Two hours later Florence sat alone in the half darkness that enshrouded the studio. The others had retired for the night. She was still engaged in the business of putting her thoughts to bed.
It was a strange little world she found herself in at this time. Having started out, with an amused smile, to discover novel and interesting newspaper stories about people who pretended to understand other men’s minds, who read their bumps, studied the stars under which they were born, psychoanalyzed their minds, told their fortunes and all the rest, she found herself delving deeper, ever deeper into the mysteries of their strange cults. Ever striving to divide the true from the false, tracking down, as best she could, those who were frauds and robbers, she had at last got herself into a difficult if not dangerous situation.
“There’s that gypsy woman who stole from a poor widow,” she told herself. “Jeanne’s going away. That cannot wait. I’ll have to find that gypsy. And then—?”
Then there was June Travis and her lost father. Madame Zaran was on her trail; the voodoo priestess too. June had made one more visit to the priestess. She was afraid the girl had said too much. At any rate, she was sure the priestess had demanded a large fee for finding the lost father.
“I shall find him,” the big girl said, springing to her feet. “I must!”
Her eyes fell upon a picture standing on a low easel in the corner. It was the one done on thin paper. “That is for Tum Morrow’s party,” she thought. “Well, Tum Morrow’s party will have to wait.
“Jeanne’s going away will leave us lonely,” she sighed. “But who can blame her? Isle Royale was beautiful in summer. What must it be in winter?”
For a time she stood there dreaming of rushing waters, leaf-brown trails and sighing spruce trees. Then she turned to make her way slowly across the room, up the narrow stairway and into her own small chamber.
One question remained to haunt her even in her dreams. Were all fortune tellers like Myrtle Rand? Did they secure their facts in an underhanded manner, then pass them on to you as great surprises? Who could answer this? Surely not Florence.