Florence gave the address of a friend where her mail was left.
“You live there?”
“No, but no mail is delivered where I do live.”
“Where can that be?” he asked in some surprise.
“In a boat,” she smiled. “In a pleasure yacht. Oh, it’s not afloat,” as he looked at her in astonishment.
“Might I ask the name of the boat and the location?” he half apologized. “Someone might wish to visit you. It will be proper and very important that he should. Otherwise I would not ask.”
“The O Moo,” answered Florence quietly. “Foot of 71st Street.”
She rose to go. He grasped her hand for a second, looking as if he would like to say more, then bowed her out of the door.
As she entered the corridor, she was conscious of a strange dizziness. It was as if she had spent the better part of a night poring over an absorbing story. She had come to the museum to rid herself of the blue candlestick and the mystery attached to it. The candlestick was gone but the mystery lay before her deeper and darker than ever.