The fingers that held the nut did not tremble. One would have said that the child did not so much as wink an eye.
For a space of ten minutes that bit of a play continued. The thing was remarkable in a child so young.
“Not a day over seven,” Florence told herself, as she studied the child’s every feature and the last touch of her unusual attire.
At last patience won. The chipmunk sprang forward to grasp the nut, then went flying away.
Did Florence utter an unconscious, but quite audible sigh? It would seem so. For suddenly, after one startled upward glance, the child, too, disappeared.
All uninvited, a startling conviction pressed itself upon Florence’s senses. The child was a gypsy.
There could be no questioning this. Her face might have been that of an Indian; her attire, never. Florence had seen too much of these strange people to make any mistake.
“Not alone that,” she told herself, as she once more took up the trail. “Her people have but recently come from Europe. There is not a trace of America in her costume.
“Perhaps—” She paused to ponder. “We are near the Canadian border. Perhaps they have entered without permission and are here in hiding.”
This thought was disturbing. The tribe of gypsies with which Petite Jeanne had traveled so long had many enemies. She had come to know this well enough when the terrible Panna had kidnapped Jeanne and all but brought her to her death. Panna was dead, but her numerous tribesmen were ready enough to inherit and pass on her dark secrets and black hatreds.