“Not for the bag, but for the valuable papers I carried. The bag, more than likely, has been burned in the fireplace.”
“Absurd!” exclaimed one of the middle-aged ladies. “Leather creates a terrible odor when burned.”
“Who said it was leather?” snapped the inquisitor. “It was, I believe, fiber.”
In the end, for the good of her company’s reputation, Rosemary persuaded them to submit to a search of a sort. The men emptied their pockets, then turned them inside out. The dark-faced woman went over the other women with hands that suggested they might have been used for that same purpose often, so deft, precise and cat-like were her motions.
It was while the men were going through their part of the performance that the young stewardess noticed a curious thing. The woman watched them all with what appeared to be slight interest until it came the turn of Danby Force who had paid so high a price for his reservation on this plane. Then it seemed to the girl that veritable sparks of fire shot from the black eyes of the woman. That she took in every detail was evident. That a look of grim satisfaction, seeming to say, “Ah ha! It is as I thought!” settled on the woman’s face at that moment, the girl could not for a moment doubt.
“But why?” she asked herself. “Why?”
To this question she could form no sensible answer for, as in all other cases, the woman said in a low tone: “None of these are mine.”
Just then the airplane pilot came in to tell them that the storm was at an end and they might resume their journey. In the rush of preparation, the hurried brewing of coffee, the hasty eating of a rather meager breakfast, the dark-faced woman and her vanished traveling bag were pretty much forgotten.
When at last the travelers were on their way, walking single-file up the steep incline, Rosemary found herself standing quite unexpectedly beside the strange young man, Danby Force.
“Wonderful place, this lodge!” he was saying. “Wouldn’t mind coming up here for a week sometime.”