The Crimson Thread Part 18

"Time for another," she whispered.

This time it was the Lady of the Christmas Spirit. She saw her among the throngs at the store. Feeling sure that this must be the very person, that she might steal a look at her hands, she followed her from department to department. Upstairs and downstairs they went. More than once she caught the lady throwing back a mocking glance at her.

Then, of a sudden, at the ribbon counter she caught sight of her hands.

"Such hands!" she whispered. "There never were others like them. It is the Lady of the Christmas Spirit."

Putting out her own hand, she grasped one of the marvelous ones as she whispered: "You are the Lady of the Christmas Spirit."

At once there came a mighty jingle of gold. A perfect shower of gold went sparkling and tinkling to the floor.

"Oh! Oh!--Oh! It will all be lost!" she cried, leaping forward.

She leaped almost into the delicatessen keeper's arms. To her surprise she saw that the store was empty. Her day-dream had ended in a real dream; she had fallen asleep.

Hastily collecting her scattered senses, she selected a steaming pot of beans and a generous cylinder of brown bread, then drawing her scarf about her, dashed out into the night.

CHAPTER XIV THE NEWSPAPER PICTURE

Lucile may have been dreaming, but Cordie was wide awake and thinking hard. The instant Lucile had closed the door behind her she had spread one of the papers she had bought out before her and, having opened it at page 3, sat down to look at a picture reproduced there.

For a full two minutes she sat staring at it.

"Well anyway, it's not such a bad picture," she chuckled at last.

After the chuckle her face took on a sober look.

Then suddenly she exclaimed: "Let's see what they say about it!"

"Well of all things! Nothing but a line of question marks! Well, at least the reporters know nothing about it."

For a moment she stared at the long line of interrogation points, then her face dimpled with a smile.

"Just think," she murmured. "They never whispered one word! Not one of them all! Not Patrick O'Hara, nor the old one they called Tim, nor the young one, nor even Hogan, who was so angry at me. And I'll bet the reporters begged and tempted them in every way they could think of. What wonderful good sports policemen must be. I--I'd like to hug every one of them!"

Then she went skipping across the floor and back again, then paused and stared again at the picture.

Truth was, all unknown to her, and certainly very much against her wishes, Cordie's picture had gotten into the paper. This was the picture she was still staring at: Crowds thronging State Street, a gray-haired mounted policeman, and by his side, also riding a police horse, a bobbed haired young girl in a policeman's great coat.

"What if they see it!" she murmured.

"They wouldn't let me stay. They will see it too--of course they will."

"But then, what does it matter?" she exclaimed a moment later.

"To-morrow's the day before Christmas. What will I care after that?"

Hearing steps on the stairs, she hastily tore a page out of each of the two papers, folded them carefully and thrust them into a drawer. Then she threw the remaining part of the paper into the waste basket.

"To-morrow is the day before Christmas," whispered Lucile as two hours later she sat staring rather moodily at the figures in the worn carpet.

"A great Christmas, I suppose, for some people. Doesn't look like it would be much for me. With term bills and room rent staring me in the face, and only a few dollars for paying them, it certainly doesn't look good. And here I am with this little pet of mine sleeping on me and eating on me, and apparently no honest way of getting rid of her." She shook her finger at the bed where Cordie was sleeping.

"If only you were an angora cat," she chided, still looking at the dreaming girl, "I might sell you. Even a canary would be better--he'd make no extra room rent and he'd eat very little."

"And yet," she mused, "am I sorry? I should say I'm not! It's a long, long life, and somehow we'll struggle through."

"Christmas," she mused again. "It will be a great Christmas for some people, be a wonderful one for Jefrey Farnsworth--that is, it will be if he's still alive. I wonder when they'll find him, and where? They say we've sold two thousand of his books this season. Think of it!"

After that she sat wondering in a vague and dreamy way about many things.

Printed pages relating to the Lady of the Christmas Spirit floated before her mind's vision to be followed by a picture of Cordie and the Mystery Lady in the art room of the furnis.h.i.+ngs department. Cordie's iron ring, set with a diamond, glimmered on the strange, long, muscular fingers of a hand. Laurie sold the last copy of "Blue Flames." Jefrey Farnsworth, in the manner she had always pictured him, tall, dark, with deep-set eyes and a stern face wrinkled by much mental labor, stood before an audience of women and made a speech. Yellow gold glittered, then spread out like a molten stream. With a start she shook herself into wakefulness. Once more she had fallen asleep.

"Christmas," she whispered as she crept into bed. "To-morrow is the day before----"

CHAPTER XV "WITH CONTENTS, IF ANY"

In the meantime Florence had come upon an adventure. The place she entered a half hour after quitting time was a great barn-like room where dark shadows lurked in every corner but one. The huge stacks of bags and trunks that loomed up indistinctly in those dark corners made the place seem the baggage room of some terminal railway depot.

As she joined the throng in the one light corner of the room she was treated to another little thrill. Such a motley throng as it was. Jewish second-hand dealers, short ones, tall ones, long-bearded ones; men of all races. And there were two or three women, and not a few vagabonds of the street, who had come in for no other purpose than to get out of the cold.

Such were those who crowded round the high stand where, with gavel in hand, the auctioneer cried the sale:

"How much am I bid? Ten dollars! Thank you. Ten I have. Who'll make it eleven! 'Leven, 'leven, 'leven. Who'll make it twelve?"

There was not an attractive face in the group that surrounded the block.

Florence was tempted to run away; but recalling the surprise she had promised herself, she stayed.

Presently her eyes fell upon a face that attracted her, the kindly, gentle face of a woman in her thirties. She was seated at a desk, writing.

"She's the clerk of the sale," Florence thought. "They're selling trunks now. She may be able to tell me when they will sell bags."

She moved over close to the desk and timidly put her question.

"Do you really want one of those bags?" the woman asked, surprise showing in her tone.

"Yes. Why not?" the girl asked.

"No reason at all, I guess," said the clerk. Then, after looking at Florence for a moment, a comradely smile spread over her face.

"Come up close," she beckoned. "He'll be selling bags in fifteen minutes or so," she whispered. "Sit down here and wait. Why do you want one of those bags so badly?"

"I--I need one," said Florence.