Then a thought struck her all of a heap.
“Florence,” she cried, “there were other things in that chest. Oh, so many more!”
“Other things?” Florence fairly sprang at her. “Why did you not tell me? Is it still in our room under the bed?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Then we must hurry home. They may be in our room at this very moment, those little yellow men, carrying the chest away.”
“Yes!” Jeanne exclaimed. “Let us hurry!”
CHAPTER III
FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS
All her life Florence had lived in the great and noisy city.
Not so Petite Jeanne. If you have read of her at all you will know that as a child she had been a vagabond with gypsies of France, a very beautiful vagabond, an accomplished dancer, but a vagabond all the same. How this slender, golden-haired child of France came to America and how at last France discovered her once more and carried her back to be the mistress of a grand old chateau is no part of our story.
It was enough for Jeanne that she was here with her good pal Florence, that they lived on the top floor of an ancient rooming house, that they might come and go as they pleased, and that if she chose she might once more turn vagabond for a day, a week, or a month.