The next instant she did not believe them, for the thing resting there on the window sill turned its head slowly, as though it were set on a wooden pivot, and then quite as slowly winked an eye.
Merry felt her knees sinking beneath her. Gripping the doorknob, she stood there shaking until her senses returned.
She recovered just in time to seize a thin silken cord that dangled from one of the creature’s feet. At that instant the falcon, a real one and quite alive, spread two very capable wings and went flapping away through the half open door.
Only the silken line held tightly in the Irish girl’s hand prevented him from soaring aloft as he had, without doubt, done on other occasions.
Merry gave a little cry as he came fluttering down and alighted on one of her outstretched hands. The cry attracted Florence’s attention. She came hurrying up.
“A falcon, a real live falcon!” cried Merry. “Now, what do you think of that?”
“A live falcon!” Florence stared in astonishment.
Then she went into a brown study.
“Wings,” she murmured after a time. “The flutter of wings. Those were her very words. Merry, you may have made an important discovery!”
“She told me once,” replied the Irish girl, “that gypsies were very fond of falcons. Do you think there could be anything in that?”