“The rope in the old mine.”
“What mine?”
Florence burst out laughing. “What a world! You ask me if I have been in great danger. I have. But, after all, you seem to know nothing of it. How—how come?” She dropped to a place before the freshly kindled fire.
“I dreamed it, I guess,” Greta replied slowly. “But please do tell me about it.”
“I will. But first—” Florence drew the small blank book from her pocket, opened it to the place of the picture, then asked quietly, “Ever see him before?”
“Why, yes, I—” Greta’s face was a study. “Florence, where did you get that?”
“It came tumbling down into the mine.”
There was a touch of something akin to awe in the slim girl’s voice as she said hoarsely, “That is a picture of the most wonderful musician I have ever heard. He plays the violin with a touch almost divine.”
“The violin!”
“Yes. But, Florence—” Greta leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me all about it. Tell me what happened to you!”