“No, it doesn’t tell me anything about Cordie,” Lucile whispered, “except—” she paused suddenly. Cordie had told of things that had happened in the city four days back. Could she have been in the city all this time? Probably had been. And without baggage, or so much as a dream-robe. How very strange!
But had she been without baggage? Might she not owe a board bill? Might not her belongings be in the hands of some landlady at the present time?
“It’s a wonder she doesn’t tell me about herself,” Lucile murmured. “It’s no use to ask her. A person who is forced to reveal her past is almost sure to tell anything but the truth. I must wait her time. It’s true she has a little money; but perhaps not enough to pay the bill.
“I wonder,” she went on thoughtfully, “why I don’t cut her adrift? Why should I be looking after her? Haven’t I enough to do in looking after myself?”
It was true that she had her own responsibilities, but she knew right well that if need be she would do a great deal more for the girl before casting her off to become an easy prey to the human hawks and vultures who haunt a great city.
“But this lady of the Christmas Spirit,” she murmured. “The good fates surely know I need that gold. And if this strange little beauty, Cordie, costs me something, which she promises to do, I shall need it more than ever.”
Once more her eyes ran over the scrap of paper. They came to a sudden pause.
“Behind me I leave a crimson trail,” she read.
For a moment her brow was wrinkled in puzzled thought. Then she gave a sudden start.
“If it should be! If it meant just that!” she exclaimed half aloud.