“Mostly yes,” Florence smiled.
“Lead me to her.”
“Can’t now. Going to work.”
“What work?”
“Over on the Enchanted Island.”
“When can I see her then?”
“At eleven to-night, at the Rutledge Tavern in the Lincoln Group.” Florence was thinking fast. She must be on her way.
“That—that will be swell. Here, shake on it!” The girl gripped Florence’s hand. “You won’t fail me?”
“We’ll be there.”
Florence went dashing across the bridge. All the way over she was saying: “What does it all mean? What can she want of Petite Jeanne?”