“No, not all. But no! No!” Jeanne protested.
“You know the good ones and the bad ones,” Florence went on, ignoring her denial. “You must help me find this bad one, and, if it is not too late, we must get that money back.
“How foolish some people are!” Her voice dropped. “Here was a woman with three small children. She collected four hundred dollars from her husband’s estate. She hurries right off to the gypsies because one of them has told her two months before that she is to have money. Money!” She laughed scornfully. “Probably they tell everyone that—makes them feel good.
“Then she asks them how to invest it so it will become a great deal of money right away, and they say, ‘Leave it with us for luck.’ She goes away. They vanish. And there you are!”
“Where did this so terrible thing happen?” Jeanne asked.
“In one of the narrow streets back of Maxwell Street.”
“Maxwell Street!” Jeanne shuddered. She had been on Maxwell Street; did not wish ever to go again. But now—
“Ah, well, my good friend,” she sighed, “it is always so. We come into great good fortune. We have marvelous friends. Marvelous things of beauty are all about us. We sigh with joy and bask in the sunshine. And then, bang! Duty says, ‘Go to Maxwell Street. Go where there is dirt and disorder, unhappiness, hatred and poverty.’ We listen to Duty, and we go. Yes, my good friend Florence, tomorrow I shall go.
“And,” she added mysteriously, “when I am there, even you, if you meet me, will not know me.”
“You will be careful!” Florence’s brow wrinkled.