With that, the strange little girl from the shop of broken gifts gathered the silk cord into her hands, and with the falcon still perched upon her wrist, walked down the corridor and out into the sunlit street.
CHAPTER XXII
THE FALCON’S FLIGHT
Unfortunate for those who awaited him was the mood of Drysdale, the director, on that particular morning. Perhaps he had not slept well. His breakfast may have been overdone, or cold. Men with hard heads, narrow hearts and few smiles seldom sleep well, and rarely do they enjoy their breakfast.
“Where is she?” he demanded as he saw his watch point to the hour of nine. “Where is this young gypsy dancing queen?”
Until this moment he had been told nothing. Hoping against hope that some miracle would bring Petite Jeanne back to them in time for the rehearsal, Angelo, Florence and Dan Baker had put off the inevitable.
Seeing that the zero hour had arrived, Angelo climbed out of the trenches. “She’s gone,” he said simply. “She won’t be here.”
“Gone?” The gray steel face took on the color of glowing metal. “Won’t be here? What do you mean?”
“Been kidnaped.”
“Kidnaped! How? When? Why wasn’t I notified?”
“No reason.” Angelo was still calm. “All’s been done that could be done. The police were here last night. They looked the place over. No clues. She’s gone. That’s all.”