The words, while not said in an unkindly tone, had a ring of authority to them. Wheeling about, Lucile found herself facing a beautiful lady, one of the most beautiful she had ever seen; black hair, full cheeks of wonderful color, and eyes of the deepest blue. Lucile took in all the beauty of her for the first time at a glance, and at the same moment cold terror struck to her heart. This was Miss Bruce, the head of the section, the one who could dismiss a salesgirl at a word. And she had just heard Lucile break the most rigid rule of the house! She had talked back to a customer!
White faced, staring, endeavoring to speak but uttering no sound, Lucile stood there as if frozen to the spot.
“There, there, dearie! I know how it is. Don’t do it again, that’s all.” Lucile felt a friendly pressure on her arm, then the great lady of the section was gone.
In spite of her bravest efforts, tears rushed to Lucile’s eyes. One splashed down on either cheek before she could check them. Were they tears of vexation or gratitude, or merely tired tears? Who could say?
Through the tears Lucile dimly saw a face. It was an electrifying vision, and dashing away the tears, she became at once her own, keen, better self.
“Yes, yes, it is! It’s the Mystery Lady,” she assured herself. “She’s—she’s talking to Cordie. I must——”
As she started toward the wrapping stand where stood the Mystery Lady, a voice at her elbow said:
“Will you sell me this? Could you have them hurry a little? I must make a train. I really must.” It was the harried and hurried lady of a half hour previous. She had found another book and was making another train.
With great reluctance and much pent-up anger, Lucile waited upon her; and in the meantime, as was her wont, the Mystery Lady, the lady of the crimson thread, had vanished.
“Who—who was the tall lady you were speaking to a moment ago?” she breathlessly asked Cordie a moment later.