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Adventure Stories for Girls

The
Crimson Thread

By
ROY J. SNELL

The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago

Printed in the United States of America

Copyright, 1925
by
The Reilly & Lee Co.
All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE [I Two Hours Before Midnight] 7 [II Crimson with a Strand of Purple] 23 [III A New Mystery] 36 [IV The Picture Girl] 52 [V “Come and Find Me”] 67 [VI The Iron Ring] 80 [VII Cordie’s Mad Flight] 93 [VIII The Diamond-Set Iron Ring] 109 [IX Her Double] 136 [X Cordie’s Strange Ride] 153 [XI As Seen from the Stairway] 167 [XII Silver Gray Treasure] 175 [XIII Lucile’s Dream] 181 [XIV The Newspaper Picture] 187 [XV “With Contents, If Any”] 192 [XVI A Great Day] 205 [XVII An Icy Plunge] 215 [XVIII The Mystery Lady’s New Role] 229 [XIX Meg Wields a Belaying Pin] 234 [XX The Great Moment] 246 [XXI The Man in Gray] 254 [XXII The Finish] 263 [XXIII Meg’s Secret] 271 [XXIV Three Questions] 277 [XXV What the Brown Bag Held] 294

THE CRIMSON THREAD

CHAPTER I
TWO HOURS BEFORE MIDNIGHT

Starting back with a suppressed exclamation of surprise on her lips, Lucile Tucker stared in mystification and amazement. What was this ghost-like apparition that had appeared at the entrance to the long dark passage-way? A young woman’s face, a face of beauty and refinement, surrounded by a perfect circle of white. In the almost complete darkness of the place, that was all Lucile could see. And such a place for such a face—the far corner of the third floor of one of the largest department stores in the world. At that very moment, from somewhere out of the darkness, came the slow, deep, chiming notes of a great clock telling off the hour of ten. Two hours before midnight! And she, Lucile, was for a moment alone; or at least up to this moment she had thought herself alone.

What was she to make of the face? True, it was on the level with the top of the wrapper’s desk. That, at least, was encouraging.

“That white is a fox skin, the collar to some dark garment that blends completely with the shadows,” Lucile told herself reassuringly.

At that moment a startling question sent her shrinking farther into the shadows. “If she’s a real person and not a spectre, what is she doing here? Here, of all places, at the hour of ten!”

That was puzzling. What had this lady been doing in that narrow passage? She could not be a member of the working force of the store. No sales person would come to work in such a superb garment as this person wore. Although Lucile had been employed in the book department for but ten days, she had seen all those who worked here and was certain enough that no such remarkably beautiful face could have escaped her notice.

“She—why she might be anything,” Lucile told herself. “A—thief—a shoplifter. Perhaps she stole that very cape—or whatever it is she wears. Perhaps—”

Suddenly her heart gave a leap. Footsteps were approaching. The next instant she saw a second face appear in the narrow line of light which the street lights cast through the window.

“Laurie Seymour,” she breathed.

Laurie was the new man in the department. He had been working at the boys’ and girls’ books for only three days, yet Lucile liked him, liked him tremendously. He was so friendly, even-tempered and different. And he seemed a trifle mysterious.

“Mysterious,” she mused, “perhaps here’s the mystery answered.”

It certainly did seem so, for after the apparition in white had whispered a word or two, Laurie looked at her strangely for a second, drew from his pocket a slip of paper and handing it to her, quickly vanished into the shadows. The next instant the apparition vanished, too. Again Lucile found herself alone in the far corner of the mammoth store, surrounded by darkness.

Perhaps you have been wondering what Lucile and Laurie were doing in the great store at this hour. Since the doors are closed at six o’clock, you have no doubt thought of the entire place as being shrouded in darkness and utterly deserted. These were the days of the great rush of sales that comes before Christmas. That evening eight thousand books had been trucked into the department to be stowed away on or under tables and shelves. Twenty sales persons had been given “pass outs”; which meant that they might pass in at seven o’clock and work until ten. They had worked like beavers; making ready for the rush that would come on the morrow.

Now the great bulk of the work had been done. More than half of the workers had chirped a cheery “Good-night” and had found their way down a marble stairway to the ground floor and the street. Lucile had been sent by “Rennie,” the head sales-lady of juveniles, to this dark section for an armful of books. Here in this dark corner a part of Laurie’s true character had, uninvited, come to her.

“He gave her his pass-out,” she said to herself. “With that she can leave the building with her stolen goods.”

For a second, as she thought of this, she contemplated following the mystery woman and bringing her back.

“But that,” she told herself, “would be dangerous. That passage is a hundred feet long and only four feet wide; then it turns sharply and goes two hundred feet farther. She may carry a knife; such women do. In that place she could murder me and no one would know until morning.

“Of course,” she reflected, “there’s the other end of the passage where it comes out at the offices. She must leave the passage there if she does not come back this way. I might call the watchmen. They could catch her. It’s a perfect trap; she’s like a mouse in a boot. But then—”

She paused in her mad rush of thought. What proof had she that this beautiful creature was a thief? What indeed? And what right had she to spy upon her and upon Laurie? Truth was, she had none at all. She was a sales person, not a detective. Her job was that of putting books on shelves and tables and selling them; her immediate task that of taking an armful of books to Rennie. Her simple and sole duty lay just there. Then, too, in the short time she had known Laurie Seymour, she had come to like him.

“He might be innocent of any real wrong,” she reasoned. “If I go blundering into things I may be serving a friend badly indeed.”

“But,” she was brought up short by a sudden thought, “if he gave her his pass-out, how’s he to leave the building?”

How indeed? In a great store such as this, where hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of rare jewels and much silver and gold are kept and where princely furs and priceless old paintings are on display, it is necessary to maintain a constant vigil against thieves. “Pass-outs” are given to all employees who enter or leave the store after closing hours. It was true enough that without his pass-out, Laurie could not get by the eagle-eyed guard who kept constant vigil at the only door where the employees were permitted to pass out to the street.

“But the books,” she murmured, starting up, “Rennie will be waiting.”

Rennie, whose real name was Miss Renton, appeared to be in no hurry. Having become interested in writing down lists of books that were to be ordered in the morning, she had so far forgotten the girl as to exclaim as she came up:

“Why, Lucile! I thought you had gone! Now, dearie, just put those books down right there. We can take care of them before the rush begins in the morning. Run along now and get your coat. You must go home. It’s past ten, less than two hours till midnight!”

“Yes, but—”

Lucile checked herself just in time. She had been about to say that she was afraid to go for her coat. And indeed she was, for was it not hanging on the wall in that narrow passage at the door of which the mystery lady had appeared?

“But it wouldn’t do to tell,” she thought, “I—I’ve got to go alone.”

Go she did, but with much fear and trembling.

She might have spared herself all this trembling, for there was no one in the dark passage.

But what was this? The row of coat hooks were all empty save one, her own, and on that hook—what could it mean?—on that hook hung not her own too frankly thin and threadbare coat, but a magnificent thing of midnight blue and white. It was the cape with the white fox collar worn by the mystery woman.

Even as her hand touched the fox skin she knew it was far more costly than she had thought.

“It’s over my coat,” she breathed. “I’ve only to leave it.”

This, she found, was not true. Her coat had vanished. The cape had been left in its stead and, as if to further perplex and alarm her, the midnight blue unfolded, revealing a superb lining of Siberian squirrel.

“Oh!” Lucile exclaimed as her trembling fingers dropped to her side and she fled the place.

One consoling thought flashed across her mind. Rennie had not yet left for the night. Rennie, the tall and slim, with a thread of gray in her black hair, who had been in the department for no one knew how long—Rennie would know what to do. The instant she was told all that had happened she would say what the very next step must be.

“The instant she is told,” Lucile whispered to herself. Then suddenly she realized that she did not wish to tell all she had seen.

“Not just yet, at any rate,” she told herself. “I’m not supposed to have seen it. I want time to think. I’ll tell Rennie only what I am supposed to know—that my coat has been taken and this cape left in its stead.”

Rennie showed little surprise on hearing the story. “Someone has probably taken the wrong coat,” she said.

“But that’s not possible!” Lucile laughed at the very thought.

“Why?”

“I’ll show you,” and she dashed back for the cape.

As Rennie saw the magnificent creation, she gasped with astonishment; then began to murmur something about fairy princesses looking after poor girls and leaving them gorgeous garments.

“You can’t go home without a wrap,” she told Lucile. “They say there’s a regular blizzard outside. You’ll simply have to wear it home.”

Taking the garment from Lucile’s hands, she placed it upon her shoulders with a touch that was half caress. Then, having fastened it under Lucile’s chin, she stood back to exclaim:

“Why, dearie, you look charming!”

“But—but how am I to get out of the building with it? No one will believe that a mere sales girl owns a cape like this. It’s new. Probably it’s been stolen.”

“Stolen!” exclaimed Rennie. “What nonsense!

“Besides,” she added in a quieter tone, “it’s not quite new. The strings that hold it together at the throat are worn a little smooth and there’s the least bit of a soil at the bottom. You wait ten minutes for me and we’ll go out together. I know the watchman. I’ll take you out under my wing.”

Greatly relieved by these words and intent on making the most of her wait by having a good general look at the room, Lucile sauntered away to the left where she was soon lost from sight behind tables, stacks of books, and massive pillars.

Since she had worked here but ten days, the charm of the place had not yet worn off. The books, row on row of them, fascinated her. Here was a wealth of learning that no one could hope to appropriate in a lifetime. To the right of her was poetry, thousands of volumes; to the left, books on travel, thousands more; and before her new fiction, tens of thousands. Who would not envy her? It was a great place for one who loved books.

With a feeling of sorrow she thought of the time when she must leave all this wealth; when she must say goodbye to the wonderful friends she had already formed here. In two short weeks she would be going back to the University. Since she was dependent upon her own resources for her support—and since for one who specialized in English there was quite as much to be learned about books by selling as by reading them—her head professor had quite readily granted her a month’s leave of absence that she might come down here to assist in meeting the Christmas rush.

“Ah yes,” she breathed, “it will be of the past in two more weeks. But in two weeks much may happen. Think of what happened to-night! Think—”

She was brought up short by a sound. Had it been a footstep? She could not make sure for the floor was heavily carpeted. Instantly she became conscious of the darkness that surrounded her like a shroud. Before her loomed the dim outlines of the elevator cages. Distorted by the uncertain light, these seemed the cells of some gloomy prison. Far off to the right was a great rotunda. From the rail that surrounded this, when the lights were on, one might gaze upward to dizzy heights and downward to dizzier depths. Now she thought of that awe inspiring vault as if it were some deep and mysterious cave.

“Oh—ooo!” Lucile gasped. “This place gets spookier every moment. I’ll go back to—”

Even as she spoke she caught a sound to her right. Impelled by sheer curiosity, she took a dozen steps in that direction.

Suddenly she started back. Against the wall a light had flashed on for a second and in that second she had caught sight of a face—the face of Laurie Seymour.

Again the light came on. This time the flash was a little longer. She saw his face clearly. On his finely cut features there was such a smile as suggests anticipation of amusing adventure.

In one hand he held the flashlight. Under his arm was a bundle of corrugated paper such as is used in wrapping books for mailing. He was standing by a square opening in the wall. Lucile knew in a vague sort of way where that opening led. Books that had been wrapped were dropped in there. A circular spiral chute, some three feet in diameter, wormed its way like an auger hole down from this point to the sub-basement where was located the shipping room.

Even as she thought this through she saw Laurie swing his feet across the opening. Then, just as the light flashed out, she again saw that amused grin. The next second there came the sound of some heavy object gliding downward.

“He—he went down the chute!” she gasped. “He’ll be killed!”

How long she stood there, petrified with surprise and dread, she could not have told. It could not have been many seconds but it seemed an hour. At last the end came, a sickening thud sounding faint and far away.

Without uttering a sound, but with heart beating wildly and feet flying at almost superhuman speed, the girl raced across the room and down a flight of broad marble stairs.

“I must find him. He is hurt. Perhaps he is killed!” she kept repeating to herself.

Down one flight; down two; three; four, she sped.

And then, in the darkness of this vast shipping room, she paused to listen.

Not a sound. She may as well have been alone in the catacombs of Egypt or the Mammoth Cave.

“Must be this way,” she breathed.

Truth was, she had lost her sense of direction. She was not sure which way to go. She took a dozen steps forward. Finding herself confronted by a dark bulk, she started walking round it. Having paused to think, she found fear gripping at her heart. When she tried to retrace her steps she discovered that the stairs had apparently vanished. She was lost.

“Lost!” she whispered. “Lost in the subbasement of this great building at night!” Even as she thought this there came to her, faint and far distant, yet very distinct, the even tread of footsteps.

“It’s not Laurie. He doesn’t walk like that. It—it’s—” her heart stood still, “it’s a watchman! And here I am dressed in this magnificent garment which does not belong to me. Somehow I must get back to the third floor and to Rennie! But how? How!”

CHAPTER II
CRIMSON WITH A STRAND OF PURPLE

Panic, an unbelievable terror ten times stronger than her will, seized Lucile and bore her fleetly down a dark, unknown aisle. The very thought of being discovered by a watchman unknown to her, mingled with the sensation of the fear of darkness, had driven her well-nigh frantic.

“The cape,” she whispered to herself. “I must not be found with the cape!”

Had she but possessed the power to reason quietly, she might have known that the watchman, searching for an explanation of her strange conduct, would, upon her suggesting it, take her back to the third floor and Rennie. Not being in full possession of these powers, she abandoned herself to panic. Snatching the cape from her shoulders she thrust it under her arm and plunged on into the darkness.

In the deeper shadows she saw dim forms looming up before her. Some seemed giants ready to reach out and grasp her; some wild creatures poised to fall upon her from the dark.

Now she tripped and went sprawling. As she sprang to her feet she caught the gleam of a light. Thinking it the watchman’s flashlight, she was away like the wind.

At last pausing for breath, she listened. At first she heard only the beating of her own heart. Then, faint and far away, came the mellow chimes of the great clock announcing the arrival of half past ten.

“Half past ten!” she whispered in consternation. “Rennie will leave. The place will be in darkness and I shall be lost! What shall I do?”

Again she caught a faint gleam of light. Watching it for a moment, and seeing that it was steady and constant, she dared to creep toward it.

Drawing nearer, she saw that it came drifting down an elevator shaft from some place a long way above.

“The elevator is there. The door is open!” she said to herself in surprise. “And there is no one in it.”

Just then, as she strained her ears to listen, she caught again that heavy, even tread of the watchman.

Our nerves are strange masters. A great general is thrown into panic at sight of a cat; a woman of national fame goes into convulsions at sight of rippling water on the sea. As for Lucile, at that moment nothing could have so overthrown her whole mental balance as that steady tramp-tramp of the watchman.

This time it drove her to the most curious action. As a wild animal, driven, winded, cornered, will sometimes dash into the very trap that has been set for him, so this girl, leaping forward, entered the elevator cage.

Had there been more time, it may have been that her scattered wits returning would have told her that here, where the dim light set out her whole form in profile, was the most dangerous spot of all.

Before she had time to think of this the elevator gave a sudden lurch and started upward.

Nothing could have been more startling. Lucile had never seen an elevator ascend without an operator at the levers and she naturally believed it could not be done; yet here she was in the cage, going up.

It was as if some phantom hand were in control. Darkness and silence rendered it more spectral. The ever increasing speed shot terror to her very heart. Sudden as had been the start, so sudden was the stop.

Thrown to the floor and all but knocked unconscious, she slowly struggled to her feet. What did it mean? What was to be the end of this terrible adventure?

As she looked before her she saw that the car had stopped about three feet above some floor. The doors to that floor were shut. The catches, however, were within her reach. Should she attempt to open them and make a leap for it?

Had she but known it, those doors were supposed to open only when the cage was level with the floor. But the infinite power that tempers the wind to the shorn lamb sometimes tampers with man-made doors. As if by magic, the doors swung back at her touch and with a leap she was out and away.

Then, gripping her madly beating heart, she paused to consider. She was free from the elevator, but where was she? Her situation seemed more desperate than before. She had not counted the floors that sped by her. She did not know whether she was on the sixth or the tenth floor.

Reason was beginning to come into its own. With a steadier stride she took a turn about the place. Putting out a hand, she touched first this object, then that.

“Furniture,” she said at last. “Now on what floor is furniture sold?”

She did not know.

Coming at last to a great overstuffed davenport, she sat down upon it. Feeling its drowsy comfort after her hot race, she was half tempted to stretch herself out upon it, to spread the splendid cape over her, and thus to spend the night.

“It won’t do,” she decided resolutely. “Every extra moment I spend here makes it worse.”

At that she rose and looked about her. Over to the right was a broad stretch of pale light.

“It’s the moonlight falling through the great skylight of the rotunda,” she breathed.

Instantly she began making her way in that direction. Arrived at the railing, she looked down. She was high up. The very thought of the dizzy depth below made her feel faint; yet, fighting against this faintness, she persisted in looking down until she had established the fact that she was on the sixth floor. There remained then but to descend three flights of stairs to find the blessed third floor and, perhaps, Rennie.

She was not long in descending. Then, such a silent cry of joy as escaped her lips as she saw Rennie’s light still dimly burning in the far corner.

Slipping on the cape, the better to hide the dust and dirt she had collected from many falls, she at last tiptoed up close to the desk where Rennie was working.

“Hello, dearie,” said Rennie, smiling up at her through her thick glasses. “Ready to go? In just one moment.”

Lucile caught her breath in astonishment. Then the truth burst upon her. The whole wild adventure through which she had been driven at lightning speed had consumed but half an hour. So intent upon her work had dear old Rennie been that she had not noted the passing of time.

Some three minutes later, arm in arm, they were making their way down the dark and gloomy marble stairs; and a moment later, having safely passed the guard, they were out on the deserted street.

The instant they passed through the door they were caught in a great whirl of wind and snow that carried them half the way to State Street before they could check their mad gait. For Rennie, who was to take the surface line, this was well enough; but for Lucile it meant an additional half block of beating her way back to her station on the “L.”

With a screamed “Good-night” that was caught up and carried away by the storm, she tore herself away and, bending low, leaped full into the teeth of the gale.

A royal battle ensued. The wind, seeming to redouble its fury at sight of a fresh victim, roared at her, tore at her, then turning and twisting, appeared to shake her as some low born parent shakes his child. Snow cut her face. The blue cape, wrapping about her more than once, tripped her for a near fall.

“But it’s warm! Oh, so warm!” she breathed. Then, even in the midst of all this, she asked herself the meaning of all this strange mystery of the night, and, of a sudden, the sight of Laurie stepping into that tortuous chute flashed back upon the screen of her memory.

Stopping stock still to grasp a post of the elevated’s steel frame, she steadied herself and tried to think. Should she turn back? Should she make one more attempt to rescue Laurie from whatever plight he may have gotten himself into?

For a moment, swaying like a dead leaf on a tree, she clung there.

“No! No!” she said at last, “I wouldn’t go back there to-night! Not for worlds!” She made one desperate leap across the street and was the next moment beating her way up the steel stairway to the elevated.

Once aboard the well heated train, with the fur lined cape adding its cozy warmth to her chilled and weary body, she relaxed for the first time to think in a quiet way of the night’s affair.

A careful review of events convinced her that she had behaved in quite a wild and insane manner at times, but that on the whole the outcome was quite satisfactory. Certainly she could not have been expected to return home without a wrap on a night such as this. Surely she had had nothing whatever to do with Laurie’s giving away his pass-out, nor of his flinging himself so recklessly down the parcel chute. He was almost a stranger to her. Why, then, should she concern herself with the outcome of an affair which he had clearly entered into of his own free will?

On this last point she could not feel quite comfortable, but since the elevated train was hurling her homeward and since she could not, had she used her utmost will-power, have driven herself back into that great darkened store, and since there was no likelihood of her being admitted without a pass, she concluded that she must still be moving in the path of destiny.

In strange contrast to the wild whirling storm outside, she found her room a cozy nook of comfort. After throwing off her street clothes and going through a series of wild gymnastics that came very near to flying, she drew on her dream robe, threw a dressing gown across her shoulders then sank into a great overstuffed chair. There, curled up like a squirrel in a nest of leaves, she gave herself over to cozy comfort and to thoughts.

She had arrived at a very comforting one—which was that since she had worked until ten this night she need not report for duty until twelve the next day—when a spot of color caught her eye. A tiny flash of crimson shone out from a background of midnight blue. The midnight blue was the rare cape which she had hung against the wall.

“Wonder what that touch of scarlet means?” she whispered drowsily. Immediately she thought of Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter.” She shuddered at the thought. She had dreamed bad dreams for weeks after reading that book.

Gathering up her robe, she sprang lightly from the chair to put out a hand and take up the folds of the cape.

“A thread,” she mused, “a crimson thread!”

That the thread had not been accidentally caught up by the garment she saw at once. With a needle it had been passed twice through the cloth, then tied in a loose knot. It was at the place on the cape that rested over one’s heart.

“Now why would one wear such a curious ornament?” she asked herself while a puzzled look came on her face.

“The Scarlet Letter, a crimson thread across one’s heart. How similar! How very strange!” she mused. Again she shuddered. Was this some ominous omen?

With deft fingers she untied the knot, and drawing the thread free, carried it to her great chair where, intent upon examining the thread in detail, she again curled herself into a position of perfect comfort.

“Huh!” she exclaimed after a time. “Strange sort of thread! Looks like ordinary silk thread at first. About size 40 I’d say, but if you examine it closely you discover a strand of purple running through it, a very fine strand, but unmistakable, running from end to end. How very, very unusual.”

“Anyway,” she said slowly after another moment’s thought, “the whole affair is dark, hidden, mysterious. And,” she exclaimed, suddenly leaping from her chair and clasping her hands in ecstasy, “how I do adore a mystery. I’ll solve it, too! See if I don’t! And I must! I must! This cape is not mine. I cannot keep it. It is my duty to see that it is returned to the owner, whoever she is and whatever her motive for entering our store at that unearthly hour and for leaving her wrap instead of mine.”

Drawing a needle from the cushion on her chifforobe, she threaded it with the crimson bit with its purple strand, then, after selecting the spot from which it had been taken, she drew it through the wonderful cloth twice and knotted it as it had been before.

“There,” she breathed, “that’s done. Now for bed.”

Two thoughts passed across her dreamy mind before she fell asleep: “I may sleep until ten. How perfectly gorgeous! The first person I shall look for when I enter the store will be Laurie Seymour. I wonder if I shall see him? How exciting. I wonder—”

In the midst of this last wonder she fell asleep.

CHAPTER III
A NEW MYSTERY

It was a very satisfactory reflection that Lucile’s mirror returned to her next morning at ten. After fifteen minutes of such gymnastics as even a girl can perform in her own room with the shades down, followed by five minutes of a cold shower, she stood there pink and glowing as a child. The glow of health and joy remained on her cheeks even after her drab working dress had been drawn on. It was heightened by the half hiding of them in that matchless white fox collar. Almost instantly, however, a look of perplexity overspread her face as her eyes caught the reflection of a tiny spot of crimson against the darker color of the gorgeous cape which had so mysteriously come into her possession.

“The crimson thread,” she whispered. “I do wonder what it could mean.”

The elevated train whirled her swiftly to her place of toil.

To her vast relief, the first familiar figure to catch her eyes as she passed between the tables of books in her own corner at the store was that of Laurie Seymour.

Could it be that as he smiled and nodded to her she caught in his eye a look of witching mockery? One thing she did see plainly enough—there were slight bruises and two freshly plastered cuts on his right hand.

“Got them when he went down the chute,” she told herself.

As she paused before him she threw back the broad front of the mysterious cape and said:

“You should know something about this, I am sure.”

“Beg pardon?” He started and Lucile thought she saw a sudden flush on his cheek.

“You should know something about this,” she repeated.

“Why, no, begging your pardon again,” he answered easily. “Having had no sisters and having never ventured into matrimony, I know almost nothing about women’s garments. I should say, though, that it was a fine cape, a corking fine one. You should be proud of it, really you should.”

This was all said in such a serious tone, and yet with such a concealed touch of mockery in it, that Lucile abruptly turned away. Plainly there was nothing to be learned from him concerning the mystery, at least not at the present moment.

As she turned, her eyes chanced to fall upon a stack of books that stood by the end of the table.

“Well, well!” she exclaimed. “There were two hundred books in that stack last night! Now they are at least a third gone!”

“Yes,” Laurie smiled, and in his smile there was a look of personal interest. “Yes, they are going very well indeed. We shall need to be ordering more soon. You see, it’s the critics. They say it is a good book, an especially good book for young folks. I can’t say as to that. It sells, I can assure you of that, and is going to sell more and more.”

As Lucile made her way to the cloak room, she was reminded of a rumor that had passed through the department on the previous day. The rumor had it that Jefrey Farnsworth, the author of this remarkable book “Blue Flames,” (of which she and Laurie had just been speaking, and which was proving to be a best seller in its line and threatening to outsell the latest popular novel) had disappeared shortly after the publication of his book.

The rumor went on further to dilate upon the subject to the extent that this promising young man (for he was a young man—no rumor about that) had received a letter the very day he had vanished. There was no mystery about the letter. Having been found on his table, it had proven to be but a letter from his publishers saying that his book would undoubtedly be a great success and that, should he be willing to arrange a lecture to be given before women’s clubs regarding his work and his books, they had no doubt but that he would greatly profit by it and that in the end his sales would be doubled. Women’s clubs all over the land would welcome him with open hands and sizable checks. The letter had said all this and some few other things. And upon that day, perhaps the most eventful day of his life, Farnsworth had vanished as completely as he might had he grown wings and flown to the moon.

“Only a rumor,” Lucile said to herself, “but if it’s true, it’s mystery number two.”

Instantly there flashed through her mind the puzzling look of unusual interest that she had noticed on Laurie’s face as he spoke of the huge sales of the book.

With this recollection came a strong suggestion which she instantly put from her mind.

After hanging the mysterious cape in a secluded corner, she hunted out her sales-book and plunged into her work. Even a sales-book of soiled red leather may be entrusted with a mystery. This she was to learn soon enough.

Such an afternoon as it proved to be! She had need enough for that robust strength of hers. Saturday afternoon it was—two weeks before Christmas. As the clock struck the noon hour the great office buildings poured forth people like a molten stream. Bosses, bookkeepers, stenographers, sales-managers, office boys, every type of man, woman and overgrown child flooded the great stores. Mingling with these were the thousands upon thousands of school children, teachers, and parents, all free for an afternoon of pleasure.

A doubtful sort of pleasure, this. Jostling elbow to elbow, trampling and being trampled upon, snatching here, snatching there, taking up goods and tossing them down in the wrong place, they fought their way about. The toy department, candy department, children’s book department—these were the spots where the great waves of humanity broke most fiercely. Crowded between a fat woman with a muff and a slim man with a grouch, Lucile wrote a sale for a tired looking little lady with two small children. In the meantime an important appearing woman in tight fitting kid gloves was insisting that Lucile had promised to “wait upon” her next. As a matter of fact Lucile had not seen her until that very moment, and had actually promised to sell a large book to a small person who was in a hurry to catch a train.

“Catch a train!” Lucile exclaimed to the checking girl. “There must be a train leaving every two minutes. They’re all catching trains.”

So, crowded, pushed and jostled about, answering a hundred reasonable questions and two hundred unreasonable ones every hour; smiling when a smile would come, wondering in a vague sort of way what it was all about, catching the chance remark of a customer about “Christmas spirit,” Lucile fought her way through the long day.

Then at last, a half hour before closing time, there came the lull. Blessed lull! Almost as abruptly as it had come, the flood ebbed away. Here and there a little group of people moved slowly away; and here someone argued over a long forgotten book or hurried in to snatch up a book and demand instant attention. But in the main the flood-tide had spent itself.

Creeping back into a dark corner and seating herself upon the floor, Lucile added up her sales and then returned to assist in straightening up the tables which had taken on the appearance of a chip yard.

“People have a wonderful respect for books,” she murmured to Laurie.

“Yes, a lot of respect for the one they buy,” smiled Laurie. “They’ll wreck a half dozen of them to find a spotless copy for their own purchasing.”

“Yes, they do that, but just think what a shock to dear Rollo or Algernon if he should receive a book with a slightly torn jacket-cover for a Christmas present!”

“That would be a shock to his nervous system,” laughed Laurie.

For a time they worked on in silence. Lucile put all the Century classics in order and filled the gaps left by the frenzied purchasers. Laurie, working by her side, held up a book.

“There,” he said, “is a title for you.”

She read the title: “The Hope for Happiness.”

“Why should one hope for it when they may really have it?” Laurie exclaimed.

“May one have happiness?” Lucile asked.

“Surely one may! Why if one—”

Lucile turned to find a customer at her elbow.

“Will you sell me this?”

The customer, a lady, thrust a copy of Pinocchio into her hand.

“Cash?”

“Yes. I’ll take it with me, please.”

There was a sweet mellowness in the voice.

Without glancing up, Lucile set her nimble fingers to writing the sale. As she wrote, almost automatically, she chanced to glance at the customer’s hands.

One’s hands may be as distinctive and tell as much of character as one’s face. It was so with these hands. Lucile had never seen such fingers. Long, slim, tapering, yet hard and muscular, they were such fingers as might belong to a musician or a pickpocket. Lucile felt she would always remember those hands as easily as she might recall the face of some other person. As if to make doubly sure that she might not forget, on the forefinger of the right hand was a ring of cunning and marvelous design; a dragon wrought in gold, with eyes of diamonds and a tongue of ten tiny rubies. No American craftsmanship, this, but Oriental, Indian or Japanese.

Without lifting her eyes, Lucile received the money, carried her book to the wrapper and delivered the package to the purchaser. Then she returned to her task of putting things to rights.

Scarcely a moment had elapsed when, on glancing toward her cash book which lay open on a pile of books, she started in surprise.

There could be no mistaking it. From it there came a flash of crimson. Imagine her surprise when she found that the top page of her book had been twice pierced by a needle and that a crimson thread had been drawn through and knotted there in exactly the same manner as had that other bit of thread on the blue cape.

It required but a glance to assure her that through this thread there ran the single strand of purple. The next instant she was dashing down the aisle, hoping against hope that she might catch a glimpse of the mystery woman with the extraordinary fingers and the strange ring.

In this she failed. The woman had vanished.

“And to think,” she exclaimed in exasperation, “to think that I did not look at her face! Such a foolish way as we do get into—paying no attention to our customers! If I had but looked at her face I would have known. Then I would have demanded the truth. I would have—” she paused to reflect, “well, perhaps I shouldn’t have said so much to her, but I would have known her better. And now she is gone!”

But there was yet work to be done. Drawing herself together with an effort, she hurried back to her table where the disorderly pile of books lay waiting to be rearranged.

“Speaking of happiness,” said Laurie, for all the world as if their conversation had not been interrupted, “I don’t see much use of writing a book on the hope for happiness when one may be happy right here and now. Oh, I know there are those who sing:

“‘This world’s a wilderness of woe.

This world is not my home.’

“But that’s religion, of a sort; mighty poor sort, too, I’d say. Idea being that this world’s all wrong and that if you enjoy any of it, if the scent of spring blossoms, the songs of birds, the laugh of children at play, the lazy drift of fleecy clouds against the azure sky, if these things make you happy, then you’re all wrong. I guess they’d say: ‘Life here is to be endured. Happiness only comes after death.’ Huh! I don’t think much of that.”

“How can one secure happiness?” Lucile asked the question almost wistfully. She was over-tired and not a little perplexed.

“There’s a lot of things that go with making people happy,” said Laurie as his nimble fingers flew from book to book. “I’m quite sure that happiness does not come from long hours in a ball-room nor from smoking cigarettes, nor any one of the many things that put dark rings about the eyes of our young new rich or near rich, and that set their eyelids twitching.

“Happiness,” he mused, throwing back his head and laughing softly. “Why, it’s as easy to be happy as it is to tell the truth. Have friends and be true to them. Find a place you love to be and be there. Keep your body and mind fit. Sleep eight hours; eat slowly; take two hours for quiet thinking every day. Have a crowd you love, a crowd you feel that you belong to and fit in with. Of course they’ll not be perfect. None of us are. But loveable they are, all the same.

“For instance, take the crowd here,” he said, lowering his voice. “You and I are transients here. Christmas eve comes and out we go. But look at Donnie and Rennie, Bob, Bettie, and dear old Morrison over there in the corner. They’re the regular ones, been here for years, all of them.

“See here,” he continued earnestly, “I’ll bet that when you came in here you had the popular magazine notion of the people who work in department stores; slang of the worst kind, paint an inch thick, lip stick, sordid jealousy, envy, no love, no fellowship. But look! What would happen if Rennie, the dear mother and straw-boss of us all, should slip before a car and be seriously injured to-night? What would happen? Not a soul of us all, even us transients, but would dig down and give our last penny to buy the things that would help her bear it. That’s what I mean, a gang that you belong to, that you suffer with, endure things with and enjoy life with! That’s the big secret of happiness.”

As Lucile listened to this short lecture on happiness, she worked. At last her task was done. Then with a hurried: “Thanks awfully. Goodnight,” she rushed for the cloak-room preparatory to donning the fur-lined cape. She half expected to find it gone, but it was not, and after throwing it across her shoulders she dashed down the stairs to join the homeward rushing throng.

As she snuggled down beneath the covers that night, she found her mind dwelling with unusually intense interest upon the events of the past two days. Like pictures on a screen, strange, unanswerable questions passed through her mind. Who was the mystery woman of the night shadows in the book department? Why had Laurie given her his pass-out? Why had she left her gorgeously beautiful cape behind for a shop girl to wear home? How had the unusual crimson thread come to be drawn into the cloth of the cape? Had the mystery woman put it there? Had she drawn that thread through the page of Lucile’s cash book? It seemed that she must have. But why? Why? Why? This last word kept ringing in her ears. Why had Laurie given up his pass-out? Where had he slept that night? How did it happen that an elevator in a department store at night ran of its own accord with no one to work the lever? Surely here were problems enough to keep one small brain busy.

Then again, there was the problem of the missing author of that wonderfully successful book. What did Laurie know about that? Why had he talked so strangely about it?

When she had allowed all these problems to pass in review before her mind’s eye, she came to but one conclusion—that she would believe Laurie a sincere and trustworthy person until he had been proven otherwise. Her faith had been shaken a bit by the revelation of the night before.

“Life,” she whispered sleepily to herself, “is certainly strange. Surely one who can talk so wonderfully about happiness can’t be bad. And yet it’s all very mysterious.”

Right there she concluded that mysteries of the right sort added much to the happiness of us all, and with that she fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV
THE PICTURE GIRL

Little dreaming of the stirring events that awaited her, and without the slightest anticipation of the new mystery and unusual responsibilities that were crowding in upon her that day, Lucile took her Monday morning train with the quiet composure of one who, having enjoyed a perfect Sunday of rest, looks forward with enthusiasm to a day of interesting service.

The supreme moment of that day arrived in a rather unusual place at a time when the clock’s hands were nearing the hour of 1:00. Before that, however, there came hours of the usual toil which many would call drudgery. From eight-thirty until ten there were few customers. Every moment was taken up. Two truckloads of books had come down from the apparently inexhaustable storerooms above. These must be placed on the tables. Tables must be dusted; cash-books filled with blanks for the day; books out of place must be returned to the proper section.

As Lucile came and went in the performance of her allotted tasks, she was more and more impressed with what Laurie had said about this group of loyal friends, this company of sales-people who were so much like a very large family.

“They are all my friends, almost my kinsfolk,” she told herself with a little gulp of joy that was very near to tears.

And so they were. Even outside her little corner they greeted her with a comradely smile. There was the pleasing lady who sold new fiction, and the tumbled haired lady who sold travel books and had sold books in stores from coast to coast. In the first alcove was the worried lady who handled standard sets; in the second was the dignified one who murmured in low, church-like tones of prayer books and rosaries; while in the farthest, deepest alcove of all was dear old Morrison, the young-old man with premature gray hair and a stoop. But his lustrous eyes were lighted with an earnestness such as one seldom looks into, and he had an air of poise and refinement and a smile of perfect fellowship. He sold fine bindings, and knew them well. Besides that, he could tell you the name and publishers of every book for serious minded people published since the days of Ben Franklin.

Working among such people as these, and in spite of all her strenuous hours of labor, Lucile dreaded the coming of Christmas Eve when she must bid them all farewell and return to her studies. Never before had she been so tempted to relinquish her cherished hope of university training and to settle down to work among a host of interesting and loyal friends.

So the forenoon wore away, and with the passing of each hour the great and startling event of that day came sixty minutes nearer.

The noon hour at last arrived. Having hastily eaten her paper-bag lunch, Lucile hurried from the store. There was yet three-quarters of an hour to spend. She would spend the time sauntering through a place of great enchantment, the Art Museum.

Five minutes of battling with wind and intense cold, and she was there. Racing up the stone steps, she paused an instant for breath. Then she entered and hurried up the broad marble stairway. At last she came to a place where a great circular leather cushioned seat in the center of a room offered opportunity for perfect repose. There she sank down, to hide her eyes with her hands until the frost and the glare of snow had left them, then to open them slowly and to squint away contentedly toward the wall which lay before her.

Before her, and a little to the left, was a painting from Ireland, the work of a great master. It was a simple thing in a way, a boy clad in humble garb shoveling snow, and a girl with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, coming down the well cleaned path. Very simple people these, but happy and kind. There were sparrows perched along the path. A very humble theme, but such masses of wonderful color! Had she not seen it, Lucile would not have believed that artists could have achieved such perfection.

To the left was an equally lovely picture; dawn on the heather, the sun rising from the dripping dewy green and a girl reaper going to her toil with the song of a lark on her lips and joy in her eye.

These were the pictures that brought rest and joy to Lucile’s half hour of leisure and helped prepare her for events that cast no shadow before them.

She had descended the marble stairs and was about to leave the building when a picture arrested her attention; a living picture of a girl. And such a girl as she was! A supple grace to her waist and shoulders, a proper curve at the ankles, and a face—such a face! Cheeks aglow with the color the frosty out-of-doors had given them. Cheeks offset by dark, deep-set eyes, made darker still by eyelashes that were like hemlocks in a snow covered valley, and a smooth oval forehead backed by a wealth of short, wavy hair. This was the picture; only faintly sketched, for behind all this beauty there was a certain strength of character, a force of will that seemed a slumbering fire gleaming from her eyes. In the background were people and marble pillars. The girl had just entered the Museum and, uncertain of her way, stood irresolute.

“She’s from the country,” Lucile whispered to herself. “Her clothes show that. But how startling, how unusual, how—how striking she is!

“She’s like the pictures I’ve been seeing, they were unusual and priceless. She is the same. And yet,” a feeling of fear and sadness swept over her, “those priceless pictures are carefully guarded night and day. I wonder if she is? She seems alone. It’s not to be wondered at, their guarding those pictures. Who would not like one for his room? Who would not love to open his eyes each morning upon the girl in the ‘Song of the Lark’? But they’d wish to possess that girl, too. A father, a mother, sister, brother, would be proud to possess her, to look at her every morning, a—anyone would. And yet, she’s not—”

Her meditations were cut short by sight of a figure standing not ten feet from her; a tall, slim, young man whose features might have been carved from marble, and in whose eyes Lucile had surprised a steely glance such as she had once caught in the beady eye of a down-swooping hawk.

And then, as if enacting her part in a play, the girl of this living picture suddenly wavered where she stood. Her face went white, then with a little, wavering cry, she crumpled in a heap on the marble floor.

Lucile could have sworn the girl was alone and uncertain of her next move. She understood what had happened. Having traveled far in the intense cold, the girl had been overcome by the heavy warmth of the museum and had fainted. The thing that happened next puzzled Lucile beyond belief.

After ten seconds of motionless panic, a half score of people sprang to her assistance. But the young man, he of the marble features and steely eye, was first up.

“It’s all right,” he was saying in a quiet, even tone, “she’s my sister. I’ll take care of her. We have a car outside.”

Lifting the unconscious girl in his arms, he started for the door.

“It’s not all right! It’s not all right!” Lucile fairly shrieked the words.

To her vast astonishment, the next moment she was gripping a burly guard by the arm and saying in a voice hoarse with emotion:

“It’s not all right! He’s not her brother. He—he’s stealing her! Stop them!”

To her further astonishment, the guard believed her. With three strides he reached the door and blocked it.

“Here! Here!” he said in the tone of one who is accustomed to be obeyed. “It won’t do. You can’t take her out like that.”

“Oh, all right,” there was a note of forced indifference in the young man’s voice, but there was murder in his cold, hard eyes. “All right, if you know so much. Fetch some water and get her out of it. She’ll tell you I’m her brother. But be quick about it. You’re a beef-head for ordering a gentleman about.”

Lucile’s heart went to the bottom of her shoes. What was this? Had her emotions led her astray? Was he indeed the girl’s brother? It would seem so, else why would he consent so readily to the delay, which must mean proof one way or another? She was soon to see. Tremblingly, she awaited the outcome. Dropping upon the marble floor, she pillowed the girl’s head in her lap and brushing away the hair from the face, caressed the cold forehead with a soft hand.

When the water had been brought Lucile dampened her handkerchief and laid it icy cold on the other’s forehead. Almost instantly the eyes opened and the girl, having dragged herself to a sitting position, stared about the museum.

“Wha—where am I?” she asked. “What has happened?”

“You’re in the Art Museum. You fainted.”

“Faint—fainted!” There was terror in her eyes.

“It was the cold. It’s nothing, really nothing.” Lucile put a steadying arm about her. “You’ll be quite all right in a moment.”

“Now where is that brother of hers?” grumbled the guard. “He’s nowhere to be seen! He’s gone!”

“Gone?” echoed Lucile.

“Brother?” said the girl in astonishment. “I have no brother. I am alone.”

Such a wave of feeling swept over Lucile as made her sick and faint. She had been right, dreadfully right. She had saved this girl, this wonderful creature, from—she dared not think from what.

For a moment, rocked by her emotions, she sat there in silence. At last, with a supreme effort, she dragged herself to her feet.

“You look the worst of the two,” said the guard, giving her a keen glance.

“I’m all right,” she protested stoutly.

To the girl, whom she had assisted to her feet, she said, “You may come with me if you wish. Our store’s only two blocks away. There’s a rest room. You’ll be all right there until you sort of get your bearings. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I’d—I’d be glad to,” said the other, clinging to her impulsively.

So they left the museum together. Though she kept a sharp watch to right and left, Lucile caught no sign of the volunteer brother, but she shivered once or twice at the very thought of him.

* * * * * * * *

It was a very much perplexed Lucile who curled up in her big chair that night for a few moments of quiet thought before retiring.

A new mystery had been added to her already well filled list of strange doings. “First,” she said to herself, telling them off like beads on a rosary, “there comes the beautiful mystery woman and the cape she left behind; then Laurie Seymour and the vanishing author; then the crimson thread; and now this girl.”

As she whispered this last she nodded toward the bed. There, lying wrapped in slumber, was the beautiful girl she had saved in the museum.

“She’s even more beautiful in sleep than when awake,” Lucile murmured. “And such a strange creature! She hasn’t told me a thing.”

The last statement was entirely true. Any notion Lucile had of the girl, any guess at her hidden secrets, was based on observation and conjecture alone. Not one word regarding them had escaped the strange girl’s lips.

Having accompanied Lucile to the store, she had lain upon a couch in the “quiet room” for three hours. Whenever Lucile had stolen a moment from work to look in upon her, the girl had appeared to be day-dreaming. Far from being worried about events of the past or the immediate future, she had appeared to be enjoying the recalling of an interesting adventure or anticipating one.

At five she had risen from the cot and, having brushed her hair and arranged her clothing, had insisted upon helping her new-found friend to put her tables to rights. She had accepted Lucile’s invitation to pass the night with her with the nonchalance of one who is offered this courtesy from a long-time friend.

Innocent of one scrap of baggage, in the same manner she had accepted Lucile’s offer of a dream robe.

In only one respect had she showed her independence. Having produced a dollar bill from somewhere on her person, she had insisted on paying for her own frugal lunch.

“Her clothes are the strangest of all,” Lucile whispered to herself. “When a girl comes upon a run of hard luck, she’s likely to try to keep up an appearance even though she is shabby underneath. But look at her; a countrified suit of shiny blue serge, two years behind the times, and her undergarments are new and of the finest silk, up to the minute, too. How is one to explain that?”

She was not disturbed in the least about the girl’s morals. She was as sweet and clean as a fresh blooming rose. Lucile would have sworn to that. With the lights turned out, and with the tingling winter air entering the open window, before retiring the girl had joined Lucile in the nightly “setting up” exercises and had appeared to enjoy them, too.

The strange girl’s skin was like the finest satin. Her lines were perfect, her muscles superb. Through lack of knowledge of the exercises, she often blundered. But she could whirl more quickly, leap higher and swing about more gracefully than Lucile, who had never failed to throw her whole heart into her gym work.

“All that,” Lucile murmured as she drew off her bathrobe preparatory to slipping beneath the covers, “all that, and she has not told me one word about herself. For a country girl she certainly has her full supply of reserve. To-morrow I am to try to get work for her as a wrapper. No doubt I can do it. And then?”

She thought about the future for a moment. She was alone this year. If you have read our book, “The Cruise of the O’Moo,” you will remember that while living in the yacht in dry dock she had two companions—Florence and Marion. Florence had gone home. Marion was in Alaska. Now Lucile was alone. She would welcome a friend and, unless she had misread her character, this girl had the qualities of a steadfast and loyal pal.

“But her past?” Lucile whispered as she placed her slippers beneath the bed and drew back the covers. “Ah well, we shall see.”

Once during the night she was wakened by the girl, who was evidently talking in her sleep.

“Don’t let them. Don’t! Don’t!” she all but screamed as she threw out her arms for protection from some dream foe.

Putting her arms about her, Lucile held her tight until the dream had passed and she fell back once more into peaceful slumber.

CHAPTER V
“COME AND FIND ME”

“I’ll pull some wires.” The kindly face of Morrison, the man of fine bindings, gleamed as he said these words to Lucile next morning. “That’s the way things are done these days. I haven’t much notion how they were done in the past. But now, if I want anything, I pull some wires. For instance, your young friend whom you found in the Art Museum and whose name is Cordelia but whom you choose to call Cordie for short, wants work in this store. You ask me to pull wires and I pull ’em. I pull one and Miss So and So comes bowing out of her box of an office and I whisper what I want. ‘I’ll pull some wires,’ says she, putting on her best smile. ‘I’ll put in a wedge, a very thin wedge.’

“She puts in her thin wedge. She pulls some wires and Mr. So and So up on the eleventh floor bobs bowing out of his box and inclines his ear to listen.

“‘Ah! Yes, I see, I see,’ he murmurs. ‘I shall pull some wires.’

“He pulls some wires. A slip of paper appears. It is signed. It is given to your friend. She goes here, she bobs there, and presently here she is. She has accepted ‘the iron ring,’ wrapping packages with very gay company all about her, having a good time and getting pay for it. But let me assure you it could not be done without wires pulled and thin wedges inserted. No, it could not be done. Nothing these days is done without wires and wedges. Wires and wedges, wedges and wires, my dear.”

With this very lucid explanation of the way the world is run these days, the benevolent Morrison bowed himself away.

True to his prediction, two hours later the mysteriously silent Cordelia was installed in an obscure corner of the book section, working at the wrapping counter. She had accepted “the iron ring,” said ring being an affair of solid iron into which, in a semi-circular bump on its edge, had been set a sharp bit of steel. The theory is that the steel edge cuts the stout cord with which the bundles are tied. Truth was that more often the sharp edge cut the girls’ fingers than did the steel the string. So, in time having learned wisdom, Cordie discarded this doubtful bit of jewelry and used a knife. However, she worked on steadily and quite skillfully. Before night it had become evident to all that the girl was proving a credit to her young protector, and that, take it all in all, wires had not been pulled nor wedges inserted in vain.

Two matters of interest came to Lucile’s attention that day. A rumor was confirmed and a discovery made that in the end was to take someone somewhere.

First in regard to the discovery. Someone had left a morning paper on Lucile’s table of books. She snatched it up and was about to consign it to the waste box when a headline caught her eye:

“COME AND FIND ME”

Beneath this was a second headline:

“Two Hundred Dollars for a Handshake.”

There was not time to read what followed. Hastily tearing the corner from the page, she thrust this scrap into her pocket to be read later.

“The rumor’s confirmed,” said Laurie a moment later as he thrust a clipping from a publisher’s weekly in her hand.

There were but a few lines. Lucile read them in a moment. It had to do with the disappearance of the promising young writer, Jefrey Farnsworth, author of “Blue Flames.”

“There can be no doubt,” the article went on to say, “that the young man has utterly disappeared. Being a single man with few intimates, and a man who lived a rather secluded life, he has either slipped away without being noticed or has met with some grave mishap. His publishers are greatly disturbed over his disappearance. Without doubting his willingness to assist in the task of being made famous, they had booked him for talks before no less than twenty women’s clubs.

“As the popularity of his book, ‘Blue Flames,’ had grown by leaps and bounds, every woman in the country was ready to be told by him just what her son or daughter should or should not read. There was not the least doubt but that here was the first genuine best seller in the line since the first days of Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn. Yes, the world was ready to hear him speak. But Farnsworth was not ready—at least he has vanished.”

“Twenty women’s clubs,” exclaimed Laurie, doing a feint in pantomime. “Think of speaking to twenty women’s clubs! Thousands and thousands of kid-gloved, well fed, contented women! Oh! Wow! Twenty clubs, then twenty more and twenty after that! To drink tea with ’em and to have them grip your hand and tell you how they enjoyed the rot you fed to them! Oh! Ow! Ow!”

“Women’s clubs are all right,” protested Lucile, her face lighting with anger. “Their work is constructive. They do a great deal of good.”

“Beg a thousand pardons,” said Laurie, coloring in his turn. “I didn’t mean to say they weren’t. They’re all right, and the ladies too, Lord bless ’em. But how does that go to prove that a poor, innocent young writer, who happens to have struck gold with his pen but who never made a speech in his life, should be chained to a platform and made to do tricks like a trained bear before thousands of women? Women’s clubs are all right, but they couldn’t club me to death with their clubs.” He threw back his shoulders to join Lucile in a laugh over his rather bad pun, and there, for the time being the matter ended.

Lucile was destined to recall the whole affair from time to time. Hours later, she had an opportunity to study his face unobserved. She noted his high forehead, his even and rugged features, his expressive hands, and when she saw him selling away on that stock of “Blue Flames” as if his life depended upon it, she was led to wonder a great wonder. However, she kept this wonder to herself.

The noon hour had come before Lucile found time to again look at the scrap of printing she had torn from the discarded newspaper. In the employees’ lunch room, over a glass of milk and a sandwich, and with the wonderful Cordie sitting opposite, she read the thing through.

“Come and find me. I am the Spirit of Christmas,” it ran. “I offer gold, two hundred in gold, for a shake of the hand, yet no one is so kind as to give me the clasp of cheer. I am the Spirit of Christmas. I am tall and slim, and of course I am a woman—a young woman whom some have been so kind as to call fair. To-day I dress in the garb of a working woman. Yesterday it was the coat of a sales-girl. At another time it was in more gorgeous apparel. But always my face and my hands are the same. Ah yes, my hands! There is as much to be learned from the hands as from the face. Character and many secrets are written there.

“Yesterday I walked the Boulevard, as I promised I should, yet not one of the rushing thousands paused to shake my hand and say: ‘You are the Spirit of Christmas.’ Had one done so, tho’ he had been but a beggar in rags, the two hundred of gold would have clinked into his pocket. Yet not one paused. They all passed on.

“I entered a little shop to purchase a tiny bit of candy. The saleslady, a little black-eyed creature, scowled at me and refused to sell so little, even though I looked to be a shop-girl. She did not shake my hand, and I was glad, for had she done so and had she said: ‘You are the Spirit of Christmas,’ the gold would have clinked for her. I left my mark, which is my sign, and passed on.

“Later I entered a busy shop, a great shop where tired girls rushed here and there constantly. I troubled a dear little girl who had a wan smile and tender eyes, to show me many things. I bought nothing in the end, but she was kind and courteous for all that. I wished—Oh, how I wished that she would grasp my hand and whisper ever so softly: ‘You are the Spirit of Christmas.’ But she said never a word, so the gold did not clink for her. After leaving my mark, which is also my sign, I passed on.