“Then I’d like to arrange something, perhaps for tomorrow or the next day. I—I’ll give you a ring.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He was gone. Florence felt better. In this great city she had found one more substantial friend. In times like these friendships counted for a great deal.
There come periods in all our lives when life moves so swiftly that things which, perhaps, should be done are left undone. It had been so with Florence. As, a short time later, she found time for repose in the studio under the eaves of a skyscraper, she wondered if she should not have called the police and had that tenth story haunt of Madame Zaran and the Professor raided.
“And after that—what?” she asked herself. To this question she found no answer. The police might tell her she had been seized with a plain case of jitters. Truth was, not a person in that room had touched her. Madame Zaran had indulged in a fit of passion—that was about all.
“Besides—” she settled back in her chair. “It is not yet time. There are things I want to know. How was it that I saw real moving figures in that crystal ball? How much of Madame Zaran’s work is pure show? How much is real? I must know. And, meantime, I must do what I can for June Travis.” With that she went away to the land of dreams.
CHAPTER XVI
THE SECRET OF LOST LAKE
Jeanne toiled laboriously up the side of Greenstone Ridge on Isle Royale. From time to time she paused to regain her breath, to drink in the cool clean winter air, and to revel in the glorious contrasts of the white that was snow and the dark green that was spruce, fir and balsam.