Strangely enough at this instant one thought entered her mind: “Nothing must happen to me. I have a sacred duty to perform. I have pledged myself to return that priceless cameo to that dear little old lady.”
At the same instant the light from a distant automobile, making a turn on the drive, fell for a space of seconds upon the tumbled pile of rocks. It lit up not alone the rocks but a face; a strangely ugly face, not ten paces away.
One second the light was there. The next it was gone. And in that same second the moon went under a cloud. The place was utterly dark.
CHAPTER XIII
A NYMPH OF THE NIGHT
Florence had never seen the face lit up there in the night; yet it struck fear to her heart. What must we say, then, of Petite Jeanne? For this was the face of one who, more than any others, inspired her with terror. He it had been who called after her at the door of the opera, he who had looked out from the bushes as she slept in the sun. At sight of him now, she all but fell among the rocks from sheer panic.
As for Florence, she was startled into action. They were, she suddenly realized, many blocks from any human habitation, on a deserted strip of man-made shore land lighted only by stars and the moonlight. And at this moment the moon, having failed them, had left the place black as a tomb.
With a low, whispered “Come!” and guided more by instinct than sight, she led Jeanne off the tumbled pile of rocks and out to the path where grass grew rank and they were in danger at any moment of tripping over pieces of debris.
“Who—who was that?”
Florence fancied she heard the little French girl’s heart beating wildly as she asked the question.
“Who can tell? There may be many. See! Yonder, far ahead, is a light.”