“Yes, my Jeanne.”
“She is a bad one. I wonder if she could be our thief who stole the poor widow’s four hundred dollars?”
“Who knows, my Jeanne? Who knows? I too have read of that in the paper. I too have been ashamed for all gypsies. We must find her. She must be punished.”
“Yes,” said Jeanne, “we must find her.” Then in a few words she told of her own part in that search.
“As ever,” said Bihari, “I shall be your helper.”
“But you, Bihari,” Jeanne asked, “why are you not in our most beautiful France?”
“Ah!” Bihari sighed, “France is indeed beautiful, but she is very poor. In America, as ever, there is opportunity. Right here on Maxwell Street, where there is much noise and many smells, I have my shop. I mend pots and pans, yes, and automobiles too, for people who are as poor as I. So we get on very well.” He laughed a merry laugh.
“And because I am here,” he added, “I can help you all the more.”
CHAPTER VIII
A VISION FOR ANOTHER
That same afternoon Florence met Sandy at the door of his glass box. “Are—are you leaving?” she asked in sudden consternation. “I didn’t get my story in.”