“But it is not that.” Her voice changed. Her dull blue eyes took on fresh color. “I have lost more—much more. My purse! Money? No, my children. A little. It is nothing. I have lost my cameo, my only treasure. And, oh, I shall never see it again!” She began wringing her hands and seemed about to give way once more to weeping.
“Tell us about it,” Petite Jeanne put in eagerly. “Perhaps we can help you.”
“Tell you? Help me?” The old eyes were dreamy now. “My cameo! My one great treasure. It was made in Florence so many, many years ago. It was my own portrait done in onyx, pink onyx. I was only a child, sixteen, slight and fair like you.” She touched Jeanne’s golden hair. “He was young, romantic, already an artist. He became very famous when he was older. But never, I am sure, did he carve such a cameo, for, perhaps—perhaps he loved me—just a little.
“But now!” This was a cry of pain. “Now it is gone! And I have kept it all these long years. I should not have come to-night. I had not been to the heart of the city for ten years. But this night they told me I was to see ‘Auld Sandy’ himself. He’s on the radio, you know. He sings old Scotch songs so grandly and recites Burns’ poems with so much feeling. I wanted to see him. I did not dare leave the cameo in my poor room. My cameo! So I brought it, and now—
“But you said you would help me.” Once again her face brightened.
“Yes.” Florence’s tone was eager, hopeful. “We will help you. Someone will find your purse. It will be turned in. The police will have it. We will get it for you in the morning. Only give us your address and we will bring it, your treasure, your cameo.”
“Will you?”
Florence heard that cry of joy, and her heart smote her. Could they find it?
They wrote down the little old lady’s address carefully; then escorting her to the elevated platform, they saw her safely aboard a train.
“Now why did I do that?” Florence turned a face filled with consternation to Petite Jeanne. “Why did I promise so much?”