Connie's cheerfulness seemed to be unflagging and unfailing. She had no great aptitude for the brush, but she had the great gift of patience. The hours wore on, supper came and went, and presently a clock somewhere struck the hour of two. Then at last Connie held up the coloured design in triumph.
"There," she cried, "I guess they will be satisfied with that. I wish I had some of your boldness and originality, Gracie. I think we've done it this time. What a shame it is that good stuff should go for so little money! And now I really must be off. Mary looks tired to death. I'll post this for you, if you like."
Mary was tired and worn out, but she was not thinking of herself as she dragged along by Connie's side. She had learned a great deal in the last four-and-twenty hours.
In a vague, disturbed way she felt ashamed of herself. She did not notice the little cry that broke from Connie as they stood before the house where their rooms were. The place was all in pitch darkness, a litter of straw lay before the door. As Connie applied her latchkey and pushed back the door the house sounded curiously hollow. Footfalls clanked on a bare floor. Connie struck a match and held it aloft.
"The house is empty!" she cried, "the people have gone. These things happen with the struggling poor when they are threatened over their rent. Let us go and see if they have packed our belongings in the confusion."
The little sitting-room was empty of everything, the bedroom the same; nothing was left.
"My writing-case!" Mary cried, "my purse, too, in my box. And in the case--my jewels. Connie, Connie, what will become of us?"
[CHAPTER XL.]
IN PERIL
Connie was the first to recover herself. She knew far better than Mary how great the danger was, how great the need for coolness and judgment. And she had been in dire straits like this before. She held the flaring match above her head and looked round the deserted room. On the mantelpiece stood a fragment of candle stuck in the neck of a bottle, and this Connie proceeded to light.