“But the gypsies of America desire this god!”
She sprang suddenly to her feet and began pacing the floor.
“Why,” exclaimed Florence, “they can’t even know it is here!”
“One of them does. He saw it smiling in the fire to-night. I saw his shadow on the windowpane. He will tell others.”
“You saw him?”
“It could have been none other. I recognized him instantly. His coat, his curious hat, his profile, were all visible.
“But we must guard this god well. We must keep him in hiding.” She went to the door and locked it. “I must have him for our opera.”
“But you could have a model made of clay. You could use that on the stage. No one would know. Few stage properties are real.”
“No! No!” The little French girl held up hands in protest. “Never! I will dance only before the true God of Fire.”
“Then,” said Florence calmly, “you will run a great risk. Some of the gypsies will attend the play. They are fond of drama. This one you saw will see the god. He will have it at any cost.”