“Yes, Miss. I’ll tell you about it; but that will do for another time. You’ll be going home. If it’s all right, I’ll see you safely on your way, or if you want I’ll see you safely home. You need have no fear of me. I’m old enough to be your father, an’ I took a sort of interest in you from the first. I’d be glad to help you—”
He broke short off to stare at the door through which Cordie had entered. Framed by the outer darkness, a face had appeared there. However well shaven and massaged it might be, it was not a pleasing face to look upon and hawk-like eyes were set in a countenance as expressionless as marble.
“That’s him!” whispered James, staring as if his eyes would pop out of his head. “That’s the very man.”
The next instant the man disappeared. There was reason enough for this too, for with every muscle of his face drawn in lines of hate, the stalwart James had leaped square at the door.
And what of Lucile?
After gazing for a moment in astonishment at the purple curtain with the touch of crimson shining out from it, (beyond which the Mystery Lady had disappeared,) she stepped close enough to make sure that same purple strand ran through the thread. Then she turned and walked out of the building.
She found herself more mystified than ever. When would all this maze of mysteries be solved? Why had the Mystery Lady done that? Why the crimson thread? Why the iron ring? That was the fourth time the crimson thread had appeared, and this time there could be no doubt but that it had been she who had held the needle.
Strangely enough, at this moment there flashed through her mind one sentence in that clipping relating to the lady who called herself the Spirit of Christmas.
“I am the Spirit of Christmas,” she whispered it as she recalled it. “I am the Spirit of Christmas. Wherever I go I leave my mark which is also my sign.” She wondered vaguely what she could have meant by that.
This lady of the Christmas Spirit had the whole city on tip-toes. Everyone was looking for her; everyone hoping to come downtown some fine morning to meet her and to claim her bag of gold. Shoppers gazed into faces of fellow shoppers to wonder: “Are you the Spirit of Christmas? Shall I grasp your hand?” News boys, staring up at lady customers who slipped them pennies for papers, wondered: “Are you the Christmas Lady?”