“The God of Fire, as I live!” he exclaimed.
“None other.”
“But how—how did you get it back?”
“Had it all the time.”
“But they got your bag!”
“Sure. And it contained two good bricks. No use taking a chance like that. I had this god under my arm done up in a newspaper all the time.” She looked at the Fire God and he appeared to leer back at her, as much as to say: “You’re a good one! You are keen!”
“They very nearly got me, for all that!” she said, after a moment. Then she told of her flight, the pursuit, the old scow and the ragged little musician.
“We’ll be going,” said Angelo, beckoning to his companions when she had finished. “She’ll need a good, long sleep.” He nodded his head toward Jeanne. “Your room, Florence, is far away. I’ll spend the night with Swen.
“I’d like,” he added, “to see her face when she sees him!” Once more he nodded toward Jeanne, then toward the god.
“Why not? She must be wakened.” Florence touched Jeanne’s cheek with a cold hand. She wakened with a start.