Seizing the antiquated wood-hamper that stood by the hearth, Florence piled shavings and kindling high. Then, after scratching a match, she watched the yellow flames spread as shadows began dancing on the wall.
“You have been surrendering to gloom,” she said reprovingly. “Don’t do it. It’s bad for you. Where there is light there is hope. And see how our fire gleams!”
“You speak truth, my friend.” Jeanne’s tone was solemn.
“But tell me.” Her mood changed. “You have met adventure. So have I.” Her eyes shone.
“Yes.” Florence was all business at once. “But take a look at the clock. There is just time to rush out for a cup of tea, then—”
“Then I go to jail,” replied Jeanne solemnly. “Tell me. What does one wear in jail?”
“You are joking,” Florence replied. “This is a serious affair. But, since you will go, it will not help to be late. We must hurry.”
A moment later, arm in arm, they passed from the outer door and the dull damp of night swallowed them up.
When, a short time later, Petite Jeanne, garbed as Pierre Andrews, stole apprehensively through the entrance to the great opera house, her ever-fearful eyes fell upon two men loitering just within.
The change that came over one of these, a tall, dark young man with a steely eye, as he caught sight of Jeanne was most astonishing. Turning square about like some affair of metal set on wheels, he appeared about to leap upon her. Only a grip on his arm, that of his more stocky companion, appeared to save the girl.