“This has happened,” the director spoke out abruptly, “Miss Dean is at the Robinson home. She has fallen from a horse. She will not be able to appear to-night. Fernando Tiffin tells me that you are prepared to assume the leading role in these two short operas. I say it is quite impossible. You are to be the judge.”
Staggered by this load that had been so suddenly cast upon her slender shoulders, the little French girl seemed about to sink to the floor. Fortunately at that instant her eyes caught the calm, reassuring gaze of the great sculptor. “I have said you are able.” She read this meaning there.
“Yes.” Her shoulders were square now. “I am able.”
“Then,” said the director, “you shall try.”
Ninety minutes later by the clock, she found herself waiting her cue, the cue that was to bid her come dancing forth upon a great stage, the greatest in the world. And looking down upon her, quick to applaud or to blame, were the city’s thousands.
In the meantime, in her seat among the boxes, Florence had met with an unusual experience. A mysterious figure had suddenly revealed herself as one of Petite Jeanne’s old friends. At the same time she had half unfolded some month-old mysteries.
Petite Jeanne had hardly disappeared through the door leading to the stage when two whispered words came from behind Florence’s back:
“Remember me?”
With a start, the girl turned about to find herself looking into the face of a tall woman garbed in black.
Reading uncertainty in her eyes, the woman whispered: “Cedar Point. Gamblers’ Island. Three rubies.”