More than once when some particular member of the “union” had made a fortunate purchase and met with an immediate sale, he offered Merry a loan. Always the answer was the same: a loyal Irish smile and, “Thanks. You’ll be needing it next time.”

Little wonder that Petite Jeanne, sitting in the glowing light of such glorious friendships, absorbed warmth that carried her undaunted through rehearsals amid the cold and forbidding circle within the old Blackmoore walls.

It was on one of these visits to the auction house that the little French girl received an invitation to an unusual party.

Weston, the ruddy-faced German who kept a shop near Maxwell street, together with Kay King and a stout man known by the name of John, had bid in a large number of traveling bags and trunks. They were an unusual lot, these bags and boxes. Many of the trunks were plastered from end to end with foreign labels. Three of the bags, all exactly alike, were of the sort carried only by men of some importance who reside in the British Isles.

“How I’d love to see what’s in them!” Jeanne exclaimed.

“Do you want to know?” Weston demanded. “Then I’ll tell you. Junk! That’s all. I buy only junk. Inside these are some suits. Moths eat holes in them. Silk dresses, maybe; all mildewed.”

“Must be fun to open them, though. You never can tell what you might find.”

“Ja, you can never tell,” Weston agreed.

“Do you want to see what’s in them?” Kay King, who was young and good looking, leaned forward. “Come down to Maxwell Street on Sunday. We’ll save them until then, won’t we?” He appealed to his companions.

“Ja, sure!”