One by one Florence removed the few articles of clothing that had been packed in the bag. These were of fine texture and well made. But beneath these was something to bring an exclamation to her lips.
Putting out her hand, she lifted to view a roll of silk cloth, of royal blue, and of such thinness and fineness as she had seldom seen in all her life.
“Yards and yards of it,” she breathed, throwing it before her in bright, billowy waves.
“And look!” cried Meg. “Batik!”
It was true; beneath the silk was a bolt of batik. This Meg took to the light and examined it with great care.
“It’s genuine,” she whispered at last. “Not the sham stuff that is made in American factories, but the kind that dark faced women dye with great skill and much labor, dipping again and again in colors such as we know nothing of.”
Florence examined the cloth, then spread it over the back of a chair. Then she sat down. There was a puzzled look on her face.
“It’s very beautiful,” she mused. “One could not hope to buy a more perfect present, sight unseen, but I’m wondering why a man should be willing to trace me down at infinite pains and then follow me in the face of danger and in the teeth of a storm for the sake of getting possession of two rolls of cloth. That seems strange.”
“Does seem odd,” said Meg. “But wait! Here’s something else.” She drew two long pasteboard tubes from the bottom of the bag.
“What do you suppose?” whispered Florence. Inserting one finger in the first tube she twisted it about, then began drawing it out. A roll of papers appeared.