? Having had a full moment to reflect there in the
darkness and silence, she began to doubt it. Here she was in a strange
place—some one’s basement, and all about her was darkness. That she had
done some damage was certain.

“This,” she sighed, “is my luckee day. And what a start!

“Have to get going.” She made an attempt to free herself from the
entangled mass into which she had fallen. She put out a hand and felt
the rough edge of splintered wood. She moved a foot, and a fragment of
glass crashed to the floor.

“The place is a wreck!” she all but sobbed. “And I did it. Or did I? How
could I do so much?” She began to doubt her senses.

Now she sat up, silent, intent. Her ears had caught the sound of
footsteps.

“Some one’s coming. Now I’m in for it!”

The footsteps seemed to fall as lightly as a fairy’s toes. Scarcely had
Petite Jeanne begun to wonder about that when there came the sound of a
door being opened. Next instant a light flashed on, revealing in the
doorway the face of a girl.

And such a girl! Jeanne pronounced her Irish without a second’s
hesitation. She had those unmistakable smiling Irish eyes. And they were
smiling.

“She’s younger than I am, and no larger, though her shoulders are
broader. She’s bony. Maybe she works too hard and eats too little.”
These thoughts, flashing through the little French girl’s keen mind for
the moment, drove all thought of her plight out of her head. For those
eyes, those smiling Irish eyes, were the sort that take hearts captive.
Petite Jeanne was a willing captive.

“Did you fall in the window?” the girl asked.

Jeanne did not answer. She began to stare in amazement at the wreckage
all about her. Metal lamps with broken shades, tables split across the
top, chairs with rounds gone—all these and many more articles of
furniture and equipment were there, and all broken.

“I wouldn’t believe, unless I saw it,” she said gravely, “that so much
damage could be done with one tumble.”

“Oh, that!” The girl laughed merrily. “That’s our junk pile. It will all
be fixed some time. That’s what my brother Tad does all the time. We buy
broken things at auction sales and such places, and he fixes them. Then
we sell them. Tad’s older than I am, and an awfully good fixer.”

“He’d have to be,” said Jeanne, looking at the wreckage. “You’d think
this was the hold of a vessel after a terrific storm.”

“It’s not so difficult to fix ’em. I help sometimes,” the girl said in a
quiet tone. “But most of the time I’m either out buying, or else in the
shop selling.”

“Buying?”

“Yes. Buying this.” The strange girl made a sweeping gesture with her
hands.

“But don’t you—don’t you—how do you say that in English? Don’t you get
stung?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes.” The girl’s fine white teeth showed in a smile.
“But not often.

“But let me help you out of there!” she exclaimed. She put out a hand.
Jeanne took it. A fine, hard, capable little hand it was.

“This,” said Jeanne, as she felt her feet once more on a solid floor,
“is my luckee day.”

“It must be,” agreed the girl. “It’s a wonder you weren’t cut by broken
glass. But how did you happen to come in here?”

“A gypsy chased me.”

“A gypsy! How I hate them!” The girl’s face darkened.

“You shouldn’t. Not all of them. Some are good, some bad. I used to be a
gypsy.”

“Not really!” The big blue eyes were open wide, staring.

“Well, anyway, in France I traveled with them for a long, long time. And
they were very, very kind to me, Bihari and his band.

“But that man!” She threw an apprehensive glance toward the open window.
“Ugh! He is a very terrible man. I have not seen him in America before.
I wish he would go away forever.”

“It’s good he didn’t follow you.” The girl glanced once more at the
window. “I shouldn’t have been much protection. And Tad, he—” she
hesitated. “Well, he isn’t much of a fighter.” Jeanne saw a wistful look
steal over the girl’s face.

“But come!” said the impromptu hostess, “Let’s get out of here. That
gypsy might find us yet.”

They left the room and entered a narrow hallway. Through a door to the
right Jeanne caught the yellow gleam of a fire.

“Tad keeps the furnace,” the girl said simply. “We get our flat for
that.”

There was a suggestion of pride in her tone as she said “our flat.”

“I’m going to like her more and more,” thought Jeanne. “What’s your
name?” she asked.

“Merry Murphy.” The other girl spelled the first name out. “I have to do
it,” she explained. “People think it’s M-a-r-y.”

“It should be M-e-r-r-y,” laughed Jeanne.

“Here’s our dining room and workshop.” The girl led the way into a room
lighted by a score of lamps.

“How odd!” The words escaped Jeanne’s lips unbidden.

“They’re all fixed. Tad fixed them,” said Merry proudly. “We’ll sell
them, but until we do we’ll use them. See, the lights are very tiny. It
costs little to use them. And it makes us forget this is a basement. And
it is, you know.”

“No!” Jeanne’s tone was sincere. “I truly had forgotten.”

Jeanne’s eyes swept the room and came to rest on the bent shoulders of a
person working over a small bench in the corner.

“Tad!” Merry called. “See what I found in our storeroom. And see! She
isn’t broken one bit.” She put an arm about Jeanne’s waist and laughed
merrily.

“Oh, yes I am!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Broke flat as a flounder! Is that not
how you say it here in America, when you have not a penny left?

“But this,” she added quickly, “this is my luckee day. To-day I shall
make a beginning at piling up a fortune. See! I will go out to dance the
sun up out of the lake where he has been sleeping!”

She sprang across the room in a wild fantastic whirl which set all the
lamps jingling and twinkling.

Tad threw down his tools and sprang to his feet. Then the little French
girl’s dance came to a sudden end, for she was seized with a mood that
unfitted her for the dance. When Tad stood up he was no taller than when
he sat down; and yet he was a man in years.

“That’s all right.” He laughed a strange, hoarse laugh. “I’ve always
been this way; just a little tad of a man. You’ll get used to it. I
have. So has Merry, here.” He laid an affectionate hand on Merry’s arm.

Merry beamed down at him. “It’s not how tall you are, but what you’ve
got in your head,” she laughed. “Tad’s head is all full of bright ideas.

“We’re going to have coffee very soon. Won’t you stay and have some with
us?”

“And then who will dance the sun up from the lake?” Jeanne went dancing
away again. “Oh, no I must not.

“But I must come back. Truly I must. You will take me to a sale, a very
strange sale. Will you not?”

“This morning if you like.”

“This very morning! How wonderful! And this is my luckee day!”

“This is the door, if you must go.”

“Truly I must.”

Merry led the way.

“But tell me,” said Jeanne as she stood at the foot of the stairway
leading to the street. “If I go to this sale shall I buy something, a
very small package all sealed up, very mysterious?”

“Y-yes, I think you may.” The Irish girl laughed a merry Irish laugh.
“At this sale all packages are sealed. You don’t know what you buy. You
really do not.”

The next moment Jeanne found herself tripping lightly over the dewy
grass, bound for the spot beneath the willows where on many a morning
before the world was awake, she had gone through her fairy-like dances
undisturbed.



                              CHAPTER III
                           THE MAGIC UMBRELLA


The sun was still sleeping peacefully beneath the lake when she arrived
at the grove of broad, spreading willows. Off to the east huge clouds
like ghosts in dark robes were rushing over the water.

“Never you mind,” laughed Petite Jeanne, “I know you. You are only a
great big bluff. When Mister Sun comes out he will dress you in pink and
gold. After that he will fade you to palest pale and send you scampering
away to cast thin shadows over meadows and pastures where lambs are
feeding on clover.”

As if the thought of gamboling lambs set her limbs in motion, the little
French girl went springing away in a sprightly dance.

For a full quarter of an hour she lost herself in the intoxicating joy
of action. Now she raced away before a breeze. Now she whirled until all
her red petticoats were wheels. Now she threw her head back and laughed
at the birds who scolded from the trees. And now, snatching the sash
from her waist, she went bowing and weaving away toward the sandy beach
where little white waves were playing.

It was while on her way back from this little journey that she sought a
lone bench beneath the greatest of the willows for a moment of rest.

It was that time of half-light just before dawn. Already the fearsome
clouds were beginning to lose their terror. They had taken on a faint
touch of old rose.

Jeanne dropped down upon the bench, as she had done many times before,
without looking. The next instant she gave forth a startled little “Oh!”

A man was seated beside her. Quite an old man he was, with long gray
hair protruding from an ancient slouch hat.

“So you are human!” His drawl was soft, melodious. “I didn’t believe you
could be. Only fairies dance like that. I thought you a fairy.”

As if to assure himself that he could not be mistaken, he touched the
hem of her broad, short skirt.

Petite Jeanne wanted to spring up and run away. No one had ever been
here at this hour; yet something held her in her place.

There are times in all our lives when it seems that an invisible hand,
resting upon our shoulder, bids us stay.

“You—why there were times when you flew,” the melodious voice went on.
“Flew! That’s what you did.

“I flew once.” His voice took on a reminiscent air. “In an airplane, I
mean. Often thought I’d try it again. But when you have a narrow escape
once—” The voice trailed off. For a moment there was silence.

“You see,” he began once more, “a fellow asked me to go up. I said it
might rain; I’d go if I could take my umbrella.

“He looked at my umbrella, and said: ‘You can’t take that.’

“Most men hate umbrellas. Rather get wet than carry one. Guess he was
that way.

“Well, I said: ‘All right, I’ll go up.’ So we went up. And I took my
umbrella; slipped it in, kind o’ hid it.

“But, by and by, when we were up a long way and the houses took to
looking small, he saw that umbrella. Then he was hopping mad.

“He said: ‘You got to throw that out.’

“I said: ‘I can’t, mister. It would get lost. It belongs to my
grandfather. It’s silk. The silk came from China where little yellow
ladies wound it off silk cocoons by hand. And the bows are all steel,
forged by hand. And besides, it might hit somebody and mighty nigh kill
’em.’

“He said: ‘Don’t matter. Out she goes!’

“Then I says: ‘If she goes out, I go with her.’

“He says: ‘That’s jake with me.’

“So up I climbs and out I jumps. And fall! You never saw the houses get
big as fast as those did!

“I got to thinking I might fall on somebody and was feelin’ mighty sorry
about that, when I thought of my umbrella. All silk from China it was,
where little yeller women wound it out from cocoons. And the bows all
made from hand forged steel. Strong they were, strong as London Bridge.

“And when I thought of my umbrella I knew it was all right; parachute,
don’t you know.”

Once more his voice trailed away like the last echo of a distant tolling
bell.

Petite Jeanne stole a look at his face. It was still, and almost
beautiful. “Like a child’s dream,” she thought.

“And then—” He came to himself with a start. “Then I opened up that
umbrella. Silk, you understand, all pure silk, and bows of forged steel.
Strong as London Bridge. I opened her up, and she caught me and held me
and let me down in a cabbage patch. Now what do you think of that?” His
face was all wreathed with smiles.

“What do I think?” said Petite Jeanne, with a shy smile in return for
his. The light in her eyes was kindly, and the touch on his arm gentle,
for the little French girl loved old men with long gray hair, and she
was charmed by their stories as she was charmed when she was six. “What
do I think? I think you have no umbrella at all.”

“No umbrella!” He put out a hand as if to grasp one. Then, springing to
his feet, he pretended to search the bench.

“Bless me!” he cried. “Some one has stolen it! My grandfather’s
umbrella. And such a fine umbrella, all silk from China. Little yeller
women—”

“Yes, I know. You told me,” laughed Petite Jeanne. “But see! The sun is
smiling on the water! I must dance him out for a new day.

“And this,” she sang as she danced away, “this is my luckee day!”



                               CHAPTER IV
                          SIX FEROCIOUS BEARS


“And now,” said Jeanne, as she returned from dancing the sun up, “tell
me another story.”

As the old man looked at her a droll smile played over his wrinkled
face. “I don’t think you believe my stories,” he said.

“Oh, yes, I do!” she protested vigorously. “At—at least, almost.”

“Well, then—” He placed his feet on the ground, then prodded the sod
with his cane. “Once I was in the Catskill Mountains—or was it the
Cascades? I disremember.”

“The mountains don’t matter,” the girl laughed. “I can’t ever remember
names. But mountains. There are always bears in mountains.”

The little French girl’s look suddenly went very sober. She seemed ready
to burst into tears. Little wonder, for only one short month before she
had buried her pet and pal, Tico the bear. Tico had shared her joys and
sorrows for many a year. With him as her dancing partner, she had
achieved notable success. Now he was gone. So, too, it seemed, were her
chances of ever dancing on the stage again.

“He’s gone,” she thought with a sigh, “My pal.”

Tico’s illness had cost her much money. He had been given all the care
of a gentleman of importance, and had been buried in a formal manner.
Now the little French girl was poor, and Tico was gone forever.

“Bears,” she repeated, pulling herself together, “bears in the
mountains. Wild bears. Not tame ones.”

“Yes, wild bears!” the old man said as if taking his cue. “Six ferocious
wild bears. I met them all in the Alleghenys—or was it the Rockies?”

“The Cumberlands,” laughed Jeanne.

“Yes, that’s it, the Cumberlands. Six wild, hungry, man eating bears.
They formed a circle about me and sat there on their haunches with their
tongues lolling.

“They were ready to eat me. And what did I do?”

“What did you do?”

“I danced and made faces. I can dance; not like fairies. But I can dance
and make faces. Want to see me?”

Jeanne nodded her head.

Springing from his place on the bench, the old man began to dance.

And now it was the girl’s turn to open her eyes wide in surprise. This
old man was an artist. True, he did not dance as lightly as she. But he
knew steps and movements. He had not been on his feet for five minutes
when she realized that he could teach her much about her own beloved
art.

In the joy of dancing he forgot the terrible faces he was to make.

At last, quite out of breath, he threw himself down beside her.

“You’ve been on the stage,” she said solemnly.

“Why, so I have. All my life.”

She put out a small hand. “I, too.” Her voice was mellow with emotion.
“I am Petite Jeanne.”

“Petite Jeanne! I should have guessed it.”

“And you?” Jeanne still held his hand.

“Plain Dan Baker. A ham actor. You never heard of me. And never will.
They won’t let me hoof it in the sticks any more.”

“I am not sure of that,” Jeanne’s face was sober. “Once to every man and
nation. Your time may come.

“But the bears?” She whirled about. “What of the six ferocious bears?”

As she turned she saw with a start that a second man, a young man with
dark skin and very black eyes, had dropped to the bench on the other
side of Dan Baker.

Did Dan Baker know this? Was he acquainted with this young man? If so,
he made no sign but went straight on with his story.

“Oh, yes, the bears!” He chuckled. “There they were, six bears, brown
bears; no, grizzlies. There they were ready to eat me.

“What did I do? I began dancing and making faces. A bear’s got a sense
of humor; oh, yes, a very keen sense of humor.

“No time at all till I had ’em; had ’em good. Most appreciative audience
you ever saw.

“Then, still dancing, I began chucking them hard under their chins,
cracking their teeth on their tongues. See!

“No time at all and their tongues were so sore they couldn’t swallow. So
why try to eat me?

“That’s the way they looked at it. Soon as the show was over they left;
went right off into the mountains; all but one.

“And that one, the biggest one of all, meant to eat me, sore tongue or
no tongue at all.

“With a ferocious growl, tongue out, teeth shining, he came right at me.

“What did I do? What could I do? Just one thing. An inspiration! I
sprang at him, seized his tongue, crammed it down his throat and choked
him to death!”

“Killed him,” said a voice over his shoulder. It was the strange young
man.

“Didn’t he bite you?” asked Petite Jeanne.

“Bite me? Oh, yes, to be sure. But then, what’s a little bite between
friends?” Once more that deep, dry chuckle.

“Angelo!” he exclaimed. “This is Petite Jeanne. She dances, you know.”

“She does! I saw her. It was divine!” The youth’s eyes shone.

Jeanne flushed.

“You see,” said Dan Baker to Jeanne, “Angelo, here, tries to write
plays. I try to be a ham actor. You try to dance on the stage. They
won’t let any one of us do what we wish to do, so we should get on
famously together.”

“We are all going to be rich,” Jeanne said cheerfully. “For this is my
luckee day!”

“We shall be rich, indeed!” exclaimed the young Italian, springing to
his feet. “This very moment I have a bright idea. I shall write a play
around you two. You shall act it, and we’ll be made.

“But come! I still have the price of coffee and rolls for three. It is
time for that now. Let’s go.”



                               CHAPTER V
                            COFFEE FOR THREE


It was with a critical eye that Petite Jeanne studied her strange
companions as they marched away across the park toward the nearest row
of shops where a lunch counter might be found. With her native French
caution she resolved not to be taken in by strangers.

“They amuse me,” she told herself. “Especially the old man. And yet, I
wonder if amuse is just the right word. He tells prodigious lies. I
wonder if he really means you to believe them. And yet, who would not
love him?

“A cup of coffee on a stool,” she concluded. “Where’s the harm in that?
He may tell me other stories.”

A cup of coffee on a stool was exactly what it turned out to be. The
young host made no apologies as he bowed the little French girl to the
nearest lunch counter and gave her his hand as she mounted the high
seat.

Petite Jeanne ordered sugar wafers, the others ordered doughnuts, and
they all had coffee.

Dan Baker told no stories over that coffee. It was Angelo who did the
talking until he hit upon the fact that Jeanne had traveled with
gypsies. Then his big dark eyes lighted with a strange fire as he
demanded:

“Tell me about that. Tell me all about it!”

Petite Jeanne was tempted not to tell. But the coffee was truly fine,
and this was to be her lucky day. Why begin it by refusing such a simple
request by a friendly young man?

She told her story, told it very well, told of her wanderings across
France in a gypsy van. Once more she danced with her bear down country
lanes and across village squares. She sang for pennies at fairs and
carnivals. She haunted the streets of Paris.

“Beautiful Paris. Marvelous, matchless, beautiful city of my dreams!”
Dan Baker murmured, even as she rambled on.

Jeanne loved him for it. For her, Paris would always remain the most
beautiful city in all the world.

As she told her story the dark eyes of the Italian youth, Angelo, were
ever upon her. Yet his look was not an offensive one. So impersonal was
it that he might have been looking at a marble statue. Yet there was a
burning fire in his eyes, the fire of hope, of a new born dream. In that
dream he was laying plans, plans for her, Petite Jeanne; a play, his
play; a light opera, and what a light opera it would be!

“There!” Jeanne exclaimed as she hopped nimbly off her stool. “I have
told you my story. It is a happy little, sad little story, isn’t it? As
all true stories must be. There have been for me many moments of
happiness. And who in all the world can hope for more than that?”

“You speak the truth, child.” Dan Baker smiled. In that smile there was
something so full of meaning, so suggestive of a kindly soul grown
mellow with time, that Jeanne wished to stand on tiptoe and kiss that
wrinkled face.

Instead, she patted his hand and murmured: “Thank you so much for such a
lovely time and for those wonderful, wonderful stories.”

“But you are not leaving us so soon?” protested the young Italian.

“I must. This is to be my luckee day. Strange, mysterious happenings
have come to me. More will come. I have an engagement to meet a new
friend. She will take me to a sale. There I shall buy a package at
auction. What is in the package? Who knows? Perhaps I shall purchase
two, or even three. What will these contain? Who knows? Much, I am sure.
For this is my luckee day.”

She sang these last words as she danced out of the lunch room.

The others followed. “But you will see me again,” pleaded the young
Italian. “You are to be in my play, my light opera. I shall write it at
once, around you; you only and him, my white-haired friend. It shall be
about your beautiful Paree. And oh, how wonderful it shall be! It has
all come to me as you told your story. It is wonderful! Marvelous! I
have only to write it. And I shall write it with an electric pen that
spits fire. You shall see!

“Only grant me this!” In his excitement he waved his hands wildly.
Petite Jeanne could have loved him for that; for is it not thus they do
in her beloved France? “Grant me this!” he pleaded. “Come to my studio
to-night. When your lucky day is over. Then the night shall be more
fortunate than the day.

“See!” he exclaimed as he read doubt in her eyes. “It is all right. My
white-haired friend will be there. And if you wish—”

“All right,” said the girl impulsively, “I will come. I will bring my
friend.”

“Yes, yes,” he agreed eagerly. “Bring your friends. Bring many friends.
We shall have a party by the open fire. We shall have tea and biscuits
and preserves from my native land.”

“No,” said the little French girl, as a teasing smile played about her
lips. “I will bring one friend, only one. And she is big as a policeman,
and so strong! Mon Dieu! She is a physical director. She can swim a
mile, and skate like a man. And, oh, la, la! You shall see her.”

At that she went dancing away.

“She was teasing you,” said the old man.

“But she’s a marvel!”

“Yes. She is all that. And you will write a play for us?”

“I will write one.”

“And where shall we open? In Peoria?”

“Peoria? Chicago!”

“But I have never played in a great city. I am a—”

“In this life,” the youth broke in, “it is not what you have been that
counts. It is what you are going to be.

“In three months you will see your name beside that other one, Petite
Jeanne, and men will fight at the box office for tickets. You shall
see!”

The old man said no more. But as they walked away, he squared his bent
shoulders and took on for a time quite a military air.



                               CHAPTER VI
                          THE PLACE OF CHANCE


At eleven o’clock that morning Jeanne found herself seated beside the
blue-eyed, laughing Merry in the front row of chairs of a big, bare
salesroom. Before them was a long, high platform. Back of the platform,
piled to the ceiling, was an odd assortment of boxes, bales, bags,
trunks and bundles, the week’s accumulation of articles lost or rejected
in the offices of a great express company.

The place was half filled when they arrived. All the front seats were
taken save two. From these, hats mysteriously disappeared as Merry
approached. She nodded Jeanne to one chair and chose another for
herself.

“Those men saved seats for us,” Jeanne whispered in surprise. “Do ladies
always get front seats?”

“Never!” Merry shook her head vigorously. “Ladies are no good. They bid
too high. After that they make a fuss because they’ve robbed
themselves.”

“But you?”

“I’m no lady! Me?” The Irish girl drew herself up proudly. “I’m a buyer.
They all know me, these men.

“Look, Weston!” She had turned to the man at her left. “This is Petite
Jeanne. She’s going to buy, just one lot. You’ll lay off, won’t you?”

“Does she belong to the union?” The ruddy-faced German grinned.

“Sure,” Merry laughed back.

“All right, we’ll lay off, won’t we?” He turned to the man at his side.

“Certainly.” The one who spoke seemed as much out of place there as did
Petite Jeanne. He was young and, in a way, handsome. His features were
regular, his forehead high. But about his eyes was a look of
dissatisfaction.

“His life is a story, an interesting story,” Jeanne told herself. “I’d
love to read it.” To this little French girl the world was a stage
indeed, and all men actors. She was to learn more of the ways of those
who haunt auction sales ere the day was done.

Had some great artist come upon that scene, he would surely have hidden
himself away behind boxes and bundles, to peer through some narrow crack
and prepare a hasty sketch which must in time be developed into an
immortal work of art. There they were, Jeanne and Merry, like two beings
from another world; two glowing spots of color, one orange, one bright
purple, against a dull tide of brown, gray and black. The scene about
them was grim and sordid. It spoke of the cluttered stalls of Maxwell
Street where the poor of the city quarrel over the rags that must serve
them in lieu of garments, and of grim, stark tenements where men
struggle in vain for warmth and bread.

There were deep lines in the faces of those who ranged themselves, tier
on tier, behind the girls, waiting patiently for the show, which was a
weekly auction, to begin. And yet there was to be seen in many a pair of
eyes a glint of pleasurable anticipation.

“Look at them,” Merry whispered, allowing her glance to sweep the
growing throng. “They are gamblers; gamblers all.”

“Gamblers!” Jeanne voiced her astonishment.

“They are. You shall see. And this is a gambling institution. The
auctioneer will tell them they are gambling. Perhaps you will hear him
say it. ‘It’s not what you can make, but what you stand to lose.’ He
says that. And yet they bid.

“You will hear them very soon, bidding six dollars, seven, eight for
three packages. What’s in the packages? They are wrapped tight. Not one
of them can know. They bet their money that the packages will increase
their meager pile of money.”

“And do they?”

“Very seldom. Oh, yes, sometimes there are fine new goods, silk
stockings, dresses, shoes. They can’t all be bad.

“But then, too, you may pay real money for a worthless bundle of rags or
a handful of broken dishes.

“So you see,” she added with a sigh, “it’s the call of the gambler that
brings them here.”

“And you,” said Jeanne, “do you also gamble?”

“Very seldom. I buy only what I can see. To-day there are lamps, good
ones, and not badly broken. I shall buy them. I can see two new
traveling bags. If they are empty they will sell for very little.

“But if they are full—” She threw back her shoulders and smiled. “Then
you shall see how they will bid. For in their dreams they see in those
bags, lost in the express by other people, a fortune in watches,
diamonds and silks.

“And what will they find? A few moth eaten garments, some old letters, a
book or two, and some worthless trinkets. Did you ever pack your
treasures in a traveling bag? Never.

“But when men are poor—” She sighed again. “They will gamble, for they
have little to lose and always dream of gaining much. And after all,
what is life without dreams?”

“Dreams! Ah, yes!” Jeanne answered. “And shall we not gamble a wee bit
to-day?”

“Just a wee bit.” Merry squeezed her hand. “One small package for you
and one for me.”

“Yes, yes, let’s do!” the little French girl whispered eagerly, “For
this is my luckee day.”



                              CHAPTER VII
                           THE MARBLE FALCON


The auctioneer, a large, bald man with a warming smile, climbed to the
platform and announced the terms of the sale. “Goods,” he explained,
“are sold as is. No complaints will be listened to. A deposit will be
required with each purchase.”

“Ja! We know,” jeered one future purchaser. “If ve get hooked ve don’t
kick. You get our money. It iss good money. So you don’t kick. All iss
sveet and lovely. Ja!”

The crowd laughed. The auctioneer laughed with them. And well he could
afford to, for it was he who always had the last laugh.

“Remember,” Weston, the ruddy-cheeked German, whispered in Merry’s ear,
“seventy-five is union price.”

“I remember.” Merry turned her smiling eyes upon his. Those eyes had
done much for her in the past. If she particularly wished a package,
these, her friends of the “union,” refused to bid, and she bought it at
her own price. The “union” was a union only in name. It was composed of
a group of regular buyers who, meeting here and elsewhere, had
themselves united in a bond of friendship.

This day, however, the union found itself greatly outnumbered by casual
customers who on occasion bid high, and returned home later to curse the
spirit of chance that for the moment had held them under its spell.

“Three packages!” shouted the auctioneer. “Three! How much apiece? How
much for each one?”

“Quarter.”

“Half dollar.”

“Who goes seventy-five?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Dollar.”

“And a quarter.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Merry. “Watch them climb! Seventy-five is union price.
How can we buy to-day?”

“Oh, but I still have money,” insisted Jeanne. “We must buy. I will pay.
This is my luckee day.”

“There’s no luck if you break union rules. Wait.”

They did wait. Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half the sale went
on. Merry bought two damaged lamps and a broken chair. These went for a
song. But packages! How they soared!

Merry took to bidding union price at the very start. “Seventy-five!” she
shouted again and again, but each time the throng behind went far above
her.

“Pipe down!” Weston shouted back at them. “Give the little girl a
chance!”

Not a chance did they give her.

So the day wore on. The pile behind the counter had dwindled very low
when two modest sized packages, one with a foreign label on it, were put
up.

“See!” hissed Jeanne in sudden excitement. “That one came from France.
There are French words on the label. We must have it!”

“Sh! Be still!” Merry squeezed her hand.

Weston bid a quarter. Fisheim, a second member of the union, went to
half a dollar.

“Seventy-five!” screamed Merry.

“Seventy-five, and sold!” shouted the auctioneer.

Merry thanked him with her laughing Irish eyes. She understood it all.
She had been saving him breath by bidding high at the start. Now she was
repaid.

“Di—did we get them?” the little French girl demanded breathlessly.

“We did. And now we go to the window. We must pay there. The sale will
be over in ten minutes. Ten more, and we’ll march away with our precious
parcels from the big grab-bag. Tad will come for the lamps and the chair
to-morrow.”

“Mine’s heavy.” Jeanne gave a little skip of joy as they entered the
elevator twenty minutes later.

“So’s mine.” Merry’s tone did not echo her companion’s enthusiasm.
“Don’t expect too much, you know. Blessed is he who expecteth nothing,
for he shall not be disappointed! That’s not in the Bible, but it should
have been.

“Your package may be full of old books and mine loaded with bricks. Old
books come often enough, and I’ve seen broken bricks in a package, too.”

“Bricks!” Jeanne voiced her amazement. “Why would anyone send broken
bricks by express?”

“They wouldn’t. But, you see, these packages are sent in from express
offices everywhere. Not all of the agents are honest. If an agent is
about to send in a nice mantel clock, slightly damaged, what’s to hinder
his taking it out and replacing it with broken bricks? No one will be
the wiser. If you or I buy the package, we get hooked, that’s all.”

“Bricks!” Jeanne said in disgust. “But then, mine is not full of bricks.
This is my luckee day!”

“Here!” Merry pulled her into the shadow of a stairway. “We’ll unwrap
them here. No one will see us.”

If Petite Jeanne’s hands trembled as she tore away the paper wrappings
with the strange foreign labels, her whole body trembled and she
appeared about to sink to the ground as she took one look at that which
was within.

She lifted the object half way out of its box, stared at it with bulging
eyes as she murmured something like “Fire God.” Then, crowding the thing
back as if it were alive and about to jump at her, she crammed paper
down upon it and hastily glanced about her to see if any stranger might
have observed her action. Seeing no one, she heaved a sigh of relief.

“Look!” Merry’s tone was joyous. “A bird! A bird carved from marble!”

“It’s a falcon.” Jeanne studied it critically. “A marble falcon. And how
well it is done! You know falcons are like eagles and hawks, only they
may be tamed and taught to hunt for you. There are many of them in
Europe and England. The gypsies are very fond of them. Gypsies are not
allowed to hunt in the forest preserves. But their birds. Oh, la, la!
That is another matter.

“But what a pity!” she exclaimed. “His beak is broken!”

“Sure!” laughed Merry. “What do you expect for three greasy quarters? If
he were whole, he’d be worth a whole double golden eagle.

“Perhaps the beak is here.” She began feeling about in the excelsior
wrappings. “Yes, yes, here it is! How very fortunate! Now we shall see
him all together again. Tad will fix that.

“We will not sell him, for all that,” she continued solemnly. “He shall
be my very own. See! He is looking toward the clouds. He has a broken
beak, yet he can look skyward. He shall be my inspiration. When all
seems dark; when our money is spent and no one comes to our poor little
shop to buy, then I shall look at my marble falcon and say:

“‘You are brave. Your beak is broken; yet you look toward the clouds.’”

“How wonderful!” Jeanne murmured. “Would that I, too, possessed a marble
falcon with a broken beak.”

“But what did _you_ find?” Merry put out a hand for Jeanne’s package.

“No, no!” The little French girl’s cheeks paled as she drew back! “Not
here! I will show you. But please, not here.”

Petite Jeanne was strangely silent as they rattled homeward on an
elevated train. Her actions, too, were strange. The mysterious package
with its question-provoking foreign labels lay beside her on the seat.
Once, as she appeared to waken from a trance-like state, she put out a
hand to push the package far from her.

“As if it contained some hidden peril,” Merry told herself.

The next moment, as if afraid some one would take it from her, the
little French girl was holding the package close to her side.

When they had gained the seclusion of her own small room, all was
changed. She became vastly excited. Throwing off her wraps, she pulled
down the shades, threw on a table lamp that gave forth a curious red
glow; then, tearing the package open, she drew forth a curious figure
done in some metal that resembled bronze. A bust it was, the head and
shoulders of a man. And such a man! Such a long, twisted nose! Such
protruding eyes! Such a leer as overspread his features!

“Oh!” exclaimed Merry. “How terrible!”

“Do you think so?” Petite Jeanne spoke as one in a trance.

She set the bronze figure in the light of the red lamp. There it
appeared to take on the glow of fire, the popping eyes gleaming
wickedly.

Petite Jeanne did not seem to mind this. She stood and stared at the
thing until a look of dreamy rapture overspread her face. Then she
spoke:

“This is the gypsy God of Fire. How often in hidden places, beside
hedges and in the heart of dark forests I have danced before him the
gypsy fire dance, the dance that brings health and happiness! How often
I have longed to possess him! And now he is mine! Mine, for I have
bought him. Bought him for three tiny quarters.

“Oh, my friend!” She threw her arms about the astonished Merry. “Truly
you are my friend. See! See what you have brought me. The gypsy God of
Fire.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Merry.

“No. And perhaps you never will,” the little French girl whispered. “It
is a very deep enchantment.”

At that she led her friend on tiptoe to the door and kissed her
good-bye.

“What a very strange girl!” Merry murmured as she made her way down the
stairs. “And yet I like her. I—I love her. I truly do.”



                              CHAPTER VIII
                         THE GYPSY GOD OF FIRE


It was with a light tread that Petite Jeanne’s nimble feet carried her
up the seven flights of stairs leading to the studio of a young
playwright named Angelo. It appeared incredible that this young Italian
who tried to write plays and had known no success, and a white-haired
wanderer who had danced his way from one small city to another across
the country, could accomplish great things in mending her fortune and in
setting her once more before the gleaming footlights of some great
theatre. Yet so perfect was her faith in this, her lucky day, that
nothing seemed too much to expect, even from so humble a beginning. For,
you see, Petite Jeanne believed in miracles, in angels, fairies,
goblins, ghosts and all the rest. She was French. And French people, you
must know, are that way. For you surely have read how the great Joan of
Arc, as a child, often spent many hours watching the fairies play
beneath her favorite tree.

“It must be a terribly dingy place,” Florence Huyler, her companion and
bodyguard, said in a low tone as they approached the final landing.
“This is a fearfully old building and we are right beneath the eaves.”

She was right. They were beneath the eaves. She was mistaken, too; more
mistaken than she could have guessed. The place they entered was large,
but not dingy. It was far from that. Besides being an ambitious young
writer, Angelo was an artist. He had taken this barn-like attic and had
created here a small paradise.

Having attended a sale at which the stage settings of a defunct play
were being sold, he had bid in at an astonishingly low sum all the
pieces he desired. The result was surprising. While one end of his attic
studio contained the accustomed desk and chair of a writer, the other
end was equipped as a stage.

And what a charming stage it was! Angelo was a genius. With a brush and
bright colors he had transformed the dingiest of drops, wings and stage
furniture into a vision of life and beauty.

“Oh! Oh!” cried Jeanne as she entered the room. “Once more I am on the
stage!”

With one wild fling she went floating like a golden butterfly across the
narrow stage.

Catching the spirit of the moment, the aged actor, who had been sitting
in the corner, sprang to his feet and joined her in an impromptu dance
that was as unique as it was charming.

“Bravo! Bravo!” Angelo shouted, quite beside himself with joy. “That
dance alone would make any play. But there shall be others. Many
others.”

“And this,” exclaimed Petite Jeanne, breaking in upon his ecstasy to
spring into a corner and return with something in her hand, “this is the
gypsy dance to the God of Fire!”

Depositing some object on the floor, she deftly manipulated the lights
and threw a single yellow gleam upon it.

“A gypsy god!” Florence murmured. There was a touch of awe in her voice,
as, indeed, there might well be. This god was endowed with power to
frighten and subdue. There was about his features something that was at
the same time ugly and fascinating. In the yellow light he appeared to
glow with hidden fire.

As the little French girl began to weave and sway through the snake-like
motions of the gypsy fire dance, a silence fell as upon a first night
when the curtain rises on a scene of extraordinary beauty.

Even in this humble setting the scene was gripping. Long after the girl
had finished the dance and thrown herself upon the stage floor to lie
there, head resting upon one bent elbow, as silent as the gypsy god, the
hush still hung over the room.

No one spoke until the quaint words of this mysterious child of France
rose once more like a tiny wisp of smoke from the center of the stage.

“This is the gypsy Fire God,” she chanted. “Years and years ago, many,
many centuries before we were born, strange men and women with dark and
burning eyes danced their fire dance in his honor, beneath the palm
trees of India.

“This is the God of Fire. Other gods may come and go, but he must live
on forever. He will not perish. None can destroy him. Fallen from some
planet where fires burn eternal, he alone holds the secret of fire. Let
him perish and all fire on earth will cease. Matches will not light.
Wood and fire will not burn. The earth will grow cold, cold, cold!” She
shuddered. And those who listened shuddered.

“The very fire at the center of the earth will burn low and go out. Then
the earth will be covered with ice and snow. All living things must
perish.

“He will not be destroyed!” She threw her arms out as if to protect this
god of fiery enchantment.

Again there was silence.

“She does not believe that.” Florence voiced her skepticism.

“Who knows?” Angelo’s voice was tense. “And after all, it doesn’t
matter. The thing is perfect. Can’t you see? It is perfect!” He sprang
excitedly to his feet. “This shall be our first scene. The curtain shall
rise just here and about this God of Fire we shall weave our play. And
it shall be called ‘The Gypsy God of Fire.’”



                               CHAPTER IX
                     THE SHADOW ON THE WINDOW PANE


Even as the young Italian spoke, there came a knock at the door. With a
little cry of fear, Petite Jeanne threw a small Persian rug over her
treasured god; then, as if prepared to hold her ground against all
comers, she clenched her small fists and turned to face the door.

Noting this, Angelo approached the door with silent footsteps, opened it
a crack and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

“Who’s there?”

“Only I, your friend, Swen,” came in a large round voice.

“Swen Swenson! The Swedish night hawk!” Angelo shouted, throwing the
door wide and extending both hands in greeting: “Who could be more
welcome at a time like this?”

“What time?”

The youth who asked this question as he entered was a near giant in
stature. His head was crowned with a shock of yellow hair. His cheeks
were as rosy as a country child’s. His blue eyes were wide and smiling.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to
present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal
masterpiece!

“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the
Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny
Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!

“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here
shall rest the richest crown of all!”

“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill
humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.”

“Patience!” The young Italian held out a hand. “All must be done in
proper form. One moment. I shall light the fire. The kettle shall
simmer. Before the fire all will be confessed. And after this we shall
lay the plot, and what a plot it will be!”

Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad
fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by
magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an
artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the
fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden
seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were
soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon
thick rugs before the fire.

The lights were put out. The yellow glow of flames playing upon Angelo’s
dark face transformed him seemingly into quite another being.

“See!” Florence whispered. “He is like a god in ancient bronze.”

“But not so ancient as this.” With fingers that trembled Petite Jeanne
placed the gypsy god on the very border of the flames.

The transformation that followed instantly was startling. Florence
jumped from her place. The big, blonde musician sprang backward. Angelo
stared with wide eyes. As for Dan Baker, he stared at the thing with the
fascination of a child.

And Jeanne? She merely smiled. Many times, at the back of hedges in the
dead of night, or hidden away in some black forest, she had seen this
thing, had witnessed the transformation of something that appeared all
metal into a being that seemed alive with savage, fantastic grandeur:
the gypsy God of Fire.

Even as they stared, voiceless, intent, motionless, a sound startled
them all—the rattling of a windowpane in the skylight several feet above
their heads.

Instantly all eyes were on that window. Everyone there knew that it was
a silent, star-lit night.

“It rattled!” Jeanne whispered.

“And there is no wind!” Florence answered low.

As they looked, a mellow glow overspread the window.

“Who—What is it?” Jeanne’s eyes were staring.

“That?” Angelo laughed a low laugh. “That is only the gleam of Lindbergh
Light, the airplane beacon.”

“But does it always rattle the window?”

“Light? Never!”

“But this,” the young Italian added quickly, “this is nothing. Come! We
are wasting time. To-night, by this fire, we shall lay the groundwork
for such a light opera as has never been known before. You, Swen,” he
turned to the big blonde, “you are to write the music. I shall write the
play. And these, our friends, are to be the stars.”

“Beautiful dream!” Petite Jeanne murmured.

“A dream for a night. A reality forever!” The Italian youth flung his
arms wide in the characteristic gesture that the little French girl
loved to see.

“See!” he exclaimed as the fire died down to the orange glow of a
sunset. “The ugly little god smiles. It is an omen of good.”

They looked, and indeed the curious thing from the heart of the earth or
from some distant planet (who could tell which?) seemed to smile.

But again Petite Jeanne shuddered; for, at that precise moment the
window sash rattled again, this time with an unmistakable bang.

“Come,” urged Angelo, “snap out of it. It’s only the wind. We’ll make a
beginning.”

“Wait. Wait but one little minute!” the French girl pleaded. She pressed
her hand over her throbbing heart.

“Now,” she murmured as she sank back among the cushions, “it is over.”

“Behold, then!” Angelo began in the grand manner. “You, Petite Jeanne,
are, just as you were in France, a refugee. No mother; no father; only a
dancing bear. The gypsies, good gypsies, the best in all France, have
befriended you. From village to village you have danced your way across
France. All France has come to know and love you.

“But now—” He paused for emphasis. “This is where our play shall begin,
just here. Now your bear seems at the point of death. He lies in the
shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire
that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his
presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your
ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins
will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended.

“The light of the fire dispels the dark shadows of night for but a short
distance. At the edge of those shadows, unobserved by those about the
camp fire, sits an old man. His hair is long. It curls at the ends. His
battered hat is drawn low over a mellow, kindly face.

“That man—” He turned suddenly toward Dan Baker. “That man is no other
than yourself, Dan. You, too, are a wanderer. Down the road a short
distance is a small tent. Close by are two burros. You are an old time
prospector. All over America, with pick and pan, you have wandered.

“Some one has told you that there is gold to be found in the hills of
France. And here you are.”

“Here I am,” Dan Baker echoed.

“You have found no gold. You have found something better—a beautiful
young lady in distress.”

The color in Petite Jeanne’s cheek deepened.

“The gypsies have given up hope. For them the bear is as good as dead.”

“But you—” He turned again to Jeanne. “You have not despaired. For, is
there not still the Dance of Fire? Is not the gypsy God of Fire close
beside you? And have not this dance and this god worked miracles in the
past?”

The young Italian paused to prod the fire. As it blazed up the face of
the gypsy god was illumined in a strange manner. His lips appeared to
part. He seemed about to speak. Yet no sound was heard.

“See!” cried Petite Jeanne. “He approves! We shall succeed! Truly this
is my luckee day!”

Once more Angelo held up a hand for silence. “So there,” he began again,
“by the gypsy camp fire, with all your dark-faced companions gathered
about you, and with the God of Fire smiling at you from the very heart
of the flames, you dance the gypsy Dance of Fire.”

As if this were a cue, the little girl, half French, half gypsy, sprang
to her feet and before the curious god, gleaming there at the edge of
the flame, danced her weird dance as it had never been danced before.

“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Swen.

“Bravo! Bravo!” they all echoed. “The play will be a great success even
if there is nothing more than this.”

“There will be more—much more!” Angelo shouted joyously.

“As you dance,” he began again a moment later, when Petite Jeanne had
settled back among her cushions, “an aged gypsy woman creeps from the
shadows to whisper a word in the ear of the chief of the tribe. Word is
passed round the circle. A great sadness falls over all. The Dance of
Fire has failed. The dancing bear will dance no more. He is dead.

“At a glance the dancer learns all. The dance ended, she flings herself
before the fire in an attitude of grief.

“Silence; the golden moon; the campfire; the bright painted wagons; and
sorrow, such deep sorrow as only a gypsy knows.

“And then a curious thing happens. An old man, whose gray hair hangs
down to his shoulders, comes dancing into the golden circle of light. As
he enters the circle he exclaims:

“‘Why be sad? See! I am sent by the Fire God to fill the place of Tico,
the bear. I shall be this beautiful one’s dancing partner.’

“The gypsies are surprised and, for the moment, amused. They ridicule
him in true gypsy fashion.

“As he dances on and on, however, silence steals over the camp. They
begin to realize that he is a marvelous dancer.

“He begins the gypsy dance to the harvest moon. Petite Jeanne springs to
her feet and joins him. Her face is wreathed in smiles. She believes the
God of Fire truly has sent this one to be her partner; else how could he
dance so divinely?

“As they dance on about the fire, they are joined by others, many
beautiful gypsy maidens, dressed in colorful gypsy fashion. This is our
chorus. They will appear often, but this will be the beginning.”

Angelo paused for breath. The room went strangely silent. The fire had
burned low. Still the God of Fire appeared to smile.

“When the dance is over,” he took up the thread of the story once more,
“the mysterious dancer binds the bargain by presenting the chief with a
double eagle, twenty dollars in gold. Then he vanishes into the shadows.

“Instantly it is murmured that this is some very rich American in
disguise. For, as you must know, the French think all Americans are
rich. And here, with the gypsies speculating in regard to the future,
and Petite Jeanne gazing raptly at the gypsy god who has brought her
such good fortune—

“See!” The young Italian prodded the fire vigorously. “See? He smiles!
He approves!”

But this time Jeanne did not see, for once more the window above them
had rattled. And this time, as the beacon cast its glow upon the glass,
there appeared a shadow, the shadow of a man, the man who had without
doubt been looking down upon them and upon the smiling gypsy god.

Both light and shadow were gone in an instant. Not, however, until the
keen eyes of the little French girl had identified the one who had cast
that shadow.

“At such a time and such a place!” she whispered to herself, as a
shudder ran through her slight form. To her companions she said not a
word.

“That’s as far as we go to-night.” Angelo rose from his place by the
fire and dropped limply into a chair. Gone was the fire in his dark
eyes. His spell of inspiration at an end, he desired only rest and
peace.

“Miss Florence,” he passed a hand across his face, “the water in the
kettle is steaming. Will you honor us by making tea? There’s black tea
in the green can on the mantel and a lemon yonder on the table.”

Florence hastened to do her bit toward making the evening a complete
success.

“I move we meet again to-morrow night. And here’s to success!” exclaimed
Swen, holding his cup high as tea was poured.

“Second the motion!” There was a suspicious huskiness in Dan Baker’s
tone. “Think of stirring hopes like these in an old man’s breast! Been
twenty years since I dreamed of doing big time in a great city. And now
I dream once more. We will succeed.”

“We must!” Angelo agreed fervently. “We must!

“Friends,” his tone took on its former vigor, “you see me here very
comfortable indeed. Rugs, chairs, a fireplace, a stage—all very snug.
All these were purchased with money received for one act plays written
for the radio. That contract is ended; the money is nearly gone. Two
more months and unless some fresh triumph comes along these,” he spread
his arms wide, “all these must leave me.”

“But they will not.” Petite Jeanne gripped his arm impulsively. “They
shall not. We will help you keep them. Yes! Yes! And you shall have much
more that is truly beautiful. You shall see!”



                               CHAPTER X
                         THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR


Many times, as they journeyed homeward that night, Petite Jeanne cast
apprehensive glances over her shoulder. More than once, as some object
appeared to move in the darkness, she felt a great fear gripping at her
heart, and had it not been for the presence of her staunch companion she
would doubtless have gone fleeing into the night.

The cause of her fear, the gypsy god, was safely tucked away under her
arm. This did not allay her fear. It only served to increase it, for had
she not seen the shadow cast upon Angelo’s windowpane? And had she not
recognized that shadow as belonging to the very gypsy who had pursued
her in the darkness of that very morning?

“It is very strange about this gypsy god,” she said to Florence, as with
a sigh of relief she sank into the depths of her own easy chair in their
own little room. “One does not understand it at all. This god has been
in the possession of the gypsy tribe of Bihari, my gypsy stepfather. As
chief of the tribe he has watched over it for many years. Bihari is not
in America. If he were I should know. Good news travels far in the wide
world of the gypsies.

“And if he is not here, why is the God of Fire in this land? There can
be but one answer. The tribe of Bihari would never part with so
priceless a possession. It has been stolen and sent to America.”

“And then lost in the express.”

“You are quite right.”

“But who would steal it?”

“Who can say? Perhaps a gypsy who hates Bihari. There are many such.
Perhaps only some sight-seeing Americans. There are some who would steal
the Arch of Triumph in Paris as a souvenir if they could.”

“But is it so wonderful?” Florence’s tone was cold. Petite Jeanne had
placed the strange object of their discussion upon the mantel. There,
far from the glow of a fire, the thing seemed hideous, smoke-blackened,
dead.

“Who can tell all?” Petite Jeanne’s voice trailed off into a weary
silence.

When she spoke again it was as with the lips of a philosopher:

“Who can know all? The gypsies believe that the fire dance and this god
give them strength and courage, that their sick are healed, that by
these their fortunes are mended. There are those who have been to many
schools and who should know much more than the poor, wandering gypsies,
but they believe in even stranger things.

“I only know that this god, this God of Fire, is very old and that I
believe in his power because I was taught to do so as a child.

“But the gypsies of America desire this god!”

She sprang suddenly to her feet and began pacing the floor.

“Why,” exclaimed Florence, “they can’t even know it is here!”

“One of them does. He saw it smiling in the fire to-night. I saw his
shadow on the windowpane. He will tell others.”

“You saw him?”

“It could have been none other. I recognized him instantly. His coat,
his curious hat, his profile, were all visible.

“But we must guard this god well. We must keep him in hiding.” She went
to the door and locked it. “I must have him for our opera.”

“But you could have a model made of clay. You could use that on the
stage. No one would know. Few stage properties are real.”

“No! No!” The little French girl held up hands in protest. “Never! I
will dance only before the true God of Fire.”

“Then,” said Florence calmly, “you will run a great risk. Some of the
gypsies will attend the play. They are fond of drama. This one you saw
will see the god. He will have it at any cost.”

“It may be so,” said the little French girl, dropping into a chair and
folding her slender hands. “But truly, my friend, there is no other
course.”

“Well!” Florence sprang to her feet. “Since we are to have his
Reverence, or his Highness—or how do you speak of a god?—we must find
him a safe resting place. Where can we hide him?”

A careful scrutiny of their narrow quarters revealed no safe hiding
place.

“Your trunk? My dresser drawer? Under the mattress?” Petite Jeanne
sighed. “May as well set him up here in the middle of the floor.” She
placed the figure on the polished pine floor.

“But see!” Florence leaped forward. “Some one has cut a hole in the
floor. I wonder why?”

“Some dark secret’s hidden there,” the little French girl whispered.

Florence had spoken the truth. In the very center of the floor three
boards had been cut through twice. The pieces between the cuts, each
some ten inches long, had been rudely pried up by the aid of some
instrument. Something had undoubtedly been done; then the boards had
been pounded back in place.

“Here!” exclaimed Florence, reaching for a heavy iron poker that stood
by the fireplace. “Let’s have a look.”

Her first attempts to pry up the boards were unsuccessful. The poker
slipped, then bent. When Petite Jeanne supplemented her labors with a
broken case knife their labors were rewarded. The short length of board
sprang from its place.

Eagerly they pressed forward to look, and bumped their heads together
doing so. Then they dropped back in their places with a merry laugh.

The hidden secret was no secret at all. The house, being a very old one,
had been erected before the coming of electric lights. When installing
the lights the electricians had found it necessary to open the floors of
the upper rooms in order that they might install lights for the lower
floors.

“Oh!” Florence sighed. “What a disappointment!”

“No!” cried Petite Jeanne. “See what we have found!”

“Found! What have we found?” Florence stared.

“We have found a safe place of hiding for my ancient friend, the God of
Fire. How sweet! We have only to lift the boards, lower him to the laths
below, batten down the hatch once more, and there you have him as snug
as a diamond in a new setting.”

“You’re keen!” Florence put out a hand to pat her friend’s blonde head.
“Now we can sleep in peace.”

And so they did, awakening at a late hour to a world of sunshine and
high hopes. Nor is there reason to believe that his Highness objected in
the least to the darkness of his place among the beams and plaster.



                               CHAPTER XI
                               HAPPY DAYS


Happy days followed. Petite Jeanne, whose circle of true friends in this
great world had been pitiably small, found her horizon greatly enlarged.
Truly the day of adventures in Merry’s cellar and out in the park while
she danced the sun up from the depths of the lake had been her lucky
day. For one might well have gone about the city of three million souls
holding a lamp before every face without finding the equal to that brave
trio, Angelo the playwright, Swen the maker of melodies and Dan Baker
the beloved vagabond of the stage.

Happy days they were, and busy ones as well. Each evening found them
assembled in Angelo’s studio. In order that they might talk as they ate,
they brought dinner along. Each member of the little group contributed
something. Swen provided chops, steaks, oysters or fish; Angelo added
such strange viands as he could devise, curious hot Mexican dishes, rich
preparations from his native land, or unthinkable Russian mixtures;
Florence and Petite Jeanne arrived each evening with apple-squares,
date-tarts or some other form of tempting dessert; Dan Baker practiced
the ancient and all but lost art of coffee brewing so skilfully that
after drinking they all felt that dawn was on the point of breaking, and
they were ready to walk out into a dewy morn.

Wild, hilarious, dizzy hours followed. Was a light opera ever before
produced in such a fantastic fashion?

Angelo was continuously prepared with fresh script. This dark-eyed youth
was a worker. Swen kept pace with musical compositions.

And how Swen could beat out those melodies on the battered piano
reposing in the corner!

When it was music for her dance Petite Jeanne, bare-footed, bare-armed,
with eyes shining, sprang into motion with such abandon as made her seem
a crimson cardinal, a butterfly, a mere flying nothing.

How Swen would throw back his blonde mane and laugh! How Dan Baker shook
his old head and sighed with joy!

“Our play!” he would murmur. “Our play. How can it fail? With such an
angel of light even Heaven would be a complete success.”

So for hours they labored. Testing music, words, lighting effects,
dances, everything, until their heads were dizzy and their eyes dim.

Then, as the blaze flamed up in the broad fireplace, they cast
themselves upon Angelo’s rugs of wondrous thickness and softness, and
sighed deep sighs of content.

“How wonderful it is to have beautiful things!” Jeanne exclaimed, as on
one of these occasions she buried her white hands in the thick, velvety
surface of a Persian rug.

“Ah, yes!” Angelo sighed. “When you are sure you are to keep them.”

“But they are your own.”

“Oh, yes. Now they are mine. They belonged to some one else before me.
They may belong to others. The success of our play, that alone, will
make them secure. My happiness, yours, all our joy depends upon that.” A
shadow fell across his dark face.

This shadow reminded Petite Jeanne of a wider shadow that had been
sweeping over the wondrous land men called America. For long years this
land had known such joyous prosperity as no land before had ever known.
But now, as if struck by some mysterious blight, this prosperity was
falling away. Factories had been closing. Streets that once were
thronged with shoppers, were thronged no more. Stores and shops were all
but deserted. Wise men said, “Prosperity will return. It is just around
the corner.” Yet it did not return at once.

And Petite Jeanne, sensitive soul that she was, ever conscious of the
woes that come to others, was touched by the signs of fear and distress
that she saw all about her.

When she spoke of it to Angelo he, too, appeared distressed, not for
himself, but for others.

“This will make no difference to our play,” was his optimistic
pronouncement. “When hard times come, the people feel the need of
amusement, diversion, more than before. Only one playhouse in our city
is dark.”

“If so, where is our play to open?” Jeanne asked quickly.

“Leave that to me.” He shrugged. “Plays come. Plays go. A house dark
to-night will be aglow to-morrow. I have friends. Once our light opera
is on, it will go on forever.”

So they labored and hoped, shouted, danced, sang, dreamed, despaired and
hoped again, only at last to go creeping away in the wee small hours to
seek sleep. And the morning hours knew them not. So passed fourteen
happy, busy, delirious days.

All this time the light opera was taking form. At the close of Act I the
gypsy caravan, with Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker riding on burros,
departed for Paris.

In Paris Petite Jeanne and her amiable substitute for the bear danced in
the beautiful public gardens. There, surrounded by noble statues and
flowering trees, they were discovered by the chorus who at this time
were dressed in bright smocks, posing with brushes, stools and easels as
artists from the Latin Quarter.

They joined the pair in a beautiful “Dance of the Flowers,” and then
lingered to sketch Dan Baker, Petite Jeanne and their burros. Meanwhile
Dan Baker entertained Petite Jeanne and all who cared to listen with one
of his wondrously impossible tales of fairyland: America across the
seas.

Scarcely were the sketches completed, the tales brought to an end, than
a stranger, stepping from the throng of onlookers, denounced Dan Baker
as an impostor and accused him of being one of the richest men in
America. The ancient wanderer resented the accusation. A fight ensued in
which a burro assisted the aged dancer to win a victory by butting his
adversary over and then sitting on him.

Millionaire or no millionaire, Dan Baker adopted Petite Jeanne as his
daughter. The next scene found them in a beautiful private garden, all
their own, still dancing.

A young hero appeared. He found Jeanne dancing barefooted before a
fountain and fell madly in love with her.

They were interrupted by the chorus, now doing a nature dance to spring,
and arrayed much as spring damsels are supposed to be dressed.

A villain appeared in the shadows. He had discovered that Petite Jeanne,
who had lived after the death of her parents with wandering gypsies, was
rich in her own name. He, a terrible apache, proposed to kidnap her.

The plot grew apace. Dan Baker told one more story while the villain
stood not ten feet away, ready, if need be, to stab him.

The fool of the play, a young Scotchman who missed every golden
opportunity because he held his pennies too tightly gripped, appeared.

By the aid of the chorus, now dressed as wild and terrible apache
damsels, Petite Jeanne was kidnapped.

The fool barely missed eternal glory by rescuing her. He took a three
cent subway car instead of spending a whole nickel on the plush seated
car boarded by the villain and his band.

The last scene was in a stone paved, walled court of a fearsome secret
prison, where Dan Baker, who had become a voluntary prisoner, revived
the fainting Jeanne with one more romantic tale.

Meanwhile, the hero, at the head of a brave band of gendarmes, who in
the end proved to be the chorus in disguise, stormed the secret prison
and rescued the fair gypsy maid.

The truth of her riches was revealed to Jeanne. She wept on the hero’s
shoulder. Then she and Dan Baker, joined once more by the chorus—this
time in the most gorgeous of filmy French creations—danced the wild
Dance of the Fire God beneath the moon while the ancient god, lighted in
some magical way, beamed and grimaced at them from the dark.

Such was the rough outline for the opera, presented by Angelo.

“Of course,” he added many times, with a smile, “the young hero may turn
up later with a rich, pompous and irate mother who does not purpose to
marry her son to a gypsy. There may be many other complications. But we
shall iron them out one by one.

“Fortune is with us in one respect. The plot of a light opera is never
very closely knit. So long as there is music and dancing, mirth and
song, all is well. And that we shall have in superabundance.”

“But where are we to get the donkeys?” Petite Jeanne asked on one
occasion.

“My dear!” exclaimed Dan Baker. “Nothing is easier. There are nearly as
many donkeys on the stage as off it.”

The laugh went round.

When it had subsided Angelo said: “I know where there are two burros, in
a vacant lot on the west side. They’ve been on the stage in vaudeville.
One is trained to bowl a man over and sit on him.

“So, you see,” his grin broadened as he turned to Dan Baker, “I have
written that part expressly for him, just as I have for the other
donkeys in the cast.”

The laugh was now on Dan Baker. He responded by narrating one more
fantastic yarn, and the work went on.

Then came the night when Angelo exclaimed over the last wild dance, when
even Florence joined in the ballet, “It is enough! To-morrow I go to
seek a producer. To-night, before you sleep, say a little prayer for our
success.”

Let us hope no one will be shocked when we declare that on that night,
long after Florence was lost in slumber, Petite Jeanne crept from the
warm bed to the cold floor, pried up the loose boards, drew forth the
hidden God of Fire and whispered to him some words that sounded
suspiciously like a prayer. For, after all, you must recall that Petite
Jeanne was more than half gypsy. Besides, she was dreadfully in earnest.
For had she not, in an impersonal way, come to love very much the fiery
little composer, the blonde-maned musician and, most of all, the
appealing old trouper, he of long gray locks and plaintive, melodious
voice? For these more than for herself she wished the light opera to be
a great and lasting success.



                              CHAPTER XII
                          A FACE OF GRAY STEEL


Angelo had a few well chosen friends in the world of stage people. As
soon as offices were open the next morning, his card was presented to
one of these. An hour later, with a bulky manuscript under his arm and a
letter of introduction in his pocket, he entered the lobby of a second
office.

He was ushered at once into the presence of a broad shouldered, rather
dull, but quite determined appearing man who sat in a swivel chair
before a birch-mahogany desk. In another corner of the room sat a tall,
dark, young man whose face had the appearance of having been moulded out
of chilled gray steel.

“It’s a light opera,” said Angelo, placing his manuscript on the desk.
“If you’ll let me tell you about it I am sure you will be able to decide
at once whether or not it will fit the Blackmoore Theatre.”

The stout man nodded.

Angelo began to talk. As he continued to talk he began to glow. He was
full of his subject.

“Wait!” The stout man held up a hand.

“Drysdale,” he said to the gray, steel-eyed man, “you had better sit in
on this.”

Gray Steel arose, dragged a chair forward and sat down.

“All right.” The stout man nodded to Angelo.

“Shall—shall I begin over again?”

“Not necessary. Drysdale is clever. Takes a thing in the middle, and
works both ways.”

Angelo talked and glowed once more. For fully half an hour, like a small
car on a country road at night, he rattled and glowed.

“What do you think of it?” the stout man demanded, when the recital was
finished. “Drysdale, what do you think? Find a chorus, right enough.
Know one right now. House is dark. What do you think?”

“Paris.” Gray Steel Face cupped his chin. “Americans go wild over
Paris.”

“Sure they do, just wild. They—” Angelo’s flow of enthusiasm was cut
short by a glower from Gray Steel Face.

“Mr. Drysdale is our director,” the stout man explained. “Directed many
plays. Very successful. Makes ’em march. You’re right he does!”

“Gypsy stuff goes well,” Drysdale continued. “But who ever heard of
taking a gypsy for a star? She’d need training. No end of it.”

“Oh, no! She—”

“We’d have to read the script. Have to see them perform.” Drysdale gave
no heed to Angelo. “Say you bring ’em here to-morrow night, say eight
o’clock.”

“No stage,” said the stout manager.

“We—we have a small one,” Angelo explained eagerly. “Come to my studio,
won’t you? There you’ll see them at their best.”

“What say, Drysdale?”

“We’ll be there. Mind! Eight sharp. None of your artistic foolishness!”

Next night, the two men did see Petite Jeanne and Dan Baker at their
best.

Was their best good enough? The face of the director was still a steel
mask. He conferred with his manager in the corner of the room for half
an hour.

In the meantime Angelo perspired profusely. Petite Jeanne felt hot and
cold spasms chase one another up her back, but Dan Baker sat placidly
smoking by the fire. He was an old trouper. The road lay always before
him.

But for Angelo and Jeanne hopes had run high. Their ambitions were on
the altar. They were waiting for the fire.

“We’ll have a contract for you by eleven o’clock to-morrow,” said the
stout man, in a tone as unemotional as he might have used to call a
waiter. “Drysdale here says it’s a bit crude; but emotional stuff—got
some pull, he believes. Office at eleven.”

Petite Jeanne could scarcely await their departure. Hardly had the door
closed when, in true French fashion, she threw her arms about the old
trouper and kissed him on both cheeks. Nor was Angelo neglected.

“We’re made!” she cried joyously. “The footlights, oh, the blessed
footlights!” She walked the young composer about the room until she was
dizzy. Then, springing like a top, she landed in a corner by the fire
and demanded a demi-tasse of coffee.

As they drank their coffee Angelo was strangely silent. “I don’t like
what they said about the opera,” he explained, when Jeanne teased him.
“They’ll want to tear it all to pieces, like as not, and put in a lot of
half-indecent stuff.

“And that theatre,” he sighed. “It’s a frightful old barn of a place.
Going to be torn down to make way for a skyscraper next year, I’m told.
I hope you may not hate it too much.” As he looked at Petite Jeanne two
wrinkles appeared on his high forehead.

“Oh, the Paris Opera,” she laughed. “That was but a small bit. I am sure
I shall be quite deliriously happy!”

It was thus that she left Angelo’s studio. But the morrow, a gray day,
was to find them all in quite another mood.

When Angelo returned to the studio next day at noon, he was in a sober
mood.

His eyes lighted as he found a small table standing before the fire,
spread with spotless linen and piled with good things to eat.

“This,” he said, taking Petite Jeanne’s hands in his own, “is your
doing.”

“Not entirely, and not hardly at all,” laughed the little French girl.
“I’m a poor cook, and a very bad manager. You may credit it all to
Florence.”

Florence, at that, stepped from the shadows. For once her ready smile
was not forthcoming.

“Florence!” he exclaimed in surprise. “How is it you are here? I thought
you were at your work at the gym.”

“There is no more gym,” said the girl soberly. “It has been turned into
a lodging house for those poor unfortunates who in these sad times have
no place to sleep.

“Of course,” she added quickly, as a mellow tone crept into her voice,
“I am glad for them! But this leaves me exactly flat; no job, and no
prospect of one for months.”

“No job? Of course you have one!” Jeanne placed an inadequate arm about
Florence’s ample waist. “You will be my stage ‘mother’ once more.”

At this they turned an inquiring glance upon Angelo. For once it seemed
he had nothing to say.

The meal was half finished before he spoke about the matter nearest all
their hearts. When he did speak, it was in a very indirect manner. “In
this world,” he began quite soberly, “there’s very little real
generosity. People who have money cling to it as if it had power to
carry them to the very gates of Heaven. Those who have nothing often
feel very generous, but have nothing with which to prove the genuineness
of their feeling.

“Generosity!” He almost growled. “You read a lot about it in the papers.
Capital agrees to do this. Big money is ready to do that. Wages shall be
kept up. Those who are in tight places shall be dealt with in a generous
fashion. That’s what they give out for publication.

“What they’re really doing, many of them, is undermining the uncertain
foothold of those who have very little. They’re cutting wages here,
putting on screws there, in secret, wherever they dare. And our friendly
enemy, the manager, who wants our light opera, old Mr. Rockledge,” he
declared with a flourish, as if to conclude the whole matter, “is no
exception.”

“Didn’t he give us a contract?” asked Petite Jeanne, as her eyes opened
wide.

“Yes. A contract. But such a contract! He said we could take it or leave
it. And old Gray Steel Face nodded his head and snapped his steel jaw
shut, so I took it away; but we needn’t sign if we don’t care to.”

The remainder of the meal was eaten for the most part in silence. Just
as they finished, Swen and Dan Baker entered. They had been for a long
stroll along the lake front, and had dined at a place which Swen had
found where they could get genuine black bread and spiced fillet of
sole.

“What luck?” Swen demanded.

“Rotten!” Angelo threw the contract on the table. “Read it and weep!”
The others crowded around to do so.

A silence, broken only by the rustle of turned pages, ensued.

As the perusal was concluded Jeanne’s face was a brown study. Florence,
who had read over her shoulder, was plainly angry. Baker neither smiled
nor frowned. Swen smiled.

“Well,” Swen drawled, “since this is to be our first production, and
success will keep the wolf from the door for six months to come, I don’t
see that it’s so worse. One success calls for another. And it’s on the
second that you have a chance to tell ’em where they get off.”

“I think,” said Petite Jeanne quietly, “that Swen is right. It means
renewed hope for all of us. Winter is at our door. There are no turnips
in our cellar, nor hams in our smoke-house.” She thought of the old days
in France.

“That’s me,” agreed Dan Baker.

Since Florence had no contract to sign, she said nothing.

“Then,” said Angelo with a sigh, half of relief and half of
disappointment, “we sign on the dotted line. To-day we visit the
theatre. To-morrow rehearsals begin. The thing is to be put on as soon
as it can be whipped into shape. Every day a theatre is dark means a
loss to its owners.”

They signed in silence. Then, drawing chairs before the fire, they sat
down for half an hour of quiet meditation. Many and varied were the
thoughts that, like thin smoke, passed off into space as they lingered
there.



                              CHAPTER XIII
                          THE CIRCLE OF BRASS


They entered the theatre together at four o’clock that afternoon,
Angelo, Dan Baker and Petite Jeanne. It was a damp, chilly, autumn day.
Jeanne had caught the mood of the day before they entered. There was
nothing about the empty playhouse to dispel this disturbing gloom. The
half light that was everywhere, a small—bright torch of a lamp here and
there boring sharply into the darkness—revealed the threadbare,
neglected interior of the place. The floor of the stage creaked as they
ventured to walk across it. Row on row of plush seats lay dimly before
them. The few that were lighted were soiled and faded. The once gay gilt
of box seats had cracked off in places, showing the white beneath. The
great velvet curtain drooped woefully.

“How dismal!” Jeanne spoke before she thought.

“My dear,” said Dan Baker, stepping before Angelo to conceal his look of
pain, “it is not the house, but the people that make a theatre. The
glowing, pulsating throng of living beings. This is a theatre. Picture
this broad stage filled with dreams of beauty and grace. Catch a glimpse
of the gay costumes. Listen to the songs and laughter.

“And yonder,” he spread his arms wide as if to take in a great
multitude, “yonder are the people, hundreds, thousands! Are they less
colorful, less gay? Not one whit. For this is their happy hour. Fans,
flowers, smiles, color, laughter, beauty. ‘A thing of beauty is a joy
forever.’ No, no, my child! On our great night you will not see the
faults of this poor, gray old house that has known the joys and sorrows
of three generations of human souls, and which is now standing among
tall skyscrapers waiting its destruction; you will see only the gracious
people who have come to catch the glow of light and joy that is our
opera.”

As Petite Jeanne looked at him her heart glowed with fresh fire. To her
at this moment the aged trouper, with his flowing locks and drooping
hat, was the noblest work of God.

“Thanks, old timer,” said Angelo. His tone was husky as he gripped Dan
Baker’s hand.

Jeanne said never a word, but as she touched his hand ever so lightly,
he understood even better than if she had delivered an oration.

Her dislike of the ancient theatre, with its narrow, ratty dressing
rooms, its steep, worn stairways and its smell of decay, was dispelled.
But with the manager, the director, the actors she had not met before,
as well as the chorus, it was quite another matter. To her distress she
found that they, one and all, treated her quite as an outsider. Dan
Baker, too, was quite outside their circle. He understood it, and did
not care. Having been a trouper, he realized that in companies such as
these there were those who “belonged” and those who did not.

But poor, friendly, hopeful, big-hearted Jeanne, though she was to have
a leading part in the play, had intended from the first to be a friend
to them, one and all. And behold, none of them would accept her
offering.

Members of the chorus might be engaged in an animated conversation, but
let her join them and their gayety ceased while they moved silently
away.

Not many attempts were made before the sensitive soul of the little
French girl curled up like an oyster in a shell. But it was an aching
little heart, at that.

“Why? Why?” she demanded of her conscience, and of her confessor, Dan
Baker.

“My child,” the aged dancer smiled faintly, “they live in what might be
called a golden circle. The circle is complete. None may enter. It is
the way of the stage.

“You cannot understand,” he said gently, “for you have not long been a
trouper. You could not know that they were all practically born on the
stage; that their fathers and mothers, yes and their grandparents before
them, were stage people. They have traveled together, some of them, for
years. As they moved from city to city, the people of each city were
only an audience to be amused. They have made the audience laugh; they
have made it cry. But always they have thought of that audience as a
great lump of humanity. Not one individual in that lump cared for one of
them in a personal way. Only among their own group have they found
companions. Little by little a strong bond has been formed. Hemming them
in, it keeps others out. That is their golden circle.”

“It is a most wretched circle!” cried Jeanne with a touch of anger. “It
is not a golden circle, but a circle of brass, brass about their necks;
the sign of slavery.”

After this Jeanne made no further attempts to mingle with her fellow
workers. When not on the stage she sat in a corner, reading a French
novel.

But her cup of woe was not full. She had hoped to dance her native
dances from the gypsyland of France, just as she had learned them there.
This was not to be. The director, the tall, dark, youngish man, he of
the chilled steel face who never smiled, had a word to say about this.
The dances, he decreed, were not right. They must be changed. A girl
named Eve, head of the chorus, must teach Jeanne new steps.

Eve taught her, and did a thorough job of it. Born on the west side, Eve
had made her way up by sheer nerve and a certain feeling for rhythm.

No two persons could be more unlike than this Eve and our Petite Jeanne.
Petite Jeanne was French to the tips of her toes. She loved art for
art’s sake. Beauty and truth, sweetness and light, these were words of
infinite charm to her. Had the same words been pronounced to Eve, she
would have suspected the speaker of pronouncing a spelling lesson to
her. Eve lived for one thing only—applause. It had been the thunder of
applause that had caused her to set her foot on the first round of the
ladder to fame. That same thunder had kept her toiling year after year.

Petite Jeanne cared little for applause. When she went before an
audience it was as if she said to those assembled before her, “See! Here
I have something all together beautiful. It has been handed down to us
through countless ages, a living flame of action and life, a gypsy
dance. This is beauty. This is life. I hope you may forget me and know
only this marvel of beauty and truth, sweetness and light.”

And now, under the ruthless hand of Eve, she saw her thing of beauty
torn apart and pieced with fragments of bold movements and discordant
notes which made her dances much more brazen.

But that was not all. “Your toes,” decreed the merciless, dark-faced
director, “are too limber; your legs are too stiff. You must look to the
brass rail for remedy.”

“The brass rail?” She did not say the words. Soon enough she found out.
In a cold back room she stood for half an hour, gripping a long brass
rail safely anchored some three feet from the floor, twisting her toes
and bending her poor limbs until she could have screamed with pain. It
helped not a bit that a dozen members of the chorus, who never spoke a
word to her, were going through the same painful performance.

She uttered wailing complaints to Angelo in his studio that night.
Angelo passed the complaint on to the poker-faced manager.

“If you wish to direct your play,” this dictator decreed, “you may do
so, provided,” he prodded Angelo in the ribs until it hurt, “provided
you are able and willing also to finance it.”

“It’s a hard life, my child,” Dan Baker said to Jeanne the next night,
as the light of the fire played on his weary old face. “You think the
brass rail is terrible. But think of me. They have put me in a gymnasium
for an hour each day, where a Samson of a chap uses me for a dumbbell,
an Indian club and a punching bag.”

Jeanne laughed at his description and felt better.

“They’re spoiling your dance, little girl,” he said in a more serious
tone. “But never mind. Do your old dance in the old way here in this
room or in the park, just as you were doing it when I first saw you.
Keep it full of freshness, life and beauty, stretch it to fill the time,
and when we open,” his voice died to a whisper, “on our great first
night, dance your gypsy dance just as you learned it back there in
France, and I promise you that all will be more than well.”

Petite Jeanne caught her breath. Here was a bold proposal. Would she
dare?

Springing to her feet, she went swinging away in a wild whirl. When she
dropped back in her place before the fire, she whispered hoarsely,

“I will!”

Her strong young hand met his in a grip that was a pledge.

But were these things to be? Even as she lay there blinking at the fire,
some imp of darkness seemed to whisper, “You will never do it. You never
will.”

She looked at the Fire God resting at the edge of the flames, and
thought she saw him frown.



                              CHAPTER XIV
                          THE FLUTTER OF WINGS


Petite Jeanne was a gifted person. She was a dancer of uncommon ability.
Those who studied her closely and who were possessed of eyes that truly
saw things had pronounced her a genius. Yet she was possessed of an even
greater gift; she knew the art of making friends. Defeated by an ancient
unwritten law, in her attempt to be a friend to the girls of the chorus,
she had found her friends among the lowly ones of the theatre. For with
all her art she never lost the human touch.

She had not haunted the ratty old theatre long before Mary, the woman
who dusted seats, Jimmie, the spotlight operator, Tom, the stoker who
came up grimy from the furnaces, and Dave, the aged night watchman, one
and all, were her friends.

That was why, on special occasions, these people did exactly what she
wanted. One night at the ghostly hour of eleven she found herself,
bare-footed and clad in scanty attire, doing her dance upon the stage
while Jimmie, grinning in his perch far aloft, sent a mellow spot of
light down to encircle and caress her as a beam of sunshine or a vapory
angel might have done.

Dave, the watchman and her faithful guardian, was not far away. So, for
the moment, she knew no fear. The rancorous voice of the director, the
low grumble of the manager, were absent. Now she might dance as nature
and the gypsies had taught her, with joy and abandon.

Since she had fully decided that on the night of nights, when for the
first time in months the old Blackmoore was thronged, she would take
matters into her own hands and dance as God, the stars and all out-doors
had taught her, and feeling that only practice on the stage itself would
give her heart the courage and her brain the assurance needed for that
eventful hour, she had bribed these friends to assist her. And here she
was.

Dance on this night she did. Jimmie watched and marveled. Such grace and
simple, joyous abandon, such true melody of movement, such color in
motion, he had not known before.

“Ah!” he whispered. “She is possessed! The gypsies have bewitched her!
She will never be real again.”

Indeed, had she given one wild leap in the air and risen higher and
higher until she vanished into thin darkness as a ghost or an angel, he
would have experienced no astonishment.

Surprise came to him soon enough, for all that. Suddenly the fairy-like
arms of the dancer fell to her sides. Her lithe body became a statue.
And there she stood in that circle of light, rigid, motionless,
listening.

Then, throwing her arms high in a gesture of petition, she cried,

“Jimmie! The flutter of wings! Can you hear them? How they frighten me!

“Jimmie,” she implored, “don’t let the spotlight leave me! Can you hear
them, Jimmie? Wings. Fluttering wings. They mean death! Do you hear
them, Jimmie?”

Leaning far forward, Jimmie heard no wings. But in that stillness he
fancied he heard the mad beating of the little French girl’s heart, or
was it his own?

So, for one tense moment, they remained in their separate places,
motionless.

Then, with a little shudder, the girl shook herself free from the terror
and called more cheerily,

“There! They are gone now, the wings. Throw on a light, and come and
take me home, Jimmie. I can dance no more to-night.”

As she turned to move toward the spot on the floor where her precious
God of Fire stood leering at her, she seemed to catch a sound of furtive
movement among the shadows. She could not be sure. Her heart leapt, and
was still.

Five minutes later she and Jimmie were on a brightly lighted street.

“Wings,” the little French girl murmured once more. “The flutter of
wings!” And again, as they neared her home, “Wings.”

“Aw, forget it!” Jimmie muttered.

She was not to forget. She was to hear that flutter again, and yet
again.



                               CHAPTER XV
                          A TOUCH IN THE DARK


During all these busy days Petite Jeanne did not entirely lose track of
her friend Merry of the smiling Irish eyes. Being endowed with a
particularly friendly nature, she was more than glad to find friends
outside the little circle in which she moved. Besides, she was deeply
grateful to the little girl who had led her to the place where she had,
in so miraculous a manner, purchased the priceless Fire God for only
three silver coins.

“It was the beginning of all my good fortune,” she said to Merry on one
occasion. “And,” she added quickly, “all my very hard work as well.”

So it happened more than once that she took the elevated train to the
office where the auction sale of unclaimed, and damaged express packages
was held every Friday. There she sat in the front row beside Merry and
enjoyed two hours of relaxation. The endless variety of goods on sale,
from a baby buggy without wheels to a black and white puppy with an
enticing bark, intrigued her more and more; particularly the “union,”
Merry’s little circle of choice friends.

To a casual observer these men would have seemed a rough lot. Soon
enough Jeanne, with her power of looking into men’s hearts, learned that
these men who struggled daily for their bread had been endowed by nature
with hearts of gold.

Their interest in Merry was of a fatherly and sportsman-like sort.
Knowing her brother and his handicaps they were glad to help her.

Unfortunately, at this time there was little they could do for her. Each
Friday she brought a smaller purse and carried fewer articles away. The
little basement shop, where Tad toiled incessantly, was feeling the
pinch of hard times. Few were the visitors that came down the cellar
stairs these days, and fewer still were the purchases they carried away.
Only when the blue eyes of the girl spied some article for which she had
an immediate sale did she venture a bid.

More than once when some particular member of the “union” had made a
fortunate purchase and met with an immediate sale, he offered Merry a
loan. Always the answer was the same: a loyal Irish smile and, “Thanks.
You’ll be needing it next time.”

Little wonder that Petite Jeanne, sitting in the glowing light of such
glorious friendships, absorbed warmth that carried her undaunted through
rehearsals amid the cold and forbidding circle within the old Blackmoore
walls.

It was on one of these visits to the auction house that the little
French girl received an invitation to an unusual party.

Weston, the ruddy-faced German who kept a shop near Maxwell street,
together with Kay King and a stout man known by the name of John, had
bid in a large number of traveling bags and trunks. They were an unusual
lot, these bags and boxes. Many of the trunks were plastered from end to
end with foreign labels. Three of the bags, all exactly alike, were of
the sort carried only by men of some importance who reside in the
British Isles.

“How I’d love to see what’s in them!” Jeanne exclaimed.

“Do you want to know?” Weston demanded. “Then I’ll tell you. Junk!
That’s all. I buy only junk. Inside these are some suits. Moths eat
holes in them. Silk dresses, maybe; all mildewed.”

“Must be fun to open them, though. You never can tell what you might
find.”

“Ja, you can never tell,” Weston agreed.

“Do you want to see what’s in them?” Kay King, who was young and good
looking, leaned forward. “Come down to Maxwell Street on Sunday. We’ll
save them until then, won’t we?” He appealed to his companions.

“Ja, sure!”

“Sure we will!”

Petite Jeanne turned to Merry. “Will you go?” she asked, suddenly grown
timid.

“Yes, I’d like to,” Merry assented quickly. “I’ve never seen their
shops. I’d love to.”

“All right,” Jeanne said with a smile. “We’ll come. And perhaps we’ll
bring some friends.”

“Ja, bring friends. As many as you like. Mebby we could perhaps sell
them some suitcases?”

Kay King gave Jeanne his card. And there, for the time, the matter
rested. But Jeanne did not allow it to escape her memory. It was to be,
she told herself, one of the strangest and most interesting opening-up
parties it had been her privilege to attend.

That night Petite Jeanne once more danced alone beneath the yellow glow
of Jimmie’s spotlight. The affair of two nights before had frightened
her more than she cared to admit. But this little French girl possessed
an indomitable spirit. She knew what she wanted; knew quite as well why
she wanted it, and was resolved that, come what might, she should have
it.

On this particular night she would gladly have taken her strong and
fearless companion, Florence, with her to the theatre. But Florence had
come upon a bit of good fortune; she had been employed to conduct
classes in a settlement house gymnasium two hours each evening.

“That,” she had exclaimed joyously, “means bread and butter!”

So Petite Jeanne had come alone. And why not? Was not Jimmie over there
in the balcony? And was not her friend, the night watchman, somewhere in
the building?

“What of the gypsy who would steal your god if he might?” Florence had
asked.

“Well, what of him?” Jeanne had demanded. “We haven’t seen him prowling
about, have we? Given up, and gone south. That’s what I think. In New
Orleans by this time.”

Long ere this, as you will recall, Jeanne had resolved what she should
do on the opening night. When the curtain rose for her first big scene,
when she received the cue to begin her dance, she would make it _her_
dance indeed. At that moment, before the throng of first-nighters, she
would defy the tyrannical director. She would forget the steps they had
taught her. Before the gypsy campfire she would become a gypsy once
again and dance, as never before, that native dance to the Fire God.
Bihari, the gypsy, had taught her that dance, and there was nothing like
it in all the world, she felt sure.

It was a daring resolve and might, she knew, result in disaster. Yet the
very daring of it inspired her. And why not? Was she not after all, in
spirit at least, a gypsy, a free soul unhampered by the shams and fake
pretenses, the senseless conventions of a city’s life?

With this in mind, she danced in the dark theatre with utter abandon.
Forgetting all but the little Fire God whose tiny eyes glowed at the rim
of the yellow circle of light, she danced as she had many times by the
roadsides of France.

She had reached the very zenith of the wild whirl. It seemed to Jimmie
that she would surely leave the floor and soar aloft, when suddenly he
became conscious that all was not well. He read it in her face. She did
not stop dancing. She did not so much as speak; yet her lips formed
words and Jimmie read them:

“Wings, fluttering of wings!”

“A plague on the wings!” exclaimed Jimmie, as his muscles stiffened in
readiness for an emergency.

Wings! Did he hear them? He could not be sure. He would see what he
could see!

He touched a button and a light flashed brightly from a white globe
aloft.

His keen eyes searched the place in vain. Yet sixty seconds had not
elapsed before there came the sound of a slight impact, followed by a
terrific crash. The light above blinked out.

In his excitement, Jimmie threw off the spotlight and the theatre
beneath him became a well of darkness.

And what of Jeanne? When the crash came her dance ended. When the
spotlight blinked out she sprang back in terror. At that instant
something touched her ankle.

With a little cry of fright, she bounded forward. Her foot came in
contact with some solid object and sent it spinning.

“The Fire God!” she thought in consternation. “I have kicked him across
the stage.”

Then the house lights flashed on, and all was light as day.

Flashing a quick look about the stage, the girl found everything as it
had been, except that the Fire God was standing on his head in a corner,
and half way down the center aisle was a pile of shattered glass. This
glass had, a moment before, been the white globe aloft.

“Jimmie!” she called. “It’s all right. The globe fell, that’s all.”

“Must have been loose,” Jimmie grumbled. “Good thing it fell now. Might
have killed somebody.”

But Jeanne was sure it had not been loose. She had not forgotten that
flutter of wings.

“Some one,” she told herself, “is trying to frighten me. But I shan’t be
frightened.”

At that she walked to the corner of the stage, took up her Fire God,
slipped on her coat and prepared to go home.

“Jimmie,” she called, loud enough for anyone who might be hiding in the
place to hear, “that’s all for to-night. But come again day after
to-morrow. What do you say?”

“O. K.,” Jimmie shouted back.

Jeanne was to regret this rashness, if rashness it might be called.



                              CHAPTER XVI
                      THE BATTLE OF MAXWELL STREET


“But what is it?” Petite Jeanne stepped back, half in terror, as she
gripped Florence’s arm and stared about her.

They had just alighted from a Halsted Street car and had entered the
maze of booths, carts, rough board counters, and wagons. “This is
Maxwell Street on a bright Sunday afternoon in late autumn,” replied
Merry with a smile.

They were on their way, Petite Jeanne and Merry, to the promised party
at which many mysterious bags and trunks were to be opened. Florence was
with them; so, too, was Angelo. Dan Baker also had agreed to come at the
last moment. So they were quite a party, five in all.

About these portable stores swarmed a motley throng. Some were white,
some brown, some black. All, stall keepers and prospective purchasers
alike were poor, if one were to judge by attire.

“Don’t be afraid,” Merry smiled at the little French girl. “These are
harmless, kindly people. They are poor, to be sure. But in this world,
ninety out of every hundred are poor and probably always will be.

“Some of these people have a few poor things to sell. The others hope to
purchase them at a bargain; which indeed they often do.

“So you see,” she ended, “like other places in the world, Maxwell Street
deserves its place in the sun, for it serves the poor of this great
city. What could be nobler?”

“Ah, yes, What could be nobler?” the little French girl echoed.

“How strange!” she murmured as they walked along. “There is no order
here. See! There are shoes. Here are cabbages. And here are more shoes.
There are chickens. Here are more shoes. And yonder are stockings to go
with the shoes. How very queer.”

“Yes,” Florence sighed, “there is no order in the minds of the very
poor. Perhaps that is why they are poor.”

“Come!” Merry cried impatiently. “We must find the shops of our friends.
They are on Peoria Street. Two blocks up.”

“Lead the way.” Petite Jeanne motioned her friends to follow.

As they wedged their way through the throng, Petite Jeanne found her
spirits drooping. “How sad it all seems!” she thought to herself. “There
is a little dried up old lady. She must be eighty. She’s trying to sell
a few lemons. And here is a slip of a girl. How pinched her face is!
She’s watching over a few wretched stockings. If you whistled through
them they’d go into rags.

“And yet,” she was ready to smile again, “they all seem cheerful.”

She had said this last aloud. “Yes,” Merry answered, “cheerful and kind.
Very considerate of one another. It is as if suffering, hunger, rags,
disease, brought friends who cannot be bought with gold.”

“It is true. And such a beautiful truth. I—”

Petite Jeanne broke short off, then dodged quickly to one side. She had
barely escaped being run down by an automobile. Coming in from behind,
the driver had not honked his horn.

The man was large. The companion at his side was large. The bright blue
car was large. The whole outfit fairly oozed comfort, riches and
self-satisfaction.

“Stand gawking around and you’ll get a leg taken off!” The driver’s
voice was harsh, unkind. He spoke to the little French girl.

The hot fire that smouldered behind Angelo’s dark eyes blazed forth.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded in a fury. “Running
people down! Crowding them about! You with your big car! If you want to
gaze, why don’t you walk as we do?”

The car came to a halt. A deep flush had spread over the driver’s face.
Springing from the car, he launched a blow that sent the slight Italian
youth spinning into the crowd behind him.

But what was this? Hardly had the man swayed back, a leer of
satisfaction on his face, than a whirling catapult launched itself upon
him. A circle of steel closed about his neck. He found himself whirling
through space. He landed with a mighty clatter atop a pile of frying
pans and stew kettles.

Quickly scrambling to his feet, he glowered at the gathering throng as
he demanded,

“Who did that?”

For the count of ten, no one answered. Then a scrawny little Irishman,
who wore a Cross of Honor on his ragged jacket, pushed Florence forward
as he whispered hoarsely,

“Tell ’im, Miss. I’m wid y’. Me, as never lost a battle yet.”

“I did!” The girl’s words were clear and quite distinct.

A hush fell over the thickening crowd. A fight on Maxwell Street is
always an occasion. But a fight between a prosperous man and a good
looking girl! Who had seen this before?

Florence, as you will recall, was not one of those weaklings who subsist
on pickles and ice-cream in order to develop a slender figure. She
weighed one hundred and sixty, was an athletic instructor, knew a few
tricks and was hard as a rock.

There was no fight. The man looked her up and down. Then he called her a
name. It was a nasty name, seldom heard on Maxwell Street. For the
people there, though poor, are a gentle folk.

Then Maxwell Street, slow going, gentle, kindly, poverty-stricken
Maxwell Street, went mad. Who threw the first ripe tomato that struck
this prosperous insulter squarely on the jaw? No one will ever know.
Enough that it was thrown. It was followed quickly by a bushel more, and
after that by a cart load of over-ripe fish.

When at last the irate but badly beaten man of importance turned his car
southward and fled from Maxwell Street, his beautiful car was no longer
blue. It was tomato-pink and fish-yellow. And his costume matched the
car.

Then Maxwell Street indulged in a good laugh. In this laugh Angelo did
not join. He divided his attention between the business of nursing his
swollen jaw and paying the poor venders of tomatoes and fish for their
missing wares.

“Some people,” he might have been heard to grumble to himself, “talk too
much.”

“The battle of Maxwell Street!” exclaimed Merry at his elbow. Her eyes
shone. “And we won!”

“I am sure of it!” Angelo agreed heartily. “However, I am out four
dollars and sixty-five cents for fish and tomatoes.”

“But look!” Merry pointed to the battered little Irishman with the Cross
of Honor. “He is taking up a collection. You will be paid.”

“No, no! That cannot be!” True distress was in the Italian boy’s eyes.
“Stop him.”

“No. We must not!” Merry’s tone was tense with emotion. “You are their
hero. You stood up for their rights. Would you be so mean as to rob them
of the right to do homage to their hero?”

“Ah, me!” Angelo rubbed his eyes. “This is a very strange world.”

In the end he departed with a heavy sack of nickels and pennies, while
the crowd shouted their approval of the “brave little Dago.” And for
once Angelo did not hate this name they had given his people.

They had gone another block before Angelo spoke again. What he said both
puzzled and troubled the little French girl. “That whole affair,” he
said quietly, “was a _faux pas_.”

“How could it be!” she exclaimed. “I thought it quite wonderful. What
right have those big, bluffing bullies to run down poor people on
Maxwell Street?”

“None at all,” Angelo replied soberly. “But after all, the battle of
Maxwell Street is not our battle. This is a large city. Yet it is
strange the way we meet the same people again and again. If that man
really comes upon me in some other place, if he finds out what I do and
where I live, he will do his best to ruin me. That is the way of his
kind.”

Little did Angelo guess the manner in which his prophecy was to come
true, much less the manner of vengeance that would be employed.

Petite Jeanne remained silent for a moment. Then she gave Angelo’s arm
an affectionate squeeze as she answered: “I shall pray every night that
he may never see you even once again.”



                              CHAPTER XVII
                          TRAVELING MYSTERIES


Even to Merry, who had never before visited her friends on Peoria Street
just off Maxwell Street, the shop of Weston was something of a shock. It
was nothing more than a hollow shell of a building with a great heap of
second-hand goods of all sorts piled in one corner. Not a shelf, counter
or table adorned this bleak interior. The plaster was cracked, the walls
threatening to fall.

“I sell all in the street,” he explained in answer to their looks of
astonishment. With a wave of his hand he indicated rough board counters
where a miscellaneous assortment of human beings were pawing over a
stock in trade as varied as themselves.

Now and again one would hold up an article in one hand, a coin in the
other, and a bargain was speedily made.

“I don’t see how he lives,” Petite Jeanne whispered.

“He’s been doing this for twenty years, and he’s not bankrupt yet,”
Merry whispered back.

They were led next to the shop of Kay King. This boasted of some little
magnificence. There were shelves and tables and one glass showcase.
Since his principal stock was composed of second-hand books, the wall
was lined with them.

“A curious place for a book store, this Maxwell Street,” Dan Baker
mused.

“I don’t do so badly,” Kay King smiled. “The poor wish to read. And here
for a nickel, a dime, a quarter, I sell them a lamp to their feet, a
light to their pathway.”

“Truly a missionary enterprise in a city wilderness,” the gentle old man
murmured.

As for Petite Jeanne, her eyes had roamed up and down the dusty rows of
books and had come to rest at last upon a badly hung pair of portieres
at the back of the room.

“That,” she told herself, “is where he sleeps when the day is done, a
dark and dingy hole.

“And yet,” she mused, “who can help admiring him? Here in his dingy
little world he is master of his own destiny. While others who sell
books march down each morning to punch a clock and remain bowing and
scraping, saying ‘Yes mam’ this and ‘Yes mam’ that to females who think
themselves superior beings, he moves happily among his own books selling
when and as he chooses.”

Her reflections were broken off by a word from Kay King himself.

“There’s a story in every one.” He nodded toward the row of trunks and
bags they had come to inspect.

“Little does one dream as he packs his trunk for a journey that he may
never see that trunk again. Sad as it may seem, this is often the case.

“So, all unconscious of curious prying eyes, we tuck the very stories of
our lives away in our trunks and watch them go speeding away in a motor
van.”

“How?” Petite Jeanne asked.

“How? Look at this. Here is one I purchased some time ago.” He swung a
large, strongly built wardrobe trunk about, threw it open and produced a
bundle of letters. “This,” he explained, “is a young man. These letters
are from his mother. And these,” he produced another packet, “are from
other women. Still others are from his pals. They tell his story. And
what a story! Bright, well educated, from a good family. But oh, such a
rotter! He betrays his employer, his sweetheart, his pals. He deludes
his trusting mother. And, how he lies to her!

“It is all written here.” He patted the letters.

“I had a letter from him yesterday,” he continued. “He wants the trunk;
says it is a treasure and an heirloom; wants the contents, too; says
sentiment makes him treasure these things. Sentiment!” He fairly
stormed. “He knows but one emotion! He loves; ah yes, he loves himself
supremely! He has not a redeeming trait.

“He wants this trunk because he is afraid. Afraid of me!” His laugh was
bitter. “Me! I never hurt a flea. I only wish I could; that I were hard
and ruthless as some men are, stamping their way through, trampling over
others to fortune!

“But he shall pay,” he went on more calmly after a moment. “I mean to
charge him twenty dollars.

“Then,” he smiled, “I shall return this one to its owners free.” He
placed a hand on a sturdy little army locker. “This one belongs to a
little family. How many trunks do! Father, mother and the little ones,
all their clothes in one trunk! And then lost!

“There should be a society for the return of lost baggage to poor
people.

“There are many like these. People come to a strange city for work.
There is no work. They leave their trunks in the depot. Storage piles
up. They cannot pay.

“But this must bore you!”

“No, no! Please go on.”

“There is not much more to tell. See!” He lifted the lid of the trunk.
“Everything is spotlessly clean. A man’s shirts, a woman’s house
dresses, little frocks and rompers for two tiny girls. Poor folks they
are, like you and me. He was a soldier, too. There is a sharp-shooter’s
medal on a pin cushion. There’s a child’s birth certificate, a doll with
its nose kissed white, and a small Bible. They lost all that.

“And I—I shall send it back.”

“They will pay you,” said Petite Jeanne.

“They will not pay. They cannot. Some are always poor. These are like
that.

“But this one—” His lips curled in sudden scorn. “This big boy who goes
strutting through the world, he shall pay, and I shall pass it on to
these who need and perhaps deserve it.

“But I am keeping you here!” he cried. “Here are the trunks we have
saved for your own eyes. You will see that Weston has spoken truthfully.
They are filled for the most part with junk. But now and then there is a
story, a real story of some romantic life. See, this one opens easily. I
have found a key for it.”

“Wait!” On Jeanne’s face was a look almost of distress. “You have told
me so much. It seems so cruel that we should pry into their lives.
It—it’s like coming upon people in the dark. I—I’m afraid. I—”

“Oh, come!” he laughed. “It’s not half as bad as that. Probably we won’t
come upon anything of interest at all. Indeed that’s almost sure to be
the case, and I am inclined to repent inviting you here.” So saying, he
lifted the lid of the first of the row of trunks, and the show began.



                             CHAPTER XVIII
                       BAGS OF FORBIDDEN TREASURE


Weston’s prophesy that the trunks contained “only junk” proved to be
true. As trunk after trunk was opened, their search for hidden treasure
continued to be unrewarded. Always there was the suggestion of pinching
poverty, carelessness and neglect. These trunks were lost to their
owners because they had not the ready money to pay the charges. One need
not say that such as these have few valuable treasures to pack in a
trunk.

The air of the small shop grew heavy with the odor of soiled clothing,
cheap, highly scented soap and spilled talcum powder. The ladies had
given up the search and were wandering about, looking at books, when the
searching party came at last upon the three large pigskin bags from the
British Isles.

“There is something to intrigue you!” exclaimed Angelo. “And see! They
are all tightly locked.”

Kay King’s eyes shone. He had bid in these bags at a rather high figure.
He was hoping that his judgment regarding their contents had been
correct.

“Let me try these.” He rattled a huge bunch of keys. Not one of them
would open the bags. “Oh well,” he smiled, “one may pick his own locks.”
With skill born of ripe experience he opened the locks with a bit of
twisted wire.

“Now!” He breathed deeply. “Now!”

They all crowded around. A wide-mouthed bag flew open, revealing its
contents. At once an exclamation was on every lip. Not one of them all
but knew on the instant that Kay had made an exceedingly good buy. The
bag was packed to the very top with the choicest of wearing apparel.
Indeed, not one of them all had worn such rich garments. A man’s outfit
included shirts of finest silk and softest woolens, suits of broadcloth
and shoes of rarest quality.

The second bag, though varying somewhat in its contents, matched the
first in quality.

It was the third bag that set them gasping. For in this one the owner
had packed with tender care the articles dearest to his heart. An ivory
toilet set mounted with gold, a costly present from some dear friend; a
brace of gold-mounted pistols; fountain pens; paper knives, elaborately
carved; an astonishing collection of rare articles. And at one side,
carefully wrapped in a swathing of silk, were three oval frames of
beaten gold. Petite Jeanne’s fingers trembled as she unwrapped them and
revealed, one after another, the portraits of a beautiful lady, a
handsome boy and a marvelous girl, all dimples and golden hair.

“Oh!” She breathed deeply and the breath was half a sob.

More was to come. Having taken up an unframed picture, she studied it
for a space of seconds. Then, as her trembling fingers let the picture
fall, her slender form stiffened and her face went white as she said in
words that seemed to choke her:

“You can’t sell these things. You truly can’t.”

“Why can’t I?” Kay challenged. He had not looked into her white face.

“Because—” She put out a hand to steady herself. “Because they belong to
a friend of mine. That is he,” she said, holding up the picture, “and
that,” pointing to a signature at the bottom, “is his name.

“He—he came over on the boat with me. He—he was very, very kind to me.
Helped me over the hard places.

“To sell out these would be a sacrilege.

“Sell them to me!” she pleaded, laying a hand on Kay’s arm. “I’ll pay
you twice what you gave for them. Please, please do!” She was all but in
tears.

She could not know the bargain she appeared anxious to drive. Only
Weston and Kay King knew. They knew that in all their pinched and
poverty-stricken lives they had never before made such a find; that the
bags and their contents were worth not twice but ten times what Kay had
paid for them.

And only Angelo, who had accidentally caught sight of her bankbook, knew
that for the sake of a friend she had known only on a short voyage, she
was willing to spend her all.

“Wha—what will you do with them?” Kay moistened dry lips.

“I—some way I’ll find him and give them to him. And if—if he’s dead I’ll
find her.” She pointed to the beautiful lady in the gold frame. “I—I’ll
find her and them.” She nodded toward the other portraits.

Kay was not one who measured out charity in a glass and served it with a
spoon. “Then,” he said huskily, “you may have them for exactly what I
paid—fifteen dollars.”

Without another word, he snapped the bags shut one by one.

A long silence followed. Merry stood this as long as she could; then,
seizing a long strand of narrow golden ribbon that had fallen from the
trunk, she dashed round and round the group, encircling them all in this
fragile band. Then, with a deft twitch, she thrust herself within the
band.

“This,” she cried, “is our Circle of Gold.”

“And such a circle as it is!” Dan Baker’s voice wavered. “You could
break it with a touch, yet it is stronger than bands of steel, for such
a band is but the emblem of a bond of human hearts that must not be
broken.”

It was a subdued but curiously happy Petite Jeanne who rode back to the
studio that night on a rattling street car. She felt as though she had
been at church and had joined in the holiest of communions.

“And this is Sunday, too,” she whispered to Florence.

“Yes,” Florence agreed, not a little surprised at her words, not
divining their meaning. “This is Sunday.”

Later in the day, when the shadows had fallen across the rooftops and
night had come, Dan Baker sat dozing by Angelo’s fireplace. Jeanne sat
at the opposite side, but she was not sleeping. She was deep in thought.
The others had gone for a stroll on the boulevard.

Jeanne was trying to recall a name, not the name of the man who had once
owned the three bags resting there in the shadows. She knew that. It was
Preston Wamsley. But the name of the hotel where he had stopped in New
York; this escaped her.

She could picture the place in her mind. She had taken a room there for
a night. It was not one of those towering affairs of brick and stone
where traveling men uphold the prestige of their firms by paying ten
dollars a night for a bed. A humble, kindly old hostelry, it stood
mellow with age. Within were many pictures of great men who had stopped
there in days gone by.

“There were Presidents and Earls and Dukes,” she told herself. “Yes, and
Princes.

“Prince!” she whispered excitedly. “Prince—Prince George! That was the
name! I’ll address a letter to him there to-morrow.”

“No.” She changed her mind a moment later. “To-morrow may never come.
Better do it now!”

She helped herself to paper and envelope and penned a simple note to her
great friend, saying she had his traveling bags which had, no doubt,
been lost; and where should she send them?

“That may reach him,” she told herself, as she hurried down to post it.
“Here’s hoping!”

She had cast her bread upon the waters, half of all the bread she had in
the world. And the cruel Fates had decreed that she should shortly have
still less. For all that, her steps were light, her heart gay, as she
clambered back up the long flight of stairs.

As she returned to her place by the fire, it seemed to her that the old
trouper, Dan Baker, half hidden there in the darkness, was part of a
dim, half dream life that at this moment might be passing forever. Her
mind went slipping, gliding back over the days that lay in the shadows
that were yesterdays.

She thought of the dark-faced gypsy who had followed her on that first
morning when she was on her way to dance the sun up from the lake. It
was true that she had recognized him. He was a French gypsy. This much
she knew. That was all. She had seen him beside some camp fire in the
land of her birth.

“And I am sure it was he who peered through the skylight on the first
night I danced the dance to the God of Fire,” she told herself.
Involuntarily her eyes strayed to that skylight. There was no shadow
there now.

“Could it have been that man who stole the God of Fire and sent it to
America?” she asked herself. “Did he follow, only to find that it had
been lost? And if so, what will he do to retrieve it?”

Knowing all too well the answer to this last question, she shuddered. A
strange people, the gypsies care little for laws other than their own.
If this man felt that he could formulate a claim to the gypsy God of
Fire, he would stop at nothing to retake it.

“But he shall not have it!” she clenched her small hands tight.

From the gypsies she had absorbed a spirit of determination that was
unshakable.

She thought of the flutter of wings in the theatre. “Some bird,” she
reassured herself. “But what sort of bird? And who let him in?” Her mind
was far from at rest on this point.

Nor did the thoughts that came to her as she recalled the “battle of
Maxwell Street” bring her comfort. “Angelo was right,” she told herself.
“It should not have happened. In times like these one cannot have too
many friends; but one enemy is just one too many.”

Warming thoughts filled with great comfort came to her only when she
recalled again the three traveling bags. “Ah! There is joy,” she
breathed. “To serve another. And he was so big and kind. Perhaps he will
come for the bags. It may be that I shall see him again.”

With this comforting thought she curled up in her chair. And there, half
an hour later the others, on returning, found her, fast asleep.



                              CHAPTER XIX
                         WITHIN THE HOUR GLASS


As Petite Jeanne prepared to leave her room on the following evening for
her third secret visit to the old Blackmoore, where she hoped once more
to dance in Jimmie’s golden circle of light, she experienced a strange
sensation. Events had been crowding in upon her. There was the strange
gypsy, the fluttering of wings, the battle of Maxwell Street, the lost
traveling bags. All these had, beyond doubt, exercised a powerful
influence upon her. Be that as it may, she felt at that moment as if she
were within a great funnel filled with sand. The sand was slipping,
sliding, gliding downward toward a vortex and she, battling as she
might, was slipping with it. And toward what an uncertain end!

As she closed her eyes, however, she realized that this vision belonged
to the remote past—her very earliest childhood. In those days, she
faintly recalled, there had been in a room of some house where she
lived, an hour glass. This hour glass was composed of two glass funnels
whose very narrow tips were made to meet. One of these funnels had been
filled with fine sand. Then the broad ends of each had been sealed.

When this hour glass was set down with the empty funnel at the bottom,
the sand trickled slowly down from the upper one.

“I seem to be inside the full glass,” she told herself. “The sands of
time are sinking and I am sinking with them. Struggle as I may, I sink,
sink, sink!

“But perhaps,” she said with a little shudder, “the giant hand of Fate,
passing by, will seize the glass and turn it end for end. Then the sand
will begin trickling down upon my head.”

The thought did not please her, so, shaking herself free from it, she
hastened down the stairs and caught a bus, and whirled away toward quite
another world.

As she closed her eyes once more for a moment’s rest, a second vision
passed before her. A fleeting but very real vision it was, too—a marble
falcon with a broken beak looking intently toward the sky. Then she
recalled Merry’s words as they had parted on the previous evening:
“Things are rather hard at times, but the falcon still looks up, so all
will be well in the end.”

In spite of her efforts at self-control, Jeanne found her knees
trembling as she entered Jimmie’s circle of light that night.

“For shame!” She stamped her dainty foot. “What is there to fear? The
sound of wings. A bat perhaps, or a pigeon.”

Even as she said the words, she knew that she was lying to herself.
There were no pigeons in the place. Pigeons leave marks. There were no
marks. Bats there could not be, for bats pass on silent wings. Then,
too, they snap their teeth.

“It is nothing,” she insisted stoutly, “and I shall dance to-night as
never before!”

Jimmy was ready, later, to testify that she carried out this promise to
herself.

“Like some divine one,” was the way he expressed it. “I tell you,” he
fairly stammered in his enthusiasm, “you could see her floating about
like a ghost on that dark old stage!”

Once her feet began their tapping, Jeanne thought only of the Fire God
and her art. Gone were thoughts of rushing wings and crashing glass, of
darkness and the terror that lurks in the night.

Gone, too, was the shabby old playhouse with its dingy drapes and
tarnished gilt. She seemed not there at all. In spirit she found herself
beside a roadway at the edge of a pleasant village in France. It was
springtime. The scent of apple blossoms was in the air. The dwarf pear
trees that grew so close against the wall, were green with new leaves.
The gypsies were about her, they and the country folk. Bihari was sawing
at his violin. Jaquis was strumming a guitar and she was dancing
bare-foot on the soft grass of spring, while the eyes of the Fire God
gleamed softly upon her. It was all so like a dream that she wished it
might last forever.

Slowly there drifted into that dream a sound. At first she thought it
was only a part of the dream, the clap of night hawks’ wings as they
circled in the moonlight.

“But no!” Her face went white. “It is the wings, the fluttering of
wings!” She almost cried aloud.

At the same instant she became conscious of some presence among the
shadows that circled her on every side.

Panic seized her. She wanted to run away; yet she dared not. Close about
her was Jimmie’s friendly circle of light. Beyond that was what? She
dared not stir from that circle.

Suddenly her dancing ceased. Standing there alone in that sea of
darkness, she stretched slim arms high, and cried:

“Jimmie! Jimmie! I’m terribly afraid! Don’t leave me! Please, please
don’t let the light fade!”

Jimmie read real terror in her eyes, and in his honest devotion would
have risked anything to save her from the unknown terror that lurked in
the dark.

But he was helpless for in an instant the place went black. He had not
touched a switch, yet his light had blinked out. His head whirled. His
trembling hand found a switch, threw it on. Still no light. Another and
yet another.

“The house is dark! The wires are cut!” he told himself frantically.

Feeling his way along the aisle, he began stumbling down a stairway when
to his startled ears there came a long drawn, piercing scream.

After that followed silence, silence such as only an empty playhouse
holds in the dark night.

For a full minute he saw nothing, heard nothing. Then came a sound.
Faint, yet very distinct it came, and appeared to cross the hall from
end to end.

“Wings,” he murmured. “Just what she said. The flutter of wings!”



                               CHAPTER XX
                               “KIDNAPED”


Jimmie went at once for the watchman. He was some time in finding him.
At last he stumbled upon him in the front corridor.

“Some one’s been tryin’ the door. Don’t know what it was about. Gone
now, I guess. I—”

“Listen!” Jimmie broke in. “A terrible thing’s happened. The girl’s
gone!”

“Who’s gone?”

“Jeanne!”

“Where to?”

“Who knows?” Jimmie spread his arms excitedly. “Who can tell? She’s been
carried off, I tell you! Devil’s got her, like as not. Never did like
that Fire God thing; gypsies and devils, witches and all that.”

“Don’t lose your head, son!” The watchman laid a hand gently on his
shoulder. “She’s about the place somewhere. We’ll find her.” He gave a
hitch to the big gun he always carried under his left arm and led the
way.

Petite Jeanne was not “about the place somewhere.” At least, if she was
she was securely hidden. They did not find her.

At last in despair Jimmie called Angelo.

“She’s gone!” he said over the telephone. “Vanished, and the Fire God
thing has gone with her. She screamed once after the light blinked out.
Some one threw the master-switch. She’s gone I tell you!”

Angelo called Florence. Half an hour had not passed before they were at
the theatre. The police had also been notified. Three plain clothes men
were there.

Between them they only succeeded in discovering that a side door was
open and that Jeanne was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, gone.

When all hope of discovering the little French girl’s whereabouts
deserted them, they left the place to the police, to spend a miserable
hour before the fire in the studio. Without Jeanne, the place was dead.
Without Jeanne—no one said it, but everyone thought it—the light opera,
which had cost so much labor, and upon which so much happiness and
success depended, was a thing of the past. Jeanne’s part was written for
her. Not another person in all the world of stage people could play it.

“She’s gone!” Angelo rose and paced the floor.

“Kidnaped!” Dan Baker’s face looked gray and old.

“Do you really think so?” Florence looked the picture of despair.

“Not a doubt of it.”

“But why?”

“Ransom, perhaps.”

“Ransom!” The girl laughed. It was not a happy laugh. “Who’d pay it, you
or I?” She went through the gesture of emptying her pockets.

“They’d hope the manager might. There’s been a lot of things done to
stage people these last years. Blackmail. Graft. No end.”

“There’s the gypsies,” said Swen. “Where’d she get that God of Fire?”

“Bought it. Seventy-five cents.”

“Seventy-five cents!” Swen stared.

Florence told him the story of the Fire God. “There’s something in
that,” said Swen. “They’re a queer lot, these Romanies. I’ve been
studying them in their flats over by the big settlement house. Picked up
some fantastic bit of music for the play. Got their own laws, they have.
Don’t care a rap for our laws. If they wanted Jeanne and her god, they’d
take her. That’s their way.”

In the meantime the hour was growing late. The manager and director must
be faced in the morning. An important rehearsal had been set for nine A.
M. Angelo could shut his eyes and picture the director’s rage when
Jeanne failed to show up.

“He’ll have to be told,” he said.

“Yes,” Dan Baker understood, “he will. What is worse, he’ll have to know
how and why. We can’t tell him why. But when we tell him how it all came
about and just what she was doing at the time, then may the good Father
be kind to us all!”

“We’ll face it all better if we have a little sleep.” Florence moved
toward the door. The party broke up. A very sad party it had been.

As Florence rode home she closed her eyes and allowed the events of the
past weeks to drift through her mind. These had been happy, but anxious
weeks. To her, as to millions of others during this time of great
financial depression, when millions were out of work and hunger stalked
around the corner, there had come the feeling that something great,
powerful and altogether terrible was pressing in upon her from every
side.

The loss of her position had depressed her. Still, hope had returned
when she secured part-time work at night.

Most of all she had been concerned with the success of the little French
girl. Having induced her to come to America, Florence felt a weight of
responsibility for her. Her continued success and happiness rested
heavily upon Florence’s shoulders.

“And now—” She sighed unhappily.

But after all, what could have happened? She thought of the dark-faced
gypsy Jeanne had spoken of; thought, too, of the Fire God that had
fallen from some planet, been forged beneath the palms in some tropical
jungle, or in one way or another had found its way into the wayside
camps and the superstitious hearts of the gypsies.

“There might be many who would risk life itself to come into possession
of it,” she told herself.

She thought of the curious phenomena that twice had frightened the
little French girl.

“Wings,” she whispered. “Wings! The flutter of wings!”

The conductor called her station. Startled out of the past by the needs
of the immediate present, she dashed off the street car, only to find
herself thinking of the future.

“To-morrow,” she murmured, “what of to-morrow?”

How many millions had asked that same question during these trying
times! And how varied were the answers!



                              CHAPTER XXI
                         A FALCON COMES TO LIFE


It was the keen blue eyes of the Irish girl, Merry, that made an
important discovery connected with Petite Jeanne’s disappearance.

Knowing that Merry was up bright and early every morning, Florence
called her at seven o’clock the next morning to tell her of Jeanne’s
disappearance.

“But what can have happened?” the girl asked in tearful consternation.

“That,” replied Florence, “is just what we all would like to know.”

“I’m coming down,” Merry announced. “Coming right away.”

“Then come to the theatre. I’m going there at once. The night watchman
is on till eight. He’ll let us in. Places never look the same by the
light of day. We may discover some clue.”

And indeed they did. As has been said, it was Merry who came upon it.
She was passing through a narrow corridor between two doors, when
something caused her to look up at the sill of a narrow window just
above her head.

At once she let out a little cry of surprise.

“The Marble Falcon!” She could scarcely believe her eyes.

The next instant she did not believe them, for the thing resting there
on the window sill turned its head slowly, as though it were set on a
wooden pivot, and then quite as slowly winked an eye.

Merry felt her knees sinking beneath her. Gripping the doorknob, she
stood there shaking until her senses returned.

She recovered just in time to seize a thin silken cord that dangled from
one of the creature’s feet. At that instant the falcon, a real one and
quite alive, spread two very capable wings and went flapping away
through the half open door.

Only the silken line held tightly in the Irish girl’s hand prevented him
from soaring aloft as he had, without doubt, done on other occasions.

Merry gave a little cry as he came fluttering down and alighted on one
of her outstretched hands. The cry attracted Florence’s attention. She
came hurrying up.

“A falcon, a real live falcon!” cried Merry. “Now, what do you think of
that?”

“A live falcon!” Florence stared in astonishment.

Then she went into a brown study.

“Wings,” she murmured after a time. “The flutter of wings. Those were
her very words. Merry, you may have made an important discovery!”

“She told me once,” replied the Irish girl, “that gypsies were very fond
of falcons. Do you think there could be anything in that?”

“There may be.” Florence’s tone was thoughtful. “There may be a whole
lot.”

“What are you going to do next?” Merry demanded with a sudden start.

“I must stay right here until nine o’clock. There was to have been a
rehearsal at that hour. The director will be furious.”

“As if she could help it!”

“That’s just the trouble. You see she really had no business being here
at that hour. And she was doing a thing that would have angered them
beyond words, should they have found it out. How can we tell them
anything without going into the whole affair?”

“That’s not an Irish question,” Merry smiled, “so you can’t expect an
Irishman to answer it. We Irish folk tell the blunt, unadorned truth. If
that means a fight, then we fight.

“And,” she added whimsically, “I don’t think we mind a good fight much,
either.

“But say!” she exclaimed. “If you’re going to stay for the scrap, I’m
not. It’s not my fight.

“Besides, I’ve something I want to try out. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not in the least.”

With that, the strange little girl from the shop of broken gifts
gathered the silk cord into her hands, and with the falcon still perched
upon her wrist, walked down the corridor and out into the sunlit street.



                              CHAPTER XXII
                          THE FALCON’S FLIGHT


Unfortunate for those who awaited him was the mood of Drysdale, the
director, on that particular morning. Perhaps he had not slept well. His
breakfast may have been overdone, or cold. Men with hard heads, narrow
hearts and few smiles seldom sleep well, and rarely do they enjoy their
breakfast.

“Where is she?” he demanded as he saw his watch point to the hour of
nine. “Where is this young gypsy dancing queen?”

Until this moment he had been told nothing. Hoping against hope that
some miracle would bring Petite Jeanne back to them in time for the
rehearsal, Angelo, Florence and Dan Baker had put off the inevitable.

Seeing that the zero hour had arrived, Angelo climbed out of the
trenches. “She’s gone,” he said simply. “She won’t be here.”

“Gone?” The gray steel face took on the color of glowing metal. “Won’t
be here? What do you mean?”

“Been kidnaped.”

“Kidnaped! How? When? Why wasn’t I notified?”

“No reason.” Angelo was still calm. “All’s been done that could be done.
The police were here last night. They looked the place over. No clues.
She’s gone. That’s all.”

“Police? Here? Last night? This place? Why here last night?” Suspicion
had been added to the anger in this man’s hard heart.

Seeing that he had given the thing away, Angelo made a clean breast of
the whole affair.

The face of the director, as he learned that Petite Jeanne had been
practicing her old dances at night in his theatre with the intention of
using those dances on the opening night, was a terrible thing to see.

“That!” he exploded, as Angelo’s story was finished. “That is the end!”

“Yes,” replied Angelo coldly, “no doubt of it. And well ended, too.”

Beckoning to his companions, he walked from the room, down the stairs
and out into the autumn morning.

They walked, the three of them, Florence, Angelo and Dan Baker, one full
city block. Then Dan Baker spoke. What he said was:

“Coffee. Coffee and waffles, with pure maple syrup. Right in here.”

Thus spoke Dan Baker, the old trouper. He had lost, perhaps forever, his
one chance for fame and fortune. But he had not lost his heart of gold.

                            * * * * * * * *

After leaving the theatre, Merry had gone at once to a nearby store and
purchased a spool of stout linen thread.

Once outside the store, she attached the end of the thread to the silk
cord on the falcon’s leg. The next thing she did was to shake the falcon
from her wrist.

Flapping lazy wings, he soared aloft. Scarcely had he cleared the low
building before him, however, than he shot straight away toward the
west.

Astonished at the pull he gave upon her thread, and fearful lest he
break it, Merry played out the line grudgingly until she had him stopped
and then slowly drew him back. Catching sight of her, he soared back to
a place on her wrist.

“So that’s settled!” she exclaimed with considerable animation. “I
guessed as much. Now for something else.”

Boarding a street car and ignoring the astonished stares of those who
rode with her as they saw the falcon, she took a seat and rattled away
toward the west.

When she had ridden thirty blocks she left the car, and stood again on a
street corner and released her bird.

The performance of half an hour before was repeated in every detail.

“Still westward he wings his flight,” she murmured as she drew the bird
back. “That means the Forest Preserve. The flats around the settlement
house are at my back now.

“Can’t go out there alone,” she told herself. “Not safe. They might
kidnap me, too.”

She thought of Kay King and Weston. Maxwell Street was not far off.

“They’ll help me,” she told herself.

Turning, she walked rapidly toward Maxwell Street and Kay King’s book
store.

“He belongs to those gypsies,” she said an hour later, pointing to the
falcon.

Kay had stood frowning and silent while she told her story. “Those
gypsies kidnaped Petite Jeanne,” she went on. “I thought that from the
start. When I found this bird I was sure of it. Since he flies toward
the Forest Preserve I’m sure she’s out there somewhere.”

“You’re probably right,” Kay agreed. “And I know where they’re camped. I
bought some old French books from them week before last. You can’t go
there on a street car. Too far. Weston’s off with his truck. Went for
some trunks. When he gets back we can go out there. I’ll call Big John.
He keeps a shop down the street. He’s got a gun, a regular cannon. We
might need it.”

“Yes,” agreed Merry, as a little thrill ran up her spine, “we might.”

Weston was slow in returning. Big John with his “regular cannon” needed
looking up. It was mid-afternoon by the time they went rattling off
toward the Forest Preserve.

A strange lot of detectives they were, this “Golden Circle” of Merry’s:
Kay King with his sensitive, almost girlish face; Weston, red-faced and
habitually smiling; Big John, immense, stoical and slow, with a large
gun tucked under his arm; and last, but not least, Merry and her falcon.

The men rode on the broad front seat. Merry brought up the rear. She was
comfortably stowed away in a pile of old quilts and blankets that lay on
the floor of the closed truck.

“Be almost night before we get there,” the girl thought to herself.

As she closed her eyes she seemed to see gypsy camp fires gleaming in
the fading light of day. About one of these fires a blonde girl was
dancing. The girl was Petite Jeanne. A strange sort of vision, but not
far wrong.



                             CHAPTER XXIII
                         THROUGH ONE LONG NIGHT


Gypsy camp fires were indeed dispelling dark shadows of a fading day in
the heart of a forest glade when the truck bearing Merry’s “Golden
Circle” arrived at the scene of the encampment. But no little French
girl danced about any of them.

“They’re gone, those Frenchies,” said the greasy gypsy who came out of a
tent in answer to their call. “Don’t know much about ’em. They’re not of
our tribe. We’re Americans; been here for generations.”

“Did they have a girl with them?” Weston asked.

“Yellow-haired?”

“Yes.”

“She’s with ’em, all right.”

“Bound?”

“How do you mean, bound?” The gypsy stared. “Gypsies don’t tie their
folks up.”

“But she was kidnaped,” Merry broke in.

“Listen, young lady!” The man came close. His air was defiant, almost
threatening. “Gypsies don’t kidnap girls. Why should they? Got enough of
their own.”

At that moment three dirty children crowded around him. The look on his
face softened as he patted their tousled heads.

“That girl kidnaped!” He laughed hoarsely. “She’s one of ’em. Talks
their French lingo. Talks gypsy talk, too, better’n me. Danced all day,
didn’t she, youngsters?” Again he patted the dark hair of the shy
children.

“Beautiful, so beautiful dancer!” the oldest girl murmured.

“See!” he exulted. “I tell the truth. Children don’t lie.”

“But where have they gone?” Merry’s mind was in a whirl. Petite Jeanne
staying in such a place of her own free will? Petite Jeanne, who was so
much needed elsewhere, dancing all day beside a gypsy tent? The thing
seemed impossible. Yet here were the guileless little children to
confirm the statement.

“Wait! I will show you.” The man disappeared within the tent. He was
back in half a minute. In his hand he held a soiled road map. On this,
with some skill, he traced a route that ended in a village called Pine
Grove, many miles away.

“Beyond this place,” he concluded, “is a great pine grove. Some man
planted it there many years ago. You cannot miss it. There is only one
like this in the state. This is where they will camp. There are others
of their kind camping there. They are gone three hours ago in a motor
van. See! There are the wheel tracks. You may follow, but you will not
overtake them; not in that.” He pointed at their truck with a smile.
“Gypsies have always been blacksmiths. Now many are motor mechanics.
They trade for cars, fix ’em up. Always it is for a better car. By and
by they have a very fine one. So it is with these.”

Still smiling, he bowed himself into his tent, and closed the flap.

“We may be slow,” Weston said grimly, “but we are sure. We will be in
Pine Grove before sunrise. Hop in, little lady, and we’ll step on the
gas.”

A motorist traveling that long and lonely road, mapped out by the gypsy
and taken by Merry’s “Golden Circle” that night, might, had he been
traveling in the opposite direction, have marveled at the motor
transports he met that night.

The first was high, broad and long, a gaudily painted house on wheels.
On its seat rode three men. At the back of this traveling house was a
room, much like the one room apartments of a modern city. Two broad
berths let down from the ceiling were occupied; the one on the right by
a girl, the one on the left by a woman and child.

The girl was Petite Jeanne. With her golden hair all tossed about on her
pillow, she slept the sleep of innocence.

Do you marvel at this? Had not a gypsy van been her home in France for
many a happy season? Ah yes, this was truly her home.

From time to time, as the van jolted over its rough way, she half
awakened and found herself wondering dimly what beautiful French village
they might be near when they camped for breakfast in the morning.
Happily sleep found her again ere she was sufficiently awake to realize
that she was in the bleak interior of America; that she was with strange
gypsies, and that she had no money.

The woman and child across from her were not so fortunate. The child, a
girl of two or three years, whose eyes were dark as night and whose
tangled curls were like a raven’s wing, tossed about in her bed. She was
burning hot with fever. The mother slept fitfully. Often she awakened to
sit up and stare with big, motherly eyes at the child; then with tender
fingers she tucked it securely in. The gypsy mother loves the children
God has given her.

Three hours back on this road a second truck made its lumbering way
through the night. On its seat, taking turns at nodding and dozing or
driving, sat three men. They were not well clothed. The night wind blew
all too frankly through their threadbare coats. But their hearts were
warm, so they cared little for the wind.

At the back of this truck, buried deep in a pile of ragged quilts and
blankets, was blue-eyed Merry. She slept the long night through.

With the dawn Weston swung his truck sharply to the right, drove on for
a quarter of a mile and then brought it to a sputtering halt.

“Hey, Merry!” he shouted back. “We’re here. And over there is your
friend. See! She is dancing the sun up. She is dancing around a gypsy
camp fire.”

And there, sure enough, radiant as the morn, was the little French girl,
dancing her heart away while a broad circle of gypsy folks admired and
applauded.

“Now, what,” Merry rubbed her eyes as she tumbled from the truck, “what
do you think of that?”



                              CHAPTER XXIV
                            THE FALLING SAND


“These people surely did kidnap me. But, oh, for a very good reason!”
Petite Jeanne placed her palms against one another and held them up as a
child does in a good-night prayer.

Almost on the instant of their arrival, the little French girl’s keen
eyes had recognized the men of Merry’s “Golden Circle” and had come
dancing out to meet them.

When Merry tumbled out at the back of the van, Jeanne had seized her by
the hand and, without a word of explanation, dragged her to a place
beside the gypsy camp fire. After a moment in which to regain her breath
and overcome her astonishment at the arrival of these friends, she had
seized a huge pot of English tea and a plate of cakes and then had
dragged Merry away to the shadows of a huge black pine tree, leaving the
three men to have breakfast with the gypsies.

“And to think!” she cried, “that you should have come all this way to
find me, you and your ‘Golden Circle!’”

“We—we thought you must be in great distress,” Merry murmured.

“Of course you would. And that only goes to prove that I, who have been
a gypsy, have no right to try living as those do who have not been
gypsies.

“But truly I must tell you!” Jeanne set down her cup of tea. “You see,
these gypsies are French. They knew I, too, was French, that I had been
a gypsy, and that I had the God of Fire. How?” She threw up her hands.
“How do they know many things? Because they are gypsies.

“These people,” she went on, “believe very much in the power of the Fire
God. He is able to heal the sick. They believe that.

“They believe more than this. They think that when one is sick he is
only sad. If they can cheer him up, then he will be well again. So: sing
to him; play the violin and guitar; dance for him. Bring the Fire God
and dance before him. That is best of all.

“Did you see that beautiful child?” she asked suddenly. She nodded her
head toward the camp. “The one among the blankets before the fire?”

Merry nodded.

“That child has been very, very sick. Now we have sung for her. We have
danced for her. The Fire God is here. He has smiled for her. Perhaps she
will get well.

“And that,” she concluded, as if all had been explained, “that is why
they kidnaped me. They knew I could dance very well. They wished me to
dance before the Fire God that the child might be well again.

“And I—” Her voice took on an appealing quality. “I might have escaped.
After they had taken me from the theatre, they did not compel me to
stay. But how could I come away? There was the child. And is not one
child, even a gypsy child, more than friends or plays or money or food,
or any of these?”

“Yes,” said Merry thoughtfully, “she is more than all these. But why did
they not ask you to come? Why did they carry you away?”

“Ah! They are simple people. They did not believe I would come
willingly.

“They were at the theatre three times. Twice they really meant to ask
me, but did not dare. The child grew worse. Then they took me.”

“And the falcon—”

“It escaped that night. They told me.”

“And it was the falcon that led us to you,” said Merry. It was her turn
to take up the story.

That day a doctor was called. He pronounced the gypsy child out of
danger.

“Doctor,” said Merry, looking earnestly into his eyes, “did she truly
help?” She threw a glance at Petite Jeanne.

“Without a shadow of doubt.” Here was an understanding doctor. “She
helped the mother and father to be cheerful and hopeful. This spirit was
imparted to the child. Nothing could have helped her more.”

“Then,” said Merry, “I am glad.”

That afternoon the three men, who had slept the morning through in the
back of Weston’s truck, drove Jeanne and Merry to the nearby village
where they caught a train to the city.

It was a very sober Jeanne who approached the door of the theatre that
evening just as the shadows of skyscrapers were growing long.

To her surprise she found Florence, Angelo, Dan Baker and Swen, gathered
there. At their backs were several large trunks.

“Why! What—” She stared from one to the other.

“Been thrown out,” Angelo stated briefly.

“The—the opera? Our beautiful opera?”

“There will be no opera. We have been thrown out.” Angelo seemed tired.
“A road company opens here a week from next Sunday.”

Florence saw the little French girl sway, and caught her. As she did so,
she heard her murmur:

“The hand of Fate! It has turned the hour glass. The sand is falling on
my head.”

She was not ill, as Florence feared; only a little faint from lack of
rest and sleep. She had once more caught a vision of that giant hour
glass. A cup of coffee from a nearby shop revived her spirits.

She started to tell her story, but Angelo stopped her. “All in good
time!” he exclaimed. “You are too tired now. And we must look to our
trunks.”

“But I must explain. I—” The little French girl was almost in tears.

“Dear child,” said Angelo, in the gentlest of tones, “we are your
friends. We love you. Never explain. Your friends do not require it;
your enemies do not deserve it; you—”

“Ah! A very happy little party, I see.” A voice that none of them
recognized broke in. The short, stout, rather ugly man with a large nose
and a broad smile who had thus spoken was a stranger.

“Thrown out,” said Angelo, jerking a hand toward the trunks.

“So! That’s bad. Winter, too.” The man looked them over calmly.

“That little girl can dance,” he said, nodding at Jeanne, “like an
angel. Where’ve I seen her? Can’t recall.

“And you, my friend.” He patted Dan Baker on the shoulder. “Where did I
see you?”

“Topeka, Kansas.” The old trouper smiled. “Or was it Joplin, Missouri?”

“Probably Joplin,” said the stranger.

“Mind giving me your card?” He turned to Angelo.

“Haven’t any.”

“Well, then, write it here.” He proffered a blank page of a much-thumbed
note book.

Angelo wrote. The stranger departed without another word. He had said
nothing of real importance; had not so much as told them who he was, nor
how he made his living; yet his pause there among them had inspired them
with fresh hope. Such is the buoyancy of youth. And the old trouper was
in spirit the youngest of them all.



                              CHAPTER XXV
                              A DARK DAWN


Before retiring that night Florence and Petite Jeanne sat for a long
time in their own small room, discussing the past and future.

They had spent the earlier hours of the evening in Angelo’s studio.
There, in frankness and utter sincerity, the little company had
discussed its prospects.

No one blamed Petite Jeanne for the part she had played. Being endowed
with tender and kindly souls, they one and all felt that under the same
conditions they would have acted in an identical manner.

“It is of little consequence,” Angelo had declared magnanimously. “We
should never have succeeded under that management. The opera was doomed.
And once a failure always a failure in the realm of playland.”

“What does it matter?” Dan Baker’s kindly old eyes had lighted with a
smile. “You have youth and love and beauty, all of you. How can you ask
for more?”

This speech had seemed quite wonderful at the time. But to these girls
sitting on their bed, facing facts, the future did not seem rosy. With
only two weeks’ room rent paid, with less than ten dollars between them,
with no income save Florence’s meager pay, and with bleak old winter
close at hand, they could not but dread what lay ahead.

“Jeanne,” Florence said at last, as if to change the subject, “was the
gypsy who chased you, on that morning when you fell into Merry’s cellar,
among those you saw at the Forest Preserve?”

“No,” the little French girl said thoughtfully. “No, I am sure he was
not.”

“Then,” said her companion, “we had better put his Majesty, the little
God of Fire, back to rest in his hole in the floor. You may need him
yet.”

“I am sure we shall.” The little French girl’s tone carried assurance.
“That opera is beautiful, very, very beautiful. And what is it the poet
says?

“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’

“And still another:

  “‘All that is at all
  Lasts forever, past recall.’

“If these things are true, how can our beautiful opera fail to live?
Believe me, our time will yet come.

“Yes, yes, we must hide the little Fire God very carefully indeed.”

Three weeks passed. Trying weeks they were to the little French girl;
weeks in which her faith and courage were severely tested.

As proof of her faith in the beautiful thing Angelo and Swen had
created, she kept up her dancing. Sometimes in Angelo’s studio,
sometimes in her own small room, sometimes humming snatches of the
score, sometimes with Swen beating the battered piano, she danced
tirelessly on. There were times, too, when those hardy souls who went to
walk in the park on these bleak days saw a golden haired sprite dancing
in the sun. This, too, was Jeanne.

But when winter came sweeping down, when on one memorable November day
she awoke and found the window ledge piled high with snow and heard the
shriek of a wind that, whirling and eddying outside, seemed never to
pause, she despaired a little.

“This American winter,” she murmured. “It is terrible.”

And how could it seem otherwise to her? In her beloved France it snowed
a little. But the snow was soon gone. No drifts three feet high, no
blocked traffic, no terrible thermometer dropping to twenty below.
Besides, when winter came in France, the gypsies, “folding their tents
like the Arabs,” drifted away toward the south where it was always
summer.

By drawing the covers up over her head she was able to shut out from her
eyes the sight of the drifting snow and from her ears the sound of the
shrieking wind. But she could not hide from her alert mind the fact that
her money was gone, that the rent was overdue, nor that Florence’s
pitiful salary, if such it might be called, sufficed only to supply them
with the plainest of food.

In these last days she had gone less seldom to Angelo’s studio. Matters
were no better there. And, though for her sake Angelo and his companions
kept up a continuous chatter about future successes and good times just
around the corner, she knew in her heart that they, too, were
discouraged.

“There are the traveling bags,” she told herself now, as she threw back
the covers and sat up. “Those three pigskin traveling bags down there in
Angelo’s studio. I have fifteen dollars invested in them. Kay King has
always said: ‘You may have the money back any time.’

“Perhaps,” she thought soberly, “it is wrong of me to keep them. But to
sell them seems like betraying a friend. To cast all those beautiful
treasures, bestowed upon my good friend by those who loved him best,
before the eyes of curious, grasping and often stupid people, and to say
‘Come, buy these,’ certainly does seem like the betrayal of a friend.

“And he was so kind to me!” She closed her eyes and saw it all again. “I
was so young. The ship, the sea, all the people were so strange. And
America. It, at first, was even worse. But he, big-hearted man that he
was, treated me as his own daughter. He made everything seem so simple,
so joyous, so much like a lark. How can I? Oh, how can I?” She wrung her
slender hands in agony. “How can I permit them to be sold?

“And yet,” she thought more calmly, “it has been more than three weeks
since I wrote that letter to his hotel in New York. There has been time
for it to reach England and for the reply to come. I have heard nothing.
Perhaps he is dead.

“No reply,” she thought again. “There may have been one, and yet I may
not have known it.”

This was true. Since she did not wish to carry the heavy bags to her
room, she had left them at Angelo’s studio, and in writing the letter
had given only that address.

“I have not been to the studio for three days. A letter may await me. I
shall go to-day. If he reclaims the bags, he will repay me. Perhaps
there will be a tiny reward. Then all will be well again. Ah, yes, why
despair?”

Thus encouraged, she hopped out of bed, did ten minutes of
shadow-dancing and then, having hopped into her clothes, set about the
business of making toast and coffee over an electric plate.

“Life,” she murmured as she sipped her coffee, “is after all very, very
sweet.”



                              CHAPTER XXVI
                           THE SAINTED BEGGAR


An afterthought had a tendency to dim the little French girl’s hopes.
Angelo, she remembered, had called her on the phone the day before.

He had, he assured her, nothing of importance to say. “And that,” she
told herself now, “means no letter. And yet, he may have forgotten. Ah,
well, we’ll hope. And I shall not go there until evening. That will give
the mailman one more day to do his bit.”

She called to mind the things Angelo had told her. He and his companions
were very close to the bottom. His precious treasures, rugs and all,
must soon go. They were living from hand to mouth. Dan Baker had been
earning a little, three or four dollars a day. “Doing impersonation.”
That is what the old trouper had called it, whatever that might mean.
Swen had hopes of earning something soon. How? He did not know. As for
himself, he had found nothing. He had even offered to sell books on
drama at a book store; but they would not have him.

“Sell books.” She sat staring at the wall now. “Who would buy them?”

She was thinking of blue-eyed Merry and of her last visit to the
basement shop. “It is hard,” the brave little Irish girl had said to
her. “For days and days no one has entered the shop. And we need money
so badly.

“But we have hopes,” she had added quickly. “The holiday season is
coming. Perhaps those who cannot buy costly presents will come to our
shop and buy mended ones that are cheap.”

“I am sure of it,” Jeanne had said.

“And see!” Merry had cried, pointing at the marble falcon with the
broken beak, that rested on the shelf above her desk. “See! He is still
looking toward the sky. All will be well.”

“Oh, little girl with your smiling Irish eyes,” Jeanne had cried,
throwing both arms about her, “How I love you! Some day I’ll be rich.
Then I shall give you a falcon all made of gold and he shall be looking
toward the sky.”

Now as she sat alone in her room, she thought again of the marble
falcon, and murmured, “I wonder if the falcon told the truth. I wonder
if all will be well? Truly, in such times as these it is necessary to
have great faith if one is to be brave.”

She threw herself into her dances that day with abandon. By the time she
had done the last wild whirl she had worked herself up to such heights
that she felt sure that a change for the better would come.

“It is as if I were preparing for some great event,” she told herself,
“a trial of my skill that will mean great success or terrible defeat!”

But as she went toward the studio she was given a shock that came near
to breaking her poor little heart.

She had rounded a corner when a sudden rush of wind seized her and all
but threw her against a beggar who, tin cup in hand, stood against the
wall.

The sight of the beggar caused her to halt. There was, she remembered, a
dime in her side coat pocket.

She looked again at the beggar, then thrust her hand deep for the dime.
The beggar seemed pitifully, hopelessly forlorn. His battered hat was
drooping with snow. His long gray hair was powdered with it. The hand
that held the cup was blue with cold. In a sad and forlorn world he
seemed the saddest and most forlorn being of all.

She had the dime between her fingers and was about to draw it forth when
another look at the old man made her start. A second look was needed
before she could be convinced that her eyes had not deceived her. Then,
with a sound in her throat suspiciously like a sob, she dropped the dime
back in her pocket and hastened away on the wings of the wind, as if she
had seen a ghost.

“Impersonations,” she whispered to herself, as a chill shook her from
head to foot. “Impersonation. He called it that. He would do even this
for his friends!”

The beggar standing there in the storm was none other than Dan Baker.

“I’ll call Kay King,” she said to herself, with another shudder. “I’ll
call him to-night. I’ll tell him he may have those bags. And when he
brings me the money I shall give it to Dan Baker. And he must accept it,
every dollar.”

She found Angelo at the studio when she arrived. No one else was there.
Swen, he explained, had gone out on some sort of work. Dan Baker was
doing his “impersonations.” Again Jeanne shuddered at that word.

Angelo had greeted her with the warm affection characteristic of his
race. Now he led her to a place beside the fire.

After that neither seemed to find words for small talk. Each was busy
with thoughts that could not well be expressed. Angelo, too, hailed from
a warm and sunny clime. This wild storm, ushering in winter so early in
the year, had sobered his usually buoyant soul.

After a time she asked him about the letter.

“A letter?” he asked, seeming puzzled. “Did you expect a letter to come
here?”

“Perhaps I did not tell you.” She nodded toward the corner where the
three pigskin bags stood. “When I wrote the letter to my friend, I gave
him this address.”

“I see. Well, there has been no letter.”

“I suppose,” she said dully, “that I may as well turn the bags back to
Kay King and get the money.”

“Must you?” He looked at her sharply.

“I think I must. I’ll call him on the phone now.”

Before she could put this plan into execution, Swen came bursting into
the room. He wore no cap. His hair was filled with snow. His face was
red with the cold. But his spirits were buoyant.

“Had a whale of a time,” he shouted boisterously. “And see! I have three
whole dollars! To-night we feast.”

Petite Jeanne heaved a sigh of relief. There was money in the house. Now
she need not call Kay King, at least not until morning.

“A day of grace,” she told herself.

It was some time later that, chancing to catch a glimpse of the talented
young musician’s hand, she saw with a shock that they were covered with
blisters.

“He has been shoveling snow in the street,” she told herself. An added
ache came to her overburdened heart.

Dan Baker came in a moment later. Beating the snow from his hat, he
threw it into a corner. Having shaken the snow from his hair, he
advanced to greet Jeanne.

“He doesn’t know I saw him,” she thought, as she looked straight into
his transparent blue eyes. “I am so glad.”

At first he seemed too tired for talk. Taking a place before the fire,
he appeared to fall into a dreamy reverie.

At last, rousing himself, he drew from his pocket a coin that shone in
the dim light. It was a gold piece, one of those rare
two-dollar-and-a-half pieces. Jeanne started at the sight of it. How had
he come by it? Had some one, mistaking it for a penny, dropped it in his
cup?

Still looking at the coin, Dan Baker spoke one word: “Gold.”

His weary old eyes took on an unwonted brightness. “That reminds me.
Once I was down on my luck as an actor. That was in Colorado.” He paused
and his eyes appeared to grow misty with recollection.

“He’s off again,” Jeanne told herself. “But how wonderful!” Her eyes
grew dim with tears. “How marvelous to be able to forget all that is
sordid, cold and mean, all the heartaches of the present in one’s dreams
of an unreal but charming past.”

“As I was about to say,” Dan Baker made a fresh start, “I was no longer
an actor. No one wished me to act. So, securing pick, a pan and a
burro—or was it two burros?”

“Oh!” murmured Petite Jeanne. “Just as you were to do in our play.”

“Just as he _is_ to do,” Angelo corrected stoutly.

“Yes, yes,” Dan Baker broke in, like a child whose story has been
interrupted. “But the burros. There were two, I am sure. Well, I recall
the jingle of picks and shovels, pots and pans as we traveled up Bear
Creek Canyon in Colorado—beautiful, wonderful Colorado, where the
snow-capped mountains are reflected in tiny lakes whose waters are
blue-black.

“Three days we traveled. Three nights I slept by a burned out camp fire
on the banks of a madly rushing stream.

“From time to time I caught the gleam of a golden speck in the sand at
the river’s bottom.

“But the gold,” I told myself, “is higher up. And so it was.”

He paused to poke at the fire. As his eyes reflected the gleam of the
fire the little French girl knew that he was not in the heart of a
great, sordid and selfish city, but far, far away, prodding a camp fire
in beautiful Colorado where snow-capped mountains are reflected in tiny
lakes whose waters are a deep blue-black. And she was glad.

“Gold,” he began once more. “Ah, yes. There was gold. You would be
surprised.

“I built a cabin, all of logs save the floor. That was of fragrant fir
and spruce boughs.

“One day as I panned the sand I came upon a brownish object that seemed
to be an ancient copper kettle turned upside down and half buried in the
sand.

“‘Aha!’ I cried, ‘A relic of the past. Some Forty-niner must have passed
this way and left his kettle.’

“I struck it lightly with the side of my pick. Naturally I expected it
to give off a hollow sound. No hollow sound came; only a dull thud, as
if I had struck a rock.

“Instantly my heart beat wildly. I had made a great discovery—how great
I could only guess.

“Quickly I drew my sheath knife. Using this as a chisel, and a stone as
a hammer, I cut off a chip of this yellow boulder.

“Imagine my joy when it came off gleaming like yellow fire.

“‘Gold!’ I cried. ‘A boulder of pure gold!’

“Then I fell suddenly silent. What if some one had heard me?

“I tried to pry the boulder from the sand. It would not budge. Gold is
heavy. Do you know how heavy?

“Darkness was falling. The curtain of night would hide my treasure. I
returned to my cabin, fried a supply of bacon, baked corn-cakes over hot
coals, and enjoyed a regal repast. And why not? Was I not rich as any
king?”

Once more the beloved wanderer prodded the fire. As he did so a dramatic
look of gray despair overspread his face.

“I slept well that night. Awakened sometime before dawn by the dull roar
of thunder, I looked out on a world of inky blackness.

“‘Going to rain,’ I thought. Then I crawled back between the blankets.

“Not for long. To the occasional roar of thunder was added a more
terrifying sound. An endless, ever increasing roar came echoing down the
canyon.

“Knowing its meaning, I wrenched my cabin door from its hinges, and then
awaited the worst.

“I had not long to wait. As if by magic I felt my door, my life saving
raft, lifted beneath me by a raging torrent and go spinning round and
round. We were on our way, riding the flood of a cloudburst.

“Well—” He paused to reflect. “I landed in a fellow’s cornfield. He
wanted to charge me for the corn my raft broke down. I wouldn’t stand
for that, so I went down to Denver and joined a troupe that was playing
_Ten Nights in a Bar Room_. For a man that never drank, I claim I had a
pretty good line.”

“But that gold?” put in Swen.

“Oh! The gold? Sure. Yes, the gold!” For a moment the old man seemed
bewildered. Then a bright smile lighted his wrinkled face.

“Gold, my son, is heavy. That flood moved half the mountainside. And
when it was over, where was my golden boulder? At the bottom of it all,
to be sure.”

“That story,” said Petite Jeanne, “sounds almost true.”

“True?” He beamed on her his old, gracious smile. “Of course it’s true.
At least, I did once play a part in _Ten Nights in a Bar Room_—a mighty
fine line, too, for a man who never drank a quart of whisky in his whole
life.”

After that, Dan Baker sat for a time staring at the glittering bit of
gold, the smallest coin of our realm. When he spoke again it was to the
coin alone. “You came to me by chance. What for? To buy stale bread, and
butter made from cocoanut oil, and a soup bone? Tell me. Shall it be
this, or shall it be sirloin steak, a pie and a big pot of coffee with
real cream?”

As Petite Jeanne looked and listened, she seemed to see him once again,
standing half buried in snow, a tin cup frozen to his benumbed fingers.
She was about to speak, to utter words of wise counsel, when with a
suddenness that caused them all to start, there came a loud knock at the
door.



                             CHAPTER XXVII
                       “THIS IS OUR GOLDEN HOUR”


The unexpected visitor was a short, stout man with a large hooked nose.
So completely engulfed was he in a great raccoon coat, that on first
sight not one of them recognized him. When, however, he had removed that
coat he was known at a glance. It was none other than the rather ugly,
fat Jew who had taken Angelo’s name and address on that dismal day when
they stood with their trunks before the old Blackmoore theatre.

“So, ho!” he exclaimed. Just as, Jeanne thought, a bear might should he
enter a cave filled with rabbits.

“Fine place here.” He advanced toward the fire. “All very cheerful.
Delightful company. May I sit down?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took a chair by the fire.

An awkward silence followed. Petite Jeanne wiggled her bare toes; she
had danced a little that evening. Swen pawed his blonde mane. Dan Baker
stared dreamily into the fire.

The stranger’s eyes wandered from one to the other of them. They rested
longest on Petite Jeanne. This made her uncomfortable.

“My name,” said the stranger, crashing the silence and indulging in a
broad grin that completely transformed his face, “is Abraham Solomon.
You’d say my parents left nothing to the imagination when they named me,
now wouldn’t you?” He laughed uproariously.

“Well, they didn’t. And neither do I. Never have. Never will. What I
want to know is, have you placed that light opera?” He turned an
enquiring eye on Angelo.

“No, er—” the Italian youth stammered, “we—we haven’t.”

“Then,” said Solomon, “suppose you show it to me now.” He nodded toward
the miniature stage at the back of the studio. “That is, as much of it
as you can—first act at least.”

“Gladly.

“On your toes!” Angelo smiled as his friends leaped from their places by
the fire. Not one of them could guess what it meant. But, like Petite
Jeanne, they believed more or less in fairies, goblins, and Santa Claus.

The performance they put on that night for the benefit of their audience
of one, who sat like a Sphinx with his back to the fire, would have done
credit to a broader stage.

When they had finished, the look on the stranger’s face had not changed.

Rising suddenly from his chair, he seemed about to depart without a
word.

Petite Jeanne could have wept. She had hoped—what had she not hoped? And
now—

But no. The man turned to Angelo. “Got a phone here?”

“Yonder.” Angelo pointed a trembling finger toward the corner. There was
a strange glow on his face. Perhaps he read character better than
Jeanne.

They heard Solomon call a number. Then:

“That you, Mister Mackenzie? Solomon speaking. Is the Junior Ballet
there?

“Spare ’em for an hour? In costume? Put on their fur coats and send ’em
over.”

“Where?”

“What’s this number?” He whirled about to ask Angelo.

“Six—six—eight.”

“Six—six—eight on the boulevard. Send ’em in taxis. I’ll meet ’em at the
sidewalk and pay the fares.

“Fifteen minutes? Great!”

Without a word he drew on his great coat and, slamming the door behind
him, went thumping down the stairs.

“What—what—” Jeanne was too astonished for speech.

Angelo seized her hand. He drew their friends into the circle and pulled
them into a wild roundo-rosa about the room.

“We’re made!” he exclaimed as, out of breath, he released them. “Abraham
Solomon is the greatest genius of a manager and producer the world has
ever known.

“And the Junior Ballet! Oh, la la! You never have seen so many natural
beauties before, and never will again. They are in training for Grand
Opera. So you see they must be most beautiful and good.

“And to think,” he cried, almost in dismay, “they will be here, here in
my studio in fifteen minutes! Every one of you give me a hand. Let’s put
it in order.”

As she assisted in the re-arranging of the studio, Petite Jeanne found
her head all awhirl. Half an hour before she had listened with a pain in
her heart to Dan Baker discussing dry bread or a full meal over a small
gold piece he had gained by begging in the snow. And now all this. How
could she stand it? She wanted to run away.

“But I must not,” she told herself stoutly. “I must not! For this is our
golden hour.”

Scarcely had she regained her composure when there came the sound of
many pairs of feet ascending the stairs.

“They come,” Angelo whispered.

“Oh, my good Father of Love!” Petite Jeanne murmured faintly. “Is it for
this that I have danced so long?”

“It is for this.”

“Then—” In the girl’s eyes was a prayer. “Then, good Father, give me
courage for one short hour.”

A moment later Angelo and Swen were assisting in the removal of fur
coats from visions of loveliness that surpassed the most gorgeous
butterflies. For this, you must know, was the Junior Ballet of the Grand
Opera. Selected for beauty and grace, they would have shone in any
ballroom of the land.

Some were slender, some plump. There were black eyes, brown and blue.
There were heads of black, brown and golden hue. The costumes, too, were
varied. All were of the filmiest of fabrics and all were gorgeous.

“See!” exclaimed the miracle-working Solomon, spreading his hands wide.
“I have brought these here that I may see you dancing with them. I wish
to know how you fit in; how you will appear before them all.”

“Ah, poor me!” The little French girl covered her face. “Who am I that I
should dance before these so beautiful ones?”

“Come!” said the fairy godfather who had suddenly arrived in their
midst. “It is for you only to do your dances as I have seen you here.
Yes, and I once did over in the old Blackmoore. Ah, yes, I was a spy. I
saw you dance, and how very well you did it, too.”

Jeanne wondered with a thrill whether he could have bribed some one to
admit him to the theatre on one of those nights when she danced to the
God of Fire alone.

“Let us see.” Solomon allowed his glance to fall upon the circle of
dancers. “Perhaps we can find something you all know. Then you can do it
together.”

He named one well known dance after another; this one from light opera
and that from grand opera, without success until he came to the polka
from _The Bartered Bride_.

At once all eyes shone. Even Dan Baker was prepared to do his part, and
Swen to have a try at the music.

Never was the beautiful dance performed in such unusual surroundings.
And seldom has it been done so well.

When the last graceful swing was executed, when whirling gowns were
still, and the company had gathered in a circle before the fire with the
girls reposing in colorful groups on his beloved rugs, and the men
standing about, Angelo caught a long breath, and murmured:

“Perfect!”

“This,” said Solomon in a voice that trembled slightly, “is a great
moment. The best, in a great profession, I have met. The result is
beauty beyond compare, and a light opera that will outshine the sun.”

“But the playhouse.” Angelo strove to bring him down to earth.

“The house? The most beautiful in the city. Where else? The Civic
Theatre. You know the place.”

“Know it?” How well he knew that place of beauty, that palace of gold
and old rose!

“But—but you forget,” he stammered. “It is only for occasional things;
recitals, Shakespeare, the very unusual affairs!”

“And this,” said Solomon, clapping him on the back, “This, my boy, will
be the most unusual of all! We may remain as long as we are good. And we
shall be good forever.

“But I promised to bring these ladies back promptly.” He sprang into
action. “Come! Coats on! And let’s be away.”

Though the ladies of the Junior Ballet were rushed into coats and fairly
pushed down the stairs to waiting taxis, not one of them failed to pause
and give Jeanne a hug and a smile or a whispered word of congratulation.

“How different!” she thought as a great lump came into her throat. “How
very different from Eve and her circle!”

“Here!” Solomon turned from hurrying the girls away. “This will act as a
binder. Be here to-morrow at nine.” He thrust something into Angelo’s
hand.

Angelo opened his hand after a time and spread out five fifty dollar
bills.

“One for you, and you, and you, and you,” he chanted as he dealt them
out, finally cramming one into his own pocket.

“Sit down,” he invited. “This is an hour for silent thanksgiving.”

“And prayer,” the devout French girl murmured softly.

They had been sitting thus in absolute silence for some time when, with
a rush that brought in a wave of cold air, Florence burst into the room.

“Oh, Florence! My own!” Jeanne cried, throwing herself into the big
girl’s arms. “To-night fairies and angels and godfathers have been here
and for you and me the world begins once more to roll round and round
just as it used to do!”

“Steady there!” said Angelo soberly. “We have another opportunity to
make good. That is all. We must all do our very best. We must guard our
steps well. Then, perhaps, all our dreams will come true.”

A few minutes later, a sober but joyous company, they parted for the
night.

As Jeanne left the room she allowed her eyes to stray to the corner
where rested the three traveling bags. She heaved a great sigh of relief
and crowded her life saving fifty dollar bill deeper into her small
purse. She had not been obliged to sell the treasures of a friend, and
for this she was more thankful than for her own good fortune.

But would this friend ever come for his property? She wondered.

As they made their way through the driving snow to the street car
Florence thought she caught a glimpse of a dark, bulky figure following
in the shadows. Seizing Petite Jeanne by the arm she hurried along.

A car came rolling up on the padded snow just as they arrived. Soon they
were stowed away in its warm depths. Not, however, until Florence had
noted that the bulky figure was a large man in a green overcoat.

“We lost him,” she thought with some satisfaction.

She was wrong. As they rose to leave the car she saw, seated at the
back, that same man. She knew in an instant who he was. For ten seconds
her brain whirled. She was obliged to grip the edge of a seat for
support.

Regaining control of herself she passed out without so much as glancing
in his direction.

To her surprise the man did not follow.

“May not have recognized us.” This was more a wish than a hope.

Hurrying across the street they mounted to their room.

“Um-m! How cozy!” she exclaimed. “Let’s not put the light on for
awhile.”

Stepping to the window, she saw the car stop at the next crossing. A man
got off.

Turning, he walked back in the direction in which he had come.

“He will ring our bell,” she told herself in a small panic. “And then?”

But he did not ring. After a tremulous ten minutes of waiting, she
whispered to herself:

“Came back for our street number. That’s bad. Angelo was right. The
fight of Maxwell Street is not our fight.”

The man in the green overcoat was the one who had started the riot on
Maxwell Street by nearly running Jeanne down in his big car, and who had
come to grief later.

“We’ll be long in knowing the last of that!” she told herself, and she
was right.



                             CHAPTER XXVIII
                       A QUEEN FROM ANOTHER WORLD


No fairy princess, waving magic wand, could have wrought a more perfect
change than came over Petite Jeanne and her beloved companions after
that hour which the rather ugly Jew with the soul of an Abraham, a Moses
and a David all wrapped in one, spent in their studio. It was by this
man that they were guided out of the wilderness of doubt and despair
into the land of joy and hope. By him, too, they were, on the very next
morning, ushered into the most magnificent little theatre Jeanne’s
glowing eyes had ever looked upon.

Unlike the Old Blackmoore, it was new. Its bright colors shone gayly
forth. Its seats of velvet, its curtains of heavy velour and all its
trimmings were perfect.

“How beautiful!” Jeanne exclaimed, as Solomon threw open the door
revealing it all.

“And yet,” she sighed after a time, “poor, shabby old Blackmoore! I did
so want to hear its walls ring once more with laughter and applause.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the good Solomon. “When a place is full of rats it
should be torn down. Why do people live in such places—work in them,
play in them? Is it not because they themselves are slow, stupid,
without the will to tear themselves away from it all?

“At any rate,” he added quickly, “here is your grand opportunity. Make
the most of it, my child.”

“Oh, yes. That I will. Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand, million times, yes!”

And did she? Never had there been a time in her whole life when she
worked so hard as on the days that followed. No director with a gray
steel face was here; no brass rail where she must twist her toes in
agony; no Eve, lacking in imagination, endeavoring to teach where she
herself should be taught. Yet there were compelling forces driving her
on. Love, friendship, hope, the determination to win; these are the
great, beautiful masters that ever lead us on to nobler and stronger
lives.

Success was not assured. Far from that. The Junior Ballet was, after
all, little more than an advanced class in a great school. Chosen from
the best of young dancers, they were constantly in training so that in
some dim, distant time they might perhaps take their place by ones, twos
and threes in the ballet of some great opera company. Beautiful they
were, to be sure. Grace was theirs, too. But seasoned troupers they were
not. For this reason there would not be the snap and precision in their
dancing that could be found in a modern chorus. Would youth and natural
beauty replace this? Even Solomon wrinkled his brow when the question
was asked.

“They will!” Jeanne clenched her hands hard. “They must!”

This was her great opportunity. Still more important, it was Dan Baker’s
opportunity.

“I have youth. I have time to win success,” she assured herself. “But
for him it is now. Now, or not at all.”

Whenever she thought of this she threw herself with renewed zest into
her work.

The light opera, too, was found to be crude and unfinished in spots.
What opera is not? Solomon suggested changes. They were made.

Then one day, after they had been working for a week, a beautiful
creature entered from another world. She came sauntering down a narrow
corridor which Jeanne had seen leading away from the left side of the
stage but had never dared to follow.

This creature was a woman. Jeanne knew from her manner that she was no
longer in her twenties; yet her beautiful face did not show it. Like
Jeanne, she was fair with golden hair. She wore, draped over her
shoulders, a cape of royal purple trimmed with white fox. Beneath the
cape showed a curious costume. Made of some soft cloth, it appeared to
belong to another age, for it was neither the costume of man nor woman.
There was a suggestion of a dress that might, after all, be a long coat.
And there were trousers fitting like stockings, and curious, bright
colored shoes.

With no apology for her strange make-up, she shook hands with Solomon
and went to sit with him at the back of the theatre. As the rehearsal
progressed she turned from time to time and whispered in the producer’s
ear. He listened attentively, nodded, or shook his head and scribbled in
his note book.

When it was over the mysterious one made her way to the corridor whence
she had come.

“Who was she?” Jeanne asked in an awed whisper. Something in Solomon’s
manner suggested that he might have come from a visit with a queen. And
so he had—a queen of her own beautiful realm.

“That,” he said, his eyes twinkling merrily, “that was our
Marjory—Marjory Bryce.”

“Mar—Marjory Bryce!” Jeanne took a step backward. She knew that name. It
belonged to the queen of grand opera, known to the great city as Our
Marjory.

“But where did she come from?”

“Where but from the Opera House?” He waved a hand at the corridor where
the lady from musical fairyland had vanished.

“Is Grand Opera over there?” Jeanne looked her incredulity.

“Did you not know? Come!” He took her hand and led her down that
corridor to its end. There he opened a door into a world unknown, a
world that in the days to follow was to become a veritable fairyland of
beauty, romance and adventure. It was a vast auditorium, much the same
as the Civic Theatre, though many times larger.

“So this is the home of Grand Opera!” The place was deserted. Jeanne
went whirling away across its vast stage in a wild dance.

“Some day,” she cried, clasping her hands like a child asking for a
doll, “may I dance here before all the people?”

“Time alone will tell,” said Solomon soberly. “Art is long. First comes
the Civic Theatre. And that is task enough for the present.

“And by the way!” His eyes brightened. “Miss Bryce gave me many valuable
suggestions regarding our opera. She is one of the greatest living
authorities. No one can play such varied roles as she. With these
suggestions, faithfully worked out, we should succeed.”

He led the way back to the Civic Theatre. There Florence awaited Jeanne.

In her dreams that night the little French girl danced upon a stage as
long as a city street and strewn with flowers, while an audience of
millions screamed their approval.

“That,” she told herself as she sat up, rubbing her eyes, “was a strange
dream. Of course it will never come true. All the same, in our little
theatre, surrounded by my own beloved Golden Circle—ah, well, we shall
see!”



                              CHAPTER XXIX
                             A SHADOW FALLS


Her glorious Golden Circle; this is what the fellow members of her cast
were coming to be. How different was the atmosphere of this new setting
from that of the old Blackmoore.

“Of course,” she whispered charitably, “the Blackmoore was a horrible
shell of a place. And it is easier to be happy and kind in beautiful
surroundings. And yet I am sure that some of the most wonderful circles
of friendship are found in the west side tenement region.” She was
thinking of the blue-eyed Merry’s Golden Circle.

“Surely their lot is hard enough,” she told herself. “And yet they are
happy in their own little circles.

“What a sad place this grim old city would be,” she philosophized, “if
it were not for the thousands upon thousands of these little golden
circles of friendship we find everywhere! Sometimes it is a group that
meets periodically in a pool room or a drug store. There are tiny club
rooms everywhere. The people who work long days in downtown stores call
one another Mary, Bob and Tom. They, too, are happy as they feel their
tiny golden circle bind them round and round.

“But not one of them all,” she exclaimed loyally, “can boast of a more
wonderful circle than ours!”

She thought of the Junior Ballet, those beautiful, talented young women
who were being trained as her chorus. Their caresses and words of
encouragement on that first night were not flattery. Every day, by
little acts of kindness and courtesy, they proved this. They also
bestowed their affections upon the old trouper, Dan Baker.

“And how I love them for that!” the little French girl said fervently.

“And yet, who would not love him? His gray hair, his brooding blue eyes,
his gentle, kindly manner toward all; how could anyone resist them?”

Soon enough she was to learn that there were those who could resist the
old trouper’s kindly good nature. She was to learn, too, that this
gentle old man held within his heart the courage of a soldier, the will
and the power, if need be, to become a martyr for the right.

It was on that very evening that, as they loafed and talked over tea and
toast in the studio, Dan Baker was called to the telephone, and Petite
Jeanne heard him use language that she had believed quite foreign to his
tongue.

“What’s that?” she heard him say. “A fund for actors? I have subscribed
to the Fund for Aged Actors, yes. Yes. What’s that? Another fund? Five
hundred dollars? Impossible!

“You will!” She saw his face turn red. His hands twisted themselves into
livid knots. “Say, you! I know who you are now. It’s a racket! You’re
trying to shake me down. You’ll never do it! Good-bye!”

He slammed the receiver down on the hook and stood there until the hot
blood drained from his face and left him white as marble. Watching him,
Jeanne saw him totter. Thinking he was about to fall she hurried up to
encircle him with her slender arms.

“What is it, old trouper?” she asked gently.

“It—why, it’s nothing.”

“Please don’t lie to me,” she pleaded. “One has no need to lie to a
friend.”

“Well, then, if you must have it.” On his face a curious smile formed
itself. “There’s a racket been going on in this town for a long time. My
old friend Barney Bobson told me about it.

“You see,” he explained, leading her back to the fire, “most actors are
nervous, temperamental people. They can’t stand suspense, lurking danger
and all that. These crooks, knowing that, have taken to demanding sums
of money for what they term a good cause: The Actors’ Benefit. They are
the only actors benefited, and they are not actors at all, but deep-dyed
villains. They have reaped a harvest.

“But here—” He threw back his shock of gray hair. “Here is one golden
harvest that will never be reaped. I’d rather die. I’m an old man.
What’s a year more or less? How wonderful to go out like a candle;
providing you go for a good cause!”

As Jeanne looked at him it seemed to her that his face was lit with a
strange glory.

“But what will they do?” she asked. “And why do they come to you before
the opera has gone on the stage?”

“They know we have had some advances; can perhaps get others. The opera
may be a failure; at least that’s what they think. Now is the time to
strike.”

“And if you continue to refuse?”

“I may meet them on a dark night. Or—” His face turned gray. “Or they
may kidnap you.”

“Kidnap me?”

“Sometimes villains work through our friends to undo their victims,” he
replied wearily. “You must be very careful. Never go out on the street
without your capable Florence. And never walk when you can use a cab.
So, I think you will be safe.

“There!” he exclaimed, noting the wrinkles in her brow. “I have got you
worrying. Do not think of it again. Those men are cowards. All evil
doers are. We will not hear from them again.”

“No, no! Dear old trouper,” Jeanne said in the gentlest of tones, “I was
not thinking of myself, but of you.

“However,” she added a moment later, “I shall be careful.”

Florence, in her big-hearted way, had given up her work at the
settlement house and, casting her lot with the others, had once more
become the little French girl’s stage “mother” and protector. She also
became the guardian of his Majesty the God of Fire. And it seemed to her
that he was quite as much in need of mothering as his youthful
possessor. For was there not a dark-faced gypsy lurking, as she
sometimes imagined, in every dark corner, ready at any moment to spring
upon her and snatch her strange treasure away?

She had fitted up a Boston bag with a chain, ending in a lock, run
through the leather and clamping the top tight. This she carried when
the ancient God of Fire, in pursuance of his art as a silent actor, was
obliged to make his way from their room to the theatre and back again.
At all other times his Highness continued to remain in hiding in the
hole beneath the floor of the room.

At times Florence thought of the red-faced man, their chance enemy of
Maxwell Street, the one who on that stormy night had apparently ridden
half way across the city in order to take down their street address.

“He’s planning some meanness,” she assured herself. “What it will be
only time can tell.”

When Petite Jeanne told her of the threat made to the old trouper over
the telephone, she redoubled her vigil. They traveled only in taxicabs,
and kept a sharp watch on every occasion. One other change was made by
the stout young guardian. Whenever the gypsy god went with them she
carried beneath her arm a rather heavy, paper-bound package, whose
contents were her secret.



                              CHAPTER XXX
                             TILTING FLOORS


The Grand Opera house became a veritable fairyland of adventure for
Petite Jeanne. In this place and in her own little theatre she felt
herself to be in a place of refuge. There were guards about. Entrance to
the place was only to be gained through long, tortuous ways of red tape
and diplomacy. No dark-faced gypsy, no would-be kidnaper could enter
here. Thus she reasoned and sighed with content. Was she right? We shall
see.

One afternoon, when a brief rehearsal of some small parts was over, not
expecting Florence for a half hour or more, she gathered up her
possession, her precious God of Fire, and tripping down the hallway
arrived before the door that led to the land of magic, the great stage
of the Opera.

Several times she had made her way shyly down this hall to open the door
and peer into the promised land beyond. She had found it to be a place
of magnificent transformations. Now it was a garden, now a castle, now a
village green, and now, reverting to form, it was but a vast empty stage
with a smooth board floor.

It was on this day only a broad space. Not a chair, not a shred of
scenery graced the stage.

“How vast it is!” she whispered, as she looked in. She had been told
that this stage would hold fifteen hundred people.

“What a place to dance all alone!”

The notion tickled her fancy. There was no one about. Slipping silently
through the door, she removed her shoes; then, with the god still under
her arm, she went tripping away to the front center of the stage. There,
having placed her god in position, she drew a long breath and began to
dance.

It was a delicate bit of a fantastic dance she was doing. As she danced
on, with the dark seats gaping at her, the place seemed to come to life.
Every seat was filled. The place was deathly silent. She was nearing the
end of her dance. One moment more—and what then? The thunder of
applause?

So real had this bit of fancy become to her that she clasped her hand to
her heart in wild exultation.

But suddenly for a fraction of time that racing heart stood still.
Something terrible was happening. She all but lost her balance, spun
round, grew suddenly dizzy and barely escaped falling. The end of a
large section of the floor, had risen a foot above the level of the
stage! It was still rising.

Her mind in a whirl, she sprang from the tilting floor to the level
space just beyond.

But horror of horrors! This also began to tilt at a rakish angle. At the
same time she realized in consternation that the Fire God was in danger
of gliding down the section on which he rested and falling into the pit
of inky blackness below.

Risking her own neck, she sprang back to her former position, seized the
god and went dashing away across section after section of madly rocking
floors, to tumble at last into some one’s arms.

This someone was beyond the door in the hallway. Realizing dimly that
only the stage floor and not the whole building was doing an earthquake
act, she gripped her breast to still the wild beating of her heart and
then looked into the face of her protector. Instantly her heart renewed
its racing. The woman who held her tightly clasped was none other than
the one who, in a cape of royal purple and white fox, had sat beside
Solomon and witnessed their rehearsal—Marjory Bryce, the greatest prima
donna the city had ever known. And she was laughing.

“Please forgive me!” she said after her mirth had subsided. “You looked
so much like Liza crossing the ice with the child in her arms.”

“But—but what—” The little French dancer was still confused and
bewildered.

“Don’t you understand, child?” The prima donna’s tone was soft and
kindly as a mother’s. Petite Jeanne loved her for it. “The floor is laid
in sections. Each section may be raised or lowered by lifts beneath it.
That is for making lakes, mountains, great stairways and many other
things. Just now they are making a mountain; just for me. To-night I
sing. Would you like to watch them? Have you time? It is really quite
fascinating.”

“I—I’d love to.”

“Then come. Let us sit right here.” She drew a narrow bench from a
hidden recess. “This section will not be lifted. We may remain here in
safety.”

In an incredibly short time they saw the stage transformed into a giant
stairway. After that, from somewhere far above the stage, dangling from
ropes, various bits of scenery drifted down. Seized by workmen, these
bits were fitted into their places and—

“Behold! Here is magic for you!” exclaimed the prima donna. “Here we
have a mountain.”

As Petite Jeanne moved to the front of the stage she found herself
facing a mountainside with slopes of refreshing green. A winding path
led toward its summit. At the top of the path were the stone steps of a
palace.

“Come,” said her enchantress, “Come to the castle steps and rest with me
for a time.”

As Jeanne followed her up the winding path she felt that she truly must
be in fairyland. “And with such a guide!” she breathed.

“Now,” said the prima donna, drawing her down to a place beside herself,
“we may sit here and tell secrets, or fortunes, or what would you like?”
She laughed a merry laugh.

“Do you know,” she said as her mood changed, “you are really very like
me in many ways? I sing in parts you might take without a make-up. I,
who am very old,” she laughed once more, “I must be made up for them
very much indeed.”

“Oh, no, surely not!” the little French dancer exclaimed. “You are very
young.”

“Thank you, little girl.” The prima donna placed a hand upon her knee.
“None of us wish to grow old. We would remain young forever and ever in
this bright, beautiful and melodious world.

“I saw you dancing here this afternoon,” she went on after a moment’s
silence.

Jeanne started.

“Was it very terrible?”

“Oh, no. It was beautiful, exquisite!” The prima donna’s eyes shone with
a frank truthfulness. Jeanne could not doubt. It made her feel all hot
and cold inside.

“Would you like to dance before all that?” The smiling woman spread her
arms wide. “All those seats filled with people?”

“Oh, yes!” Jeanne caught her breath sharply.

“It is really quite simple,” the lady went on. “You look up at the
people, then you look back at the stage and at the ones who are to act
or sing with you. Then you say: ‘I have only to do it all quite
naturally, as if they, the people in the seats, were not there at all.
If I do that they will be pleased. And when I succeed in doing that,
they like me.’

“So you think you’d enjoy it,” she went on musingly.

“Oh, yes; but—but not yet,” the little girl cried. “Sometime in the
dreamy future. Now I want my own stage in my own sweet little theatre,
and I want to be with just my own little Golden Circle.”

“Brave girl!” The prima donna seized her hand and squeezed it tight.
“You are indeed wise for your years.

“But you said ‘with my own little Golden Circle.’ What is this circle?”

Jeanne explained as best she could.

“My child,” said her illustrious friend, “you have discovered a great
truth. You know the secret of happiness. Or do you? What is it that
makes us happy?”

“Doing things for others.”

“Ah, that is but half of it! You know the rest, but you do not tell me.
The other part is to allow others to do things for you. Doing things for
others and refusing to accept benefits in return is the most selfish
unselfishness the world knows.

“Ah, but your Golden Circle! What a beautiful name!

“Tell me,” she demanded quite suddenly, after a moment of silence, “Do
they say that I am a great prima donna?”

“They tell me,” said Jeanne quite frankly, “that you are the greatest of
all.”

“But they do not tell you that I have a great voice?”

“N—no.” The dancer’s eyes and her tone told her reluctance.

“Ah, no,” the great one sighed, “they will never say that! It would not
be true.

“But if they say I am great,” again her mood changed, “if they say it in
truth, that is because I have always had your Golden Circle in the back
of my poor little head; because I have striven ever and always, not for
my success but for _our_ success—for the success of the whole company,
from the least to the greatest.

“You have learned at a very tender age, my child, that this alone brings
true success and lasting happiness.”

For a time they sat in silence. Changes were taking place all about
them, but the little French girl was not at all conscious of them. She
was wrapped in her own thoughts.

“But what is this curious thing you have at your side?” her companion
asked soberly.

“That? Why—oh, that is the gypsy God of Fire.” Seeing the prima donna’s
eyes light with sudden interest, she went on. “He fell from some planet,
to the land of India. There, beneath the palms, the gypsy folk worshiped
him before they came to Europe. After that they brought him to France.
And now I have him,” she ended quite simply.

“But how did you come into possession of so rare a treasure?”

Jeanne told her.

“But why do you not keep him locked away in a vault?”

“Because without him I cannot do my dances as they should be done. It is
he who inspires me.”

“Ah!” sighed the great one. “I, too, once believed in fairies and
goblins, in angels and curious gods.”

“I shall always believe,” the little French girl whispered.

“You have one good angel in whom you may believe to your heart’s
content. He is a very substantial angel and not very beautiful to look
upon; but he is beautiful inside. And that is all that counts.”

“You mean Mr. Solomon?”

“Yes. I have known him a long time. You are very fortunate.”

“And to think—he is a Jew. I used to believe—”

“Yes, I know. So did most of us believe that Jews had no hearts, that
they were greedy for gold. That is true sometimes; it may be said of any
race. But there are many wonderful men and women of that race. Perhaps
no race has produced so many.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange!” Petite Jeanne mused. “There we are, all
working together, all striving for the success of one thing, our light
opera. And yet we are of many races. Angelo is Italian; Swen a Swede;
Dan Baker very much American; Mr. Solomon is a Jew and he has found me a
very handsome young stage lover who is very English, who has a golden
voice and perfect manners. And poor me, I am all French. So there we
are.”

“Very strange indeed, but quite glorious. When we all learn that races
and names, countries, complexions and tongues do not count, but only the
hearts that beat beneath the jackets of men, then we shall begin to
succeed.”

“Ah, yes! Succeed!” Jeanne’s voice went quite sober again. Unconsciously
she was yielding to influences outside herself. As they sat there on the
stage mountainside a change had been taking place. So gradually had it
come that she had not noticed it. In the beginning, all about them had
been stage daylight, though none the less real. Gradually, moment by
moment shadows had lengthened; the shades of evening had fallen;
darkness was now all but upon them. Only dimly could they discern the
difference between gray paths and green mountainsides.

“Success,” Jeanne murmured once more. “There are times when I feel that
it will come to us. And we all want it so much. We have worked _so_
hard. You know, we tried once before.”

“In the old Blackmoore?”

“Yes. And we failed.”

“Dear child.” The prima donna threw an arm about her waist. “All will be
different this time.

“But look! While we have been talking, twilight, a stage twilight, has
fallen upon us. You did not know, it came so gradually. Such is the
magic of modern science.

“It is, however, only one of those Arctic summer nights, lasting a few
brief moments. Watch, and you will see that already we are looking upon
the first faint flush of dawn.”

Together, hand in hand, they watched the coming of day as it stole
across the mountainside. Only when day had fully come did the spell of
enchantment break.

“Grand Opera,” said the prima donna, with some show of feeling, “will
live forever because it combines the most beautiful of everything we see
with the most melodious of all we hear.

“That,” she added, “is why I cling to Grand Opera. Friends tell me over
and over: ‘You might become the greatest actress of your age.’ But no, I
will not. Grand Opera is the greatest of all!

“But come!” she exclaimed. “We must go. There is work to be done.”

As they walked down the operaland mountain in silence, it seemed to the
little French girl that she had been on the Mount of Transfiguration.

“Your little opera,” said the prima donna, as they parted at the door,
“it is beautiful. I am sure it will be a great success. And I am coming
on your first night.”

“Th—thanks.” Scarcely could the little dancer keep back her tears.
“I—I’ll tell Angelo and Swen, and Mr. Solomon and the old trouper
and—and all the rest.”

“Your Golden Circle.” The prima donna pressed her hand, and was gone,
leaving her feeling as though she had spoken with an angel.

“But I must not dream!” She shook herself free from golden fancies.
“There is much work to be done! Ten long, hard days, and then—ah then!”
She drank in one long, deep breath. Then she went dancing down the
hallway to find Florence anxiously awaiting her return.



                              CHAPTER XXXI
                              THE PURSUIT


Darkness had fallen when Florence stepped from the theatre, just one
week later. Rehearsal had started at five on that afternoon. Two members
of the cast had found it impossible to be there at an earlier hour. Once
into the swing of the thing, they had worked on and on quite unconscious
of the fleeing hours.

She shuddered a little as she closed the door behind her. In her right
hand was her leather Boston bag. As upon other occasions, a short chain,
running through two rings at the top of the bag, held it tight shut. The
ends of the chain were united by a stout little padlock.

Strong custodian of his Highness, the God of Fire, she peered through
the darkness, looking north and south for a cab. Her brow wrinkled. On
entering the building that night she had spied two dark-faced men
loitering outside.

“And it’s important,” she told herself, setting her lips tight. “Very,
very important.”

She was thinking of the strange God of Fire. Many times his story had
been told that week. On the dramatic pages of daily papers and even in
one magazine his ugly face had appeared. And always beside him, as if
for contrast, was the lovely face and figure of the “sweetest dancer of
all time,” Petite Jeanne.

“Day after to-morrow is the night of nights.” She caught her breath. How
much it meant to them all; to Angelo, to Swen, to Dan Baker, to Petite
Jeanne and to all the rest.

This night they had held dress rehearsal. And it had been such a
glorious affair! She had not dreamed that such a multitude of lovely
scenes and heavenly melodies could be packed into two short hours.
Everyone, from Solomon, the manager, to the least and youngest of the
chorus, was jubilant. They were made! In a lean year they would score a
triumph. The thing would run for months. They would ride in taxis and
find flowers in their dressing rooms each night.

“But I must not dream.” Shaking herself free from these thoughts,
Florence tucked a small package securely under her arm. Then picking up
the bag she stepped out.

She must find a cab for the little French girl. Still warm from exercise
and excitement, Jeanne must not be exposed to the night’s damp chill.

No cab was in sight. “Must go round the corner and call one.”

She was about to do so when, with the suddenness of thought, a terrible
thing happened. Springing from the shadows of a great pillar, two short,
dark men dashed at her. Ten seconds of mad tussle in which her dress was
torn, her arm wrenched, and her cheeks bruised, and they were away—with
the leather bag!

The thing Florence did next was little short of amazing. She did not
cry: “Stop thief!” did not call out at all. Instead, she ran after the
fleeing men. But when they arrived at the end of the building, turned
and darted into the darkness beside a bridge, she followed no longer;
but, taking a tighter grip on the paper-wrapped package under her arm,
she redoubled her speed and raced straight on. This soon brought her
into the shadow of a block-long shed which housed derelict automobiles
and river boats.

Arrived at the end of this shed, she turned, abruptly to the left and
lost herself in a labyrinth of railway tracks and freight cars.

Here, beside a car marked BANANAS, she paused for breath. Strangely
enough, at this moment she laughed a low, musical laugh.

She tarried there for only a moment. Then, like a startled deer, she
sprang to attention. Heavy footsteps sounded in the night.

With a hasty glance this way and that, she crept from her hiding place
and darted from shelter to shelter until she caught the dark gleam of
the river.

Beyond the last car was a steep incline built of ashes and street
rubbish. At the river’s brink this broke off abruptly. She knew its
purpose. Men backed dump trucks up this incline to spill their contents
of rubbish into a scow waiting at the bank of the river.

Darting into the shadow of this crude embankment, she crouched, waiting,
straining her ears for the sound of her pursuers.

For a moment she allowed her eyes to stray to the river. “There,” she
assured herself, “is the last scow towed in for loading.

“Not been used for months,” she thought. “No smell of freshly dumped
rubbish here.”

Hardly had she arrived at this conclusion than a new crisis presented
itself. Two dark shadows had darted from one box car to another.

“They’ll be here in another moment. Find me. I can’t escape. But then,
I—”

She thought of the scow. It was deep. She could only guess how deep. It
was as dark as a well.

“They’d never expect to find me there.” She was away like a streak. Over
the side of the scow she went, and dropped. But not all the way. With
her hands she clung to the side of the scow. Her feet did not touch
bottom.

As she clung there, wondering whether or not to release her hold, the
paper-wrapped package slipped from beneath her arm and dropped with a
splash.

“Dumb!” she muttered. Then, “Oh, my glory! Water! I wonder how deep!”



                             CHAPTER XXXII
                            A TOP-STAGE SEAT


But what of Petite Jeanne? Had she, arriving at the door, missed her
companion and gone back into the building? Or, over-anxious for
Florence’s safety, had she, too, gone into the street and been trapped?
She had done neither. Yet adventure of quite another sort had come
leaping at her.

Fascinated, as always, by the thought of that great opera stage at the
end of the hall, and feeling that she had a few moments to spare, she
had gone tiptoeing down the hall. She had found the door open and was
preparing to look in upon the stage when a sidewise and backward glance
gave her a severe shock. Standing not three paces behind her was a man.
With arms stretched, he was approaching silently as one does who hopes
to catch some creature off guard.

Striving in vain to still the beating of her heart, for she had
recognized in this man the enemy she had made during the “battle of
Maxwell Street,” Jeanne took one step out upon the opera stage. Then,
realizing at a glance what was going on there, she played a bold hand.
Turning half about, she hissed: “Dare to come one step nearer and I
shall scream. Do you hear? The opera is in progress. The company is on
the stage. I shall scream. And then—”

She did not finish. There was no need.

A performance of Grand Opera was truly in progress at that very instant.
Through a thin wall of trees and shrubs painted on canvas, came a
peculiar light, a transparent blue that suggested birds, flowers and
springtime.

Even as the girl’s lips closed there came a burst of song from the front
of the stage where, hidden by the partition, there were many singers.

Licking his lips like a tiger prepared to spring the man crouched, then
moved a step forward.

“I’ll scream!” Petite Jeanne spoke aloud.

The sound of her voice was drowned by the chorus on the stage.

A scream would not be drowned. The man knew that well enough. But did
she dare scream? This was the question at the back of the man’s shrewd
but narrow mind.

She had said she would scream. To do this would be to invite a panic. A
girl’s scream coming from back-stage during a dramatic moment of a Grand
Opera performance could mean something little short of murder.

And yet the man, standing there irresolute, read in her eyes the answer:
she _would_ scream.

She looked down for an instant. When she lifted her eyes, he was gone.
And the Grand Opera performance went on.

But now what? She dared not retrace her steps. The man would be lurking
there.

Dashing across the back of the stage, she seized the handle of a door.
It came open noiselessly. She passed through and closed it after her.

But where was she? In a mere cubby-hole of a place. A closet? No. An
elevator, a French lift, the sort you operate yourself. You punch a
button here and you go up; you press another button there and you stop.

She pressed a button. Up she glided. There were floors above, many, many
floors. She would come to a halt at some floor, leave the elevator, and
go speeding away.

She had glided up how many floors? She could not tell. Then she became
frightened.

“I’ll bump!”

She touched a second button and stopped the steel cage with a suddenness
that caused her teeth to snap.

She tried to open the door. It would not budge. She pressed the button
and went gliding upward once more. A light gleamed before her. Once more
she stopped.

This time she could open the door. She stepped from the lift, not into a
room, not a hallway, but out upon an iron grating. And this grating,
fifteen stories up, lay directly above the opera stage.

At first frightened, then fascinated, she threw herself flat upon the
grating to watch with eager eyes the doings of the dwarf-like figures
far below.

To this girl, born to the stage as a canary is born to the cedar and the
humming bird to his flowering bush, the scene spelled irresistible
enchantment.

To make the affair more compelling she recognized the star of the
evening almost at once.

The scene beneath her was one of entrancing beauty: a flower garden and
a village green in her native land. And dancing upon that green, arrayed
in the most colorful of costumes, were the peasants of that village.

From time to time certain members of the group left their companions and
danced away toward a back-stage corner, where they stood laughing and
seeming to beckon to some one hidden from the view of Jeanne as well as
the audience.

At last the long awaited one appeared. And then, oh, joy of joys!

“Marjory Bryce! My Marjory!” The little French girl was choked with
emotion as these words escaped her. Fortunately they were too faint to
be heard below.

That settled the matter. All other desires, all duties, all hopes and
dreams were lost in one great desire. She must see the star of all time,
her Marjory, perform, not in some dimly distant time, but right here in
the golden now.

So, little dreaming what this resolve might mean, she pressed her cheeks
against two iron bars and awaited the next move in this singing drama
which she but dimly understood.

“Anyway,” she whispered softly, “I’ve got a top-stage seat. Who could
ask for more?”



                             CHAPTER XXXIII
                           A PRISONER ESCAPES


In the meantime a passing stranger, who had witnessed from a distance
Florence’s struggle with the two men before the theatre door, and had
arrived on the scene too late to be of any assistance, had rushed into
the theatre lobby to spread the alarm.

There he fell into the arms of Solomon. His tale was quickly told, and
at once three greatly excited persons ran into the street. They were
Solomon, Angelo and Dan Baker.

Sprinting along in the direction indicated by the stranger, Angelo
plunged boldly into the dark shadows by the bridge.

There was no one there. But by good chance he came upon Florence’s
Boston bag lying on the ground.

The exclamation of joy that escaped his lips at sight of it died
suddenly. As he lifted it from the earth he found it almost as light as
air.

“Gone!” he exclaimed. “The Fire God is gone!”

“What could you expect?” Solomon grumbled. “They were after it. Why
should they leave it?

“See!” he added after one look at the bag. “They ripped it open.”

As he turned to retrace his steps he stumbled over a hard object.

“A brick,” he mumbled after casting the light of a pocket torch upon it.
“Only a brick.”

“But how strange!” There was surprise in Angelo’s voice. “The thing is
dry. And it rained only two hours ago. And see! There are two of them.”

“Those men threw them there,” was Solomon’s pronouncement. “Probably
meant to brain some one if necessary.”

He could not have guessed how wrong he was.

Since no further trace of the missing girl and her precious burden could
be found there was nothing for them but to return. This they did. Then
they discovered that Petite Jeanne, too, was missing.

The police were notified at once. An alarm was broadcast over the police
radio network. After that there seemed nothing to do but wait.

                            * * * * * * * *

Florence was a girl of strength and courage. Not without reward had she
spent hours in the gymnasium. Swinging from ring to ring in mid-air,
twisting through ladder and trapeze, torturing the medicine-ball, she
had developed muscular strength far beyond her years.

There was need of grip and grit now, as she clung, with the mysterious
pursuers above her, and with water, perhaps fathoms of it, beneath her,
to the side of that abandoned scow.

Footsteps approached. Grumbles and curses sounded in her ears.
Trembling, she held her breath. Her fingers, she knew, were in the
shadows. Flattened as her body was against the dark side of the scow,
she hoped she might not be seen if anyone looked for her there.

To her great relief they did not look but went grumbling away toward
some fish shanties a block away.

“Do they live there?” she asked herself. “I wonder.”

Moments passed. Her courage and her grip weakened.

“What’s the use?” she murmured at last. “I can swim. Swimming is better
than this, even in a city dump scow.”

Relaxing her hold, she dropped with a low splash into some ten inches of
black, muddy water.

“So far, so good,” she philosophized. “But now?”

Groping about in the muddy water she retrieved her paper-wrapped package
and tucked it under her arm.

Her next task was a survey of her temporary prison. She was in no great
danger, but the water was frightfully cold.

“Must get out of here some way,” she told herself. “Besides, there’s
Petite Jeanne. She’ll fret her poor little heart.”

Had she but known!

Slowly she made her way about, feeling the walls of her strange prison.
Everywhere the walls were too high. Even by leaping she could not grasp
them.

“And if that were possible,” she told herself, “I could not climb up
without some foothold.”

It was a foothold she sought. “Only some cleats or patches, or a rusty
chain dangling down,” she all but prayed. Her prayer was not answered.

“Oh, well,” she sighed. And with that, propping herself in a corner, she
stood first on one foot, then on the other, and almost fell asleep.

But what was this? Did she catch the sound of footsteps? Yes. She was
sure of it, light footsteps as of a woman. She knew not whether to
tremble or rejoice.

The sound grew louder, then ceased.

After that, for a long time there was silence. The silence was broken at
last by a startling sound. A rusty harmonica suddenly lent its doubtful
harmonies to the night.

Curiosity and desire drew her from the shadows. Then she all but
laughed. A ragamuffin of a newsboy with three frayed papers under his
arm sat, legs adangle, on top of the dump, pouring out his soul to the
moon in glorious discord.

Instantly she knew that here was her savior. She understood boys well
enough to realize that the raggedest of them all could not be hired to
watch a lady freeze in a well of a prison.

“Hey, there!” she called in a loud whisper, as the disharmony died away.

This came near being her undoing. The boy’s eyes bulged as he scrambled
to his feet, prepared to flee. His whole being said: “I have heard a
ghost!”

“No, no!” she cried aloud. “Don’t run away! I am down here. In the scow.
I—I fell in. Help me out. I’ll buy your papers, a jitney for every one,
and a dime to boot!”

Reassured, he dropped to the top of the scow and peered down.

“Gee!” he exclaimed. “You are in it! Been in long?”

“About an hour.”

“Gee!”

“I’ll go for help,” he said, after a moment’s thought.

“No, don’t,” she begged. “Find a rope, can’t you? Tie it up here. I can
climb out.”

“I’ll try.”

He disappeared. A moment later there came a clanking sound.

“Here’s a chain,” he called back. “Gee, it’s heavy!”

He succeeded in dragging it to the top of the scow and knotting one end
about a broken bit of plank. He threw the free end over the edge. With a
mighty jangle and bump, it extended its length to the water’s edge.

“Fine!” she applauded. “Now watch this!” She threw her paper-bound
package to the dump beside him.

“Man! It’s heavy!” he exclaimed as he picked it up.

“Now! Here I come!” Florence’s agility in climbing a chain surprised
even a boy. He was still more surprised when, after thrusting a shiny
half dollar in his hand, she grasped her mysterious package and hastened
away among the box cars.

Ten minutes later she emerged upon an all but deserted street. To her
great relief she succeeded in hailing a passing taxi at once and went
whirling away from the scene of her peril.



                             CHAPTER XXXIV
                      FLORENCE SPRINGS A SURPRISE


In the meantime, though lifted to the seventh heaven by the scene of
entrancing beauty that lay beneath her, Petite Jeanne was suffering
pangs of conscience.

“I must go!” she whispered to herself as, lying flat upon the iron
grating, she drank in the beauty of the opera. “I surely must. Florence
will miss me. There will be a fearful fuss. But one more look, only
one.”

So she lingered and the minutes sped away.

The scene beneath her was the first from _The Juggler of Notre Dame_,
one of matchless beauty. And, more than this, was not her friend playing
the part of the Juggler?

Marjory Bryce was dressed in the very costume she had worn beneath her
purple cape on that day when she sat beside Solomon and reviewed the
light opera.

Now as she glided with matchless grace across the stage, as her crystal
clear voice came drifting up, as she performed her act as a juggler, as
she listened later in despair to the priest as he denounced her trick as
inspired by the Devil, as at last, yielding, she consented to give up
her gay life and enter the monastery, Jeanne found her an artist rare
and inspired.

“No wonder her audience loves her!” she whispered to herself.

But now the scene was ended. Swiftly men worked, lifting stage settings
toward her and lowering others to the stage, for in this modern
playhouse all stage equipment was hung high above the stage. She
realized that her time for escape had come. She had but to let herself
down to the stage; the lift would do this for her; then she might dash
unobserved across the back of the stage, and down the corridor.

“And if that man is there still,” she told herself stoutly, “I’ll see
that three husky stage hands do for him just what needs to be done.”

There was no one in the hallway when she reached it. How the man entered
the building, how he hoped to carry Petite Jeanne from it, and how he
made his escape after his evil plans had been frustrated, will remain a
mystery.

As she entered the theatre she fell into the arms of the delighted and
all but tearful old trouper.

“And Florence?” he demanded. “Where is she?”

“Florence?” The little French girl stared. “How could I know?”

“Were you not with her?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Then she and the God of Fire have vanished.”

“Vanished?”

Dan Baker told her all he knew.

“Well,” said Angelo as he concluded, “there’s nothing left but to go to
the studio and await any news that may come. The police are on the job.”

“No news will come,” was Petite Jeanne’s sad comment. “And to think that
all this time I have been so happy!” She buried her face in her hands
and wept.

At the studio, overcome by anxiety and weariness, Jeanne slumped down in
a broad, upholstered chair before the fire and fell asleep.

As for the others, they, too, drew chairs to the fire, but did not
sleep. They spent an hour in thoughtful silence.

Then there was a rattle at the doorknob and in stepped Florence herself.
Ruddy-cheeked and apparently quite unharmed, she stood before them.

Angelo sprang forward. “Where have you been?” he gasped.

“Your feet!” he exclaimed. “They’re soaking. Must be frozen!”

“Not quite. Help me off with them, will you?” She spoke of shoes, not of
feet.

In a gallant, brotherly manner, he removed her shoes and stockings. Then
leading her to a place before the fire, he proceeded to chafe the purple
from her all but frozen toes.

“Wh—where’s the god?” he asked suddenly.

For answer she put out a hand to reclaim her water-soaked paper-bound
package. Tearing away the wrapping, she revealed its contents and then
set it at the edge of the fire to dry.

“The God of Fire, as I live!” he exclaimed.

“None other.”

“But how—how did you get it back?”

“Had it all the time.”

“But they got your bag!”

“Sure. And it contained two good bricks. No use taking a chance like
that. I had this god under my arm done up in a newspaper all the time.”
She looked at the Fire God and he appeared to leer back at her, as much
as to say: “You’re a good one! You _are_ keen!”

“They very nearly got me, for all that!” she said, after a moment. Then
she told of her flight, the pursuit, the old scow and the ragged little
musician.

“We’ll be going,” said Angelo, beckoning to his companions when she had
finished. “She’ll need a good, long sleep.” He nodded his head toward
Jeanne. “Your room, Florence, is far away. I’ll spend the night with
Swen.

“I’d like,” he added, “to see her face when she sees him!” Once more he
nodded toward Jeanne, then toward the god.

“Why not? She must be wakened.” Florence touched Jeanne’s cheek with a
cold hand. She wakened with a start.

“See!” Angelo’s tone was tense with emotion. “The god!”

Jeanne stared for a moment. Then a look of distrust overspread her face.
“No,” she cried, “it can’t be! You are deceiving me. It is made of clay!
You made it.”

She put out her hand to grasp it and dash it to pieces. Finding it both
hot and heavy, she dropped it quickly. Then there came over her face a
look like nothing so much as a spring sunrise, a look that would repay a
thousand miseries, as she whispered softly:

“It is! My own gypsy God of Fire! How perfect! Now I shall live anew!”

In a broad old spool-bed, beneath home woven covers from the hills of
Italy, and with doors double locked and bolted, the two pals, Florence
and Jeanne, fell asleep a short time later. They were wakened just as
the shop people on the streets far below were hurrying out for their
noonday luncheon.



                              CHAPTER XXXV
                         FLORENCE GETS HER MAN


In a bright colored dressing gown, her golden hair falling about her
shoulders, Petite Jeanne sat buried deep among cushions in her great
easy chair.

It was high noon of her great day. She had slept late. Now, as she sat
sipping tea and munching toast, she thought of the past and of the
future.

Behind her in the past lay disappointments, heartaches and many perils.
Were they gone forever? Did only a golden future lay before? She hoped
so.

And yet—she thought of the dark-faced gypsy whose one purpose in life
appeared to be to come into possession of her gypsy Fire God; she
thought, too, of the enemy of Maxwell Street. It was he, she felt sure,
who was hounding poor old Dan Baker for money.

“He’s a blackmailer! I hope we have heard the last of him!” she cried
passionately.

Soon she was to know that they had not!

Since the affair at the door of the opera stage and the theft of
Florence’s Boston bag, the ever thoughtful Solomon had secured a special
taxi driver, a man of skill and courage, to carry Florence and Petite
Jeanne wherever they must go. But until now nothing further had
happened.

“And to-night is _the_ night!” She poked her pink toes out from the
blanket in which they were wrapped and murmured: “And to-night, you
feet, you must do what Florence calls your durndest!” She laughed a
merry laugh.

At four their special cabman honked in the street below. They would go
to the theatre. There in her dressing room Petite Jeanne would rest,
partake of a belated tea, and await the zero hour.

She was thinking of this in a dreamy way as they sped toward the theatre
when, as they paused before a crossing signal, shocking things began to
happen.

“Make room!” a gruff voice demanded. A man in a huge overcoat attempted
to crowd in beside Florence. She resisted. All her splendid muscles went
into play. The taxi driver was not lagging in his part. Swinging the car
sharply about, he attempted to dislodge the intruder from the running
board. A car coming from the opposite direction struck his hind wheel.
His cab spun around, skidded sharply to the right and struck the curb
with a crash.

The shock threw the intruder from his place. He went sprawling, struck
his head on the street curb and lay there dazed.

In an instant Florence, filled with honest courage and righteous
indignation, leaped upon him.

But now a second man, springing from his car, dashed at her. She could
hardly cope with both of them. But reinforcements were coming. A crowd
was gathering. From this crowd sprang a stout, ruddy faced man. With one
deft blow he felled the oncoming assailant and, with apparent
satisfaction proceeded to pin him to the pavement.

Florence felt the man she held struggle to free himself. But just then
two burly policemen, arriving on the scene, relieved her of her task.

Trembling from head to toe, Petite Jeanne had left the wrecked cab and
was standing by the curb when the man who had come to their rescue
approached with lifted hat.

“I have a car here, a rather good one.” He half apologized for
intruding. “Your cab’s smashed. The driver tells me you are bound for
your theatre. It would be a pleasure—” Suddenly he stopped and stared
with dawning recognition at the little French girl.

“Why, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “It is you! Petite Jeanne! The very
person for whom I am looking!” He stripped off a glove to hold out his
hand.

Until that time, thinking him only a gallant stranger, Jeanne had taken
no notice of this man. Now, after one surprised look, she cried, with
the feeling native to her race:

“Preston Wamsley! My very dear friend!”

It was, indeed! Having returned, after a month of travel, to his hotel
in New York, and finding there Jeanne’s letter regarding his long lost
luggage, this friend of her sea journey had hastened immediately to this
city and to Angelo’s studio. There he had received the French girl’s
address and had been driving to her home when these strange happenings
had arrested his progress.

“Nothing,” he said, with a ring of genuine emotion in his voice, “could
give me greater pleasure than to drive you to your theatre. Your friend
may come with us. You have an unusual taxi driver. He appears to know
the ropes. He will make all necessary reports and see that those rascals
are put behind bars where they belong. It was a kidnaping plot beyond a
doubt.

“No,” he said a moment later, as Jeanne, after sinking into the cushions
of the great car he had employed, started shakily to explain, “you need
not tell me a thing to-night. To-morrow will do quite as well. Your
nerves have been shaken. And this, the driver assures me, is to be your
great night.”

“It is,” Petite Jeanne murmured. Then sitting up quite suddenly, she
produced a ticket from her purse. “This,” she said, “is the last one in
my private row. You must take it.”

“I could not well refuse.” He tucked it away in his billfold; then, as
Jeanne sat quite still with eyes closed, striving to still her madly
beating heart, they glided onward toward the theatre and her night of
nights.



                             CHAPTER XXXVI
                           THE GOLDEN TRIUMPH


As Petite Jeanne entered her dressing room she found a diminutive figure
hidden away in a corner. At sight of the little French girl this person
sprang to her feet with a cry of joy:

“Oh, Petite Jeanne! I have waited so long!” It was Merry.

“But see!” She pointed proudly at Jeanne’s dressing table. “I brought
him to you. He will bring you luck to-night, I am sure. For, only look!
He is still gazing toward the sky!” On Petite Jeanne’s dressing table
rested the marble falcon.

“My own Merry!” Jeanne clasped her in her arms. “You think only of
others.

“And you—” She clasped her friend at arm’s length. “Has the marble
falcon brought you good fortune?” Seeing how pinched was the face of the
little Irish girl, she realized with a pang that in all the rush and
excitement of the last two weeks Merry had been sadly neglected.

Merry hung her head for ten seconds. But her blue eyes were smiling as
she whispered hoarsely:

“Tad says good times are right round the corner. Our luck will change.”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Jeanne. “It will. It must.” And she made a
solemn vow that in the future her success must bring success to her dear
little Irish friend.

Unknown to Jeanne, powerful influences had been at work. Her friend, the
famous prima donna, enjoyed a large following. More than one morning she
had seated herself at her telephone and had whispered words this way and
that. The house had been sold out four days before the opening night.
This had been glorious news.

“The best of the city will be here,” Solomon had said with a sober face.
“One must remember, however, that the best are the most critical, too,
and that their judgment is final. No curtain calls on the first night:
good-bye, dear little light opera!”

What wonder then that Petite Jeanne’s fingers trembled as she toyed with
a rose in her dressing room fifteen minutes before the lifting of the
curtain on that night of nights!

“But I must be calm!” she told herself. “So much depends upon it: the
success and happiness of all my Golden Circle! And with the success of
this circle we may expand it. Merry shall enter it, and Tad, and perhaps
others?

“I have only to be real, to be quite natural, to dance as I have danced
by the garden walls of France; to say to that audience of rich and wise
and beautiful people:

“‘See! I have for you something quite wonderful. It came from the past.
Only the gypsies have seen it. Now I show it to you. And not alone I
show it, but this sweet and good old dancer and all these, my chorus, so
fresh and fair and young. Have you ever seen anything quite so
enchanting? No. To be sure you have not!’”

Reassured by her own words, she rose to skip across the floor, then on
down the vestibule toward the stage.

When the curtain rose on a scene of matchless beauty, a gypsy camp
somewhere in France; when the beholders found themselves looking upon
the gorgeous costumes, colorful tents, and gaudily painted vans
clustered about a brightly glowing campfire; when the music, which might
well have been the whispering of wind among the trees, began stealing
through the house, a hush fell upon the place such as is seldom
experienced save in the depths of a great forest by night.

When the little French girl, a frail wisp of humanity all done in red
and gold, came spinning upon the stage to dance before the leering God
whose very eyes appeared to gleam with hidden fire, the silence seemed
to deepen.

All through that first act, not a sound was heard save those which came
from the stage. Not a programme rustled, not a whisper escaped.

When at last, having told his quaint story and been accepted as a dancer
in place of the bear, the old trouper with Jeanne as his partner danced
twice across the stage and disappeared into the shadows, the silence was
shattered by such a roar of applause as the beautiful little playhouse
had never before known.

Seven times the curtain rose. Seven times the little French girl dragged
her reluctant hero, Dan Baker, out to the footlights to bow to the still
applauding audience.

When at last the curtain fell for good, she whispered, “What a
beginning! But there is yet more.”

Who can describe in mere words of black on white the glories of that
night? The scenes, done by an artist who had lived long in France,
reproduced faithfully the gypsy camp by the roadside, the garden of the
Tuileries in Paris and the little private garden of a rich French home.

To many who saw them, these scenes brought back tender memories of the
past. Some had been soldiers there, and some had gone there to enjoy the
glory that is Paris.

And when Jeanne, a golden sprite, now leaping like a flame, now gliding
like some wild thing of the forest, now seeming to float on air like a
bird, poised herself against these marvelous settings, there came at
every turn fresh gasps of surprise and delight.

Nor did Jeanne seek all the glory. She appeared ever eager to bring
forward those who were about her. When Dan Baker did his fantastic
rustic dance and told his more fantastic yarns, she watched and listened
as no others could. And hers was the first shrill scream of delight.

When the chorus came weaving its way across the stage she joined them as
one who is not a leader, but a humble companion.

Indeed as the evening wore on, the delighted audience became more and
more conscious of the fact that the little French dancer was not, in
spirit, on that stage at all, but by some roadside in France and that,
while contributing her share to the joy of the occasion, she was
gleaning her full share from those who joined her in each act.

This was exactly what had happened. And Jeanne was not conscious of the
row on row of smiling, upturned faces. She saw only one row. And in that
row, by her request, sat the members of what she had playfully termed
her “Outer Golden Circle.”

And what a strange circle it was! First and most delighted of all, was
the great prima donna, Marjory Bryce. Beside her was Merry, and on round
the circle, Tad, Weston, Kay King, Big John and the ruddy faced
Englishman, Preston Wamsley. To this group Florence had added three
persons. These were dark mysterious beings with red handkerchiefs about
their necks. Jeanne had started at sight of two of them. They were the
gypsy mother and father who had once aided in kidnaping her. But the
third! She all but fell upon the stage at sight of him. It was Bihari,
her gypsy foster father who having learned, in the way these wanderers
have, that Jeanne was to appear on the stage this night, had come all
the way from France that he might be a guest of honor.

What a night for Jeanne! Little wonder that she outdanced her wildest
dream! Little wonder that when the last curtain fell thunderous applause
appeared to rock the great building. Little wonder that they called her
back again and yet again.

For all this, the night was not over. The keen mind of Abraham Solomon
had thought up a fitting climax for so great a triumph. As, on the final
curtain, they stood there in a group, Jeanne and her stage lover, Dan
Baker, Angelo, Swen and Solomon, Jeanne broke away to scream in her high
pitched voice:

“This is our Golden Circle.” At that, whipping out a long roll of golden
paper tape, she raced about the little group entwining them again and
again, at last including herself within the circle.

The audience went wild. They applauded; they whistled; they stamped
their feet.

More was to come. As the company of beautiful maidens, her chorus,
gathered close, she encircled them to cry once more:

“And this, too, is our Golden Circle.”

At this moment came the little dancer’s turn for surprise; for the
audience, rising as one man, shouted in unison: “This is our Golden
Circle!”

At this instant the entire auditorium seemed to burst into yellow flame.
The effect was startling in the extreme. Only ten seconds were required,
however, for those on the stage to realize that the wise old Solomon,
their manager, had put something over on them. The gold was the flash
and gleam of a thousand golden streamers thrown to every point of the
compass by delighted patrons. Solomon had provided the streamers with
their programmes. Each person had been told in advance that when the
time came for using these they would know. And few there were that did
not realize when the real moment arrived. Truly, this was an occasion
long to be remembered.

Petite Jeanne’s face loomed large next day on every page devoted to
dramatic art in the day’s papers. And beneath each were the words: “Girl
of the Golden Circle.”

                            * * * * * * * *

There is little left to tell; Petite Jeanne, the old trouper, Angelo,
Swen, and all the rest had scored a triumph that would not soon be
forgotten.

Jeanne’s success did not, however, rob her of her interest in others; on
the contrary, it served to increase it. On that very evening, as she was
ushered into a magnificent reception room where she was to meet a very
select company of patrons, the highly educated, the influential and the
rich, she began her missionary work by whispering in every ear a deep
secret of some tiny shop hidden away in a cellar where unusual objects
of art might be purchased at unheard of prices. On the very next day
Merry was astonished by the arrival of customers of such quality and
importance as her little shop had not before known. It was no time at
all before the little shop was humming merrily, Tad was busy at his
bench and Merry back at her place at auction sales buying shrewdly for
future needs.

One of the men captured by Florence and the friendly Englishman turned
state’s evidence. By his confession, a band of contemptible rogues, who
for a long time had been preying upon theatre folk, was apprehended and
brought to justice.

As for the dark-faced evil-minded gypsy who coveted the God of Fire,
good old Bihari made short work of him. He revealed to the immigration
authorities that this man had entered the country without a passport.
And since he was the very one who had stolen the treasured god in the
first place, when he set foot in France he was outlawed by the gypsies
themselves.

As Jeanne had known all the time, the wealthy Englishman, Preston
Wamsley, had prized the articles of great beauty in his traveling bags,
not because of their value in dollars, but because of his associations
with those who from time to time had presented them to him. He had been
broken-hearted upon learning that a blundering shipping clerk had billed
them to the wrong name and address and that he had probably lost them
forever.

Good fortune having knocked at his door, he was duly grateful. When
Petite Jeanne had told the story, he insisted upon driving her out to
Kay King’s tiny book shop, whereupon he rewarded the young man
handsomely for the generous spirit he had shown in sacrificing sure
financial gain in order to spare the feelings of a friend.

During all the long run of the highly successful light opera, the marble
falcon remained in its place on Petite Jeanne’s dressing table.

“To me,” she said to her friend, the prima donna, one day, “it will
always remain the symbol of one who, buffeted and broken by the storms
of life, keeps his eyes fixed upon the clouds until at last he has
achieved an abiding success.”

“Ah, yes, how beautifully you say it!” exclaimed the great one. “But
you, Petite Jeanne, you are the marble falcon of all time.”

“I?” Petite Jeanne laughed a merry laugh. “For me life has been
wonderful. There are always my many friends, you know.”

“Ah, yes, your Golden Circle. If it were not for these, our golden
circles, how could we be brave enough to live at all?”

                            * * * * * * * *

There will be another book. Strange, indeed, were the adventures that
later befell Florence, Jeanne and their friends. You may read about them
in _The Magic Curtain_.



                          Transcriber’s Notes


--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
  domain in the country of publication.

--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
  dialect unchanged.

--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
  HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)





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