She sprang to her feet. This time there was a sound. Yes, and she wanted to scream. There, between two paintings of gypsy life, was a face, an ugly, fat, leering face. She knew that face. It was the man she had seen in the professor’s room on that night when she went down the rope. Madame Zaran had sent him. Her illicit business of telling fake fortunes was being ruined by Florence’s investigations and reports. She was seeking revenge.
How had the man entered the room? One other question was more pressing: how was she to get out?
The man was between her and the entrance. He was close to the stairway that led to the balcony. She was trapped—or was she? There was the secret panel door.
“That picture is directly in front of it,” she thought. “Too close. I can’t get round it. But I could—” her heart skipped a beat. “I could go through it. Too bad to spoil Tum’s big party too—”
The man was advancing upon her. With hands outstretched, eyes gleaming, he seemed some monstrous beast about to seize a bird of rare plumage.
She hesitated no longer. She sprang to the right, then dashed three steps forward to go crashing through that picture.
Was the man taken by surprise? Beyond doubt he was. At any rate, Florence was through that door and had completely lost herself in a maze of slanting beams and rafters before she had time to think of her next move. And from the studio there came no sound.
She could not well go back, even though she knew the way, so she groped forward. After ten minutes of this, she caught a gleam of light. It came from under a door. Remembering that nearly all the people in the world are decent, honest folks, she knocked boldly.
The door was thrown open. There, framed in light, stood Tum Morrow.
“Tum!” she exclaimed, all but falling into his arms. “Tum! How glad I am to see you!”