“I say this.” There was a solemn note in Madame’s reply, like the deep tolling of a bell.
“All right.” Jeanne went skipping across the floor. “Tomorrow we shall go, very early, perhaps at dawn.”
Jeanne was happy once more. The dark lady had escaped her. What of that? Had that not happened an hour, two hours before? Was it not already of the past? Was not tomorrow a new day? On with tomorrow! She did a wild gypsy dance. At last dancing out of her dress of a thousand beads, she danced into dream robes and then into the land of dreams.
It was on the evening of the next day that Florence went for a long walk, and made a startling discovery. These evening walks were a source of real joy to her. She loved the cool damp of falling dew on her check; the smell of wood smoke from a hundred chimneys brought back pleasant memories of days spent in the woods along the shores of Lake Huron and on Isle Royale. She derived a keen satisfaction from looking in at open windows where little families sat smiling over their evening meal or reading beside an open fire.
“These are my people,” she would whisper to herself. “It may lie within my power to do them a great good. Perhaps tomorrow, or even tonight within the very next hour I may discover the spy who is threatening their happiness.”
She was in just such a frame of mind when, on passing one of the few truly modern homes of the town, a rather gaudy Spanish bungalow, she stopped dead in her tracks. The house stood quite near the street. In one room the shades were up and the lights on. She could see every object within. The chairs, the fancy spinet desk, the bed covered with a silk spread of brilliant hue, all stood out before her as if arranged for inspection. None of these, however, interested her in the least. The thing that held her attention was a small picture on the wall.
“It can’t be!” she breathed. “And yet it is!” She moved a little closer. “Yes, it is the picture of Verna, that matchless painting by a truly great artist.”
At once her mind was in a whirl. What had happened? Had Mrs. Maver sold that picture? Impossible. She had said that, whatever happened, they would never part with that picture. Had she loaned it? This did not seem probable.
“And yet,” Florence asked herself, “if it had been stolen, would she not have told me?”
Strangely enough, at that moment a cold sweat broke out on her brow. Perhaps the Mavers had missed the picture. Perhaps they believed she had taken it. Perhaps for days, all unknown to her, they had been watching her movements.