“It might be the man!”
“What man? Your friend?”
“No. Not my friend; an awful man who wanted the bag.”
“What bag?”
“A bag I bought at an auction. My—my Christmas surprise. There—there he is,” she whispered tensely as there came a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Meg.
“Oh, don’t!” Florence struggled to her feet. “Don’t let him in!”
“Why not?” Meg had risen. In her hand was an affair resembling a policeman’s club, only it was made of iron—a heavy belaying pin. “Why not?” she repeated. “If I don’t fancy him, he’ll let himself out fast enough.” At the same time there came a rattle at the door knob. Florence sank back into her chair.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MYSTERY LADY’S NEW ROLE
Such a party as it was; that one which was being enjoyed by Lucile and her friends of the juvenile book corner. Such crisp brown cream biscuits! Such breast of turkey with cranberry sauce and dressing! Such pudding! Even in the days of her childhood at home Lucile had never seen a more sumptuous feast. All this, in the midst of the gayest of Christmas spirit, made the occasion one long to be remembered by any person whose mind was not too much occupied by bewitching thoughts of other important things.