“Patience!” The young Italian held out a hand. “All must be done in proper form. One moment. I shall light the fire. The kettle shall simmer. Before the fire all will be confessed. And after this we shall lay the plot, and what a plot it will be!”
Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon thick rugs before the fire.
The lights were put out. The yellow glow of flames playing upon Angelo’s dark face transformed him seemingly into quite another being.
“See!” Florence whispered. “He is like a god in ancient bronze.”
“But not so ancient as this.” With fingers that trembled Petite Jeanne placed the gypsy god on the very border of the flames.
The transformation that followed instantly was startling. Florence jumped from her place. The big, blonde musician sprang backward. Angelo stared with wide eyes. As for Dan Baker, he stared at the thing with the fascination of a child.
And Jeanne? She merely smiled. Many times, at the back of hedges in the dead of night, or hidden away in some black forest, she had seen this thing, had witnessed the transformation of something that appeared all metal into a being that seemed alive with savage, fantastic grandeur: the gypsy God of Fire.
Even as they stared, voiceless, intent, motionless, a sound startled them all—the rattling of a windowpane in the skylight several feet above their heads.
Instantly all eyes were on that window. Everyone there knew that it was a silent, star-lit night.
“It rattled!” Jeanne whispered.