Their search for the gypsy was rewarded with astonishing speed. Scarcely had they rounded a corner to enter noisy and crowded Maxwell Street than the widow DeLane gripped Florence’s arm to whisper, “There! There she is! That’s her.”
Florence found herself staring at a dark and evil face. The woman was powerfully built. There was about her a suggestion of crouching. “Like some great cat,” Florence thought as a chill ran up her spine.
That the woman resembled a cat in other ways was at once apparent. With feline instinct, she sensed danger without actually seeing it. Standing, with her eyes turned away, she gave a sudden start, wheeled half about, took one startled look, then glided, with all the agility of a cat, through the crowd.
Florence might not be as sly as the gypsy, but she was powerful, and she could stick to a purpose. With the widow close at her heels, she crowded between a thin man and a fat woman, pushed an astonished peddler of roasted chestnuts into the street, hurdled a low rack lined with cheap shoes, knocked over a table piled high with cheap jewelry, to at last arrive panting before a door that had just been closed by the gypsy.
“Locked!” She set her teeth tight. “What’s one lock more or less?” Her stout shoulder hit the door.
Quite taken by surprise by the suddenness of her success in breaking open the door, she lost her balance and tumbled into the room, landing flat on the floor.
She had tumbled before, many, many times. In fact, she could tumble more times per minute than anyone in her gym class. Locks and tumbles were not new to her. She was on her feet and ready for battle in ten split seconds.
The gypsy woman was not slow. The widow had followed Florence into the room. There came a glitter of steel as the gypsy sprang at her.
But not so fast! As the gypsy’s arm swung high, Florence caught it from behind, gave it a sudden wrench that brought forth a groan, then shook it as a dog shakes a rat, until the needle-pointed stiletto gripped in the murderous gypsy’s hand flew high and wide to sink into the heart of a gaudy dancing girl hanging in a frame on the wall.
Whirling about just in time to save herself from the grip of five girls in gypsy costumes who swarmed at her, Florence sprang towards them to scatter them as a turkey might scatter a bevy of pigeons.