The Crimson Thread Part 20

"Oh, bother the 'and then'! It's the day before Christmas!" She went through another series of wild whirls that landed her beneath the shower.

When at last she was fully dressed for this last day of work in the book department, Lucile drew on the cape. Then, having told Cordie that she would wait for her outside, she went skipping down the stairs.

It was one of those crisp, snappy, frosty mornings of winter that invite you to inhale deeply of its clear, liquid-like air.

After taking three deep breaths Lucile buried her radiant face in the warm depths of the fox skin.

"How gorgeous," she murmured. "Oh, that I might own it forever!"

Even as she said this all the unanswered questions that grouped themselves about the cape--its owner, and the girl's a.s.sociates at the store--came trooping back to puzzle her. Who was the Mystery Lady? Why had she left the cape that night? Why did she not return for it later?

How had it happened that she was in the store that night at two hours before midnight? Who was Laurie Seymour? Why had he given the Mystery Lady his pa.s.s-out? How had he spent that night? What had happened to the vanished author of "Blue Flames"? Who was Cordie? Was she really the poor, innocent little country girl she had thought her? What was to come of her, once the season had closed? Who was the "Spirit of Christmas"?

Had she ever seen her? Who would get the two hundred in gold? What had she meant by the crimson trail she left behind? Who was Sam? Why was Laurie so much afraid to meet him? Above all, what were the secrets of the crimson thread and the diamond set iron ring?

Surely here were problems enough to put wrinkles in any brow. But it was the day before Christmas, so, as Cordie came dancing down to a place beside her, Lucile gripped her arm and led away in a sort of hop-skip-and-jump that brought them up breathless at the station.

There was just time to grab a paper before the train came rattling in.

Having secured a seat, Lucile hid herself behind her paper. A moment later she was glad for the paper's protection. Had it not been for the paper she felt that half the people on the train might have read her thoughts.

The thing she saw in the Spirit of Christmas column, which daily told of the doings of the lady by that name, was such a startling revelation that she barely escaped a shriek as her eyes fell on it.

"You have been wondering," she read in the column devoted to the lady of the "Christmas Spirit," "what I have been meaning by the crimson trail which I have left behind. Perhaps some of you have guessed the secret. If this is true, you have made little use of that knowledge. None of you have found me. Not one of the hundreds of thousands who have pa.s.sed me has paused to grip my hand and to whisper: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.'

"Now I will give you some fresh revelations. It is the day before Christmas. At midnight to-night Christmas comes. As the clock strikes that magic hour my wanderings cease. If no one has claimed my gold by then, no one will.

"I have told you always that hands ofttimes express more than a face.

This is true of my hands. They are strange hands. Stranger still are the rings I wear upon them. For days now I have worn an iron ring set with a diamond. Had someone noticed this, read the secret and whispered: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas,' not only should my gold have clinked for him, but the diamond should have been his as well."

Lucile caught her breath as she read this. Here indeed was revelation.

Could it be--There was more. She read on.

"As for the crimson trail I have left behind. That is very simple. I marvel that people can be so blind. I have left it everywhere. It is unusual, very unusual, yet I have left it everywhere, in hundreds of places, in newsboys' papers, in shopgirls' books, in curtains, shades, and even in people's garments, yet not one has read the sign. The sign is this: a bit of crimson thread drawn twice through and tied. There is a purple strand in the thread. It is unusual, yet no one has understood; no one has said 'You are the Spirit of Christmas'."

"The crimson thread," Lucile breathed. "Why, then--then the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas Lady are one, and I have seen her many times.

I saw her at two hours before midnight. I sold her a book. Twice I saw her talking to Cordie. I followed her upon the street. Had I but known it I might have whispered to her: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' Then the gold would have been mine. Two hundred in gold!" she breathed. "Two hundred in gold! And now it is gone!

"But is it? Is it quite gone yet? There is yet this day, the day before Christmas."

Again her eyes sought the printed page. And this is what she read:

"Today I shall not appear before sunset. Early in the evening, and again between the hours of ten and midnight, I shall be somewhere on the Boulevard. I shall attend the Symphony Concert in Opera Hall."

"The concert," Lucile murmured with great joy. "We, too, are going there to-night. We shall be on the Boulevard. There is yet a chance. And the beauty of it all is I shall know her the instant I see her. Oh! You glorious bag of gold, please, please do wait for me!"

As the car rattled on downtown, her blood cooled and she realized that there was a very slight hope. With these broad hints thrown out to them, all those who had been following the doings of this mysterious lady would be eagerly on the alert. There may have been some, perhaps many, who had found the crimson thread and had marvelled at it. Perhaps, like her, they had seen the Mystery Lady's face and would recognize her if they saw her on the Boulevard. There may have been many who had seen and marvelled at the diamond set iron ring.

"Ah well," Lucile whispered to herself, "there is yet hope. 'Hope springs eternal--'"

At the downtown station she dismissed the subject for matters of more immediate importance, the last great day of sales before Christmas.

Trade until noon was brisk; mostly business men rus.h.i.+ng in for "cash and carry." At noon she arranged to have lunch with her old chum, the elevator girl and, because it was the day before Christmas, instead of the crowded employees' lunch room, they chose as their meeting place the tea room which was patronized for the most part by customers. Here, in a secluded corner, they might talk over old times and relate, with bated breath, the events of the immediate past and the future.

Enough there was to tell, too. Lucile's Mystery Lady, who had turned so suddenly into the one of the Christmas Spirit, her Laurie Seymour, her hoped for $200 in gold, her James, the bundle carrier and last but not least, Cordie. And for Florence there was her mystifying double and the bewitching bag that contained her Christmas surprise. Did ever two girls have more to tell in one short noon hour?

As Florence finished her story; as she spoke of seeing her double talking with the broad shouldered man of the seaman-like bearing, Lucile suddenly leaned forward to exclaim:

"Florence, that man must have been our bundle carrier, James. He has told Cordie of his trips upon the sea. There could scarcely be two such men in one store."

"It might be true," smiled Florence, "but don't forget there are two such persons as I am in this store. You never can tell. I'd as soon believe he was the same man. Wouldn't it be thrilling if he should turn out to be a friend of my double's and we should get all mixed up in some sort of affair just because I look exactly like her. Oh, Lucile!" she whispered excitedly, "the day isn't done yet!" And indeed it was not.

"And this man who followed you after you had bought the bag," said Lucile thoughtfully. "He sounds an awful lot like the one who tried to carry Cordie away. Do you suppose----"

"Now you're dreaming," laughed Florence as she reached for her check, then hurried away to her work.

CHAPTER XVII AN ICY PLUNGE

Florence's opportunity for following her surprising double came sooner than she expected; that very evening, in fact. She had quit work at the regular time, had donned hat and coat, had gone to the checking room to retrieve her Christmas bag. She was just leaving by a side door when, ahead of her in the throng, she caught a glimpse of that splendid cross fox which her double had insisted on her wearing the day before.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Here's where I solve a mystery."

Without a thought of what it might lead to, she followed the girl to a surface car and boarded it just behind her. At Grand Avenue the girl got off and Florence followed her again, boarded an eastbound car and, almost before she knew it, found herself following the girl through a blinding swirl of snow that swept in from the lake.

The street the girl had taken was covered with untrodden snow. It led to the Munic.i.p.al Pier, the great city pier that like some great black pointing finger of destiny reached a full half mile out into the white ice-bound lake.

"Where--where can she be going?" Florence asked herself.

"Boo! How cold!" she s.h.i.+vered.

The next moment she s.h.i.+vered again, but this time it was from fear.

Having chanced to look about, she was startled to see a man all but upon her heels. And that man--no, there could be no mistake about it--that man was the one of the night before, he of the burning black eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, the girl redoubled her speed. A half formed hope was in her mind, a hope that she might catch up with the other girl.

Two were better than one, even if both were girls.

Hardly had this hope come when it vanished. In the shadows of the three-story brick structure that formed the base of the pier, her double suddenly disappeared and left her, a lone girl on a wind-swept, deserted street that led to an empty pier. And here was a dark-faced, villainous looking man at her heels.

She could see but one chance now; that she might find her way out upon the pier and there, amid its labyrinth of board walks, freight rooms and deserted lunch rooms, lose herself from her pursuer. She resolved to try it. The next moment she dashed into the shadows of that great black building.

The pier, upon which she had placed hopes of escape, was used in summer as a recreation center. On warm days its board walks and its wind-swept pavilions were thronged. Now it was still as a tomb.

Florence had once been here with the throng, but had taken little notice of things then. The very silence of the place was confusing. She fancied that she heard her own heart beat. Which way should she turn? Above, two stories up, she remembered was a broad board walk a half mile long. She might race up the stairs to this; but after all it offered no place of hiding. To her right was a hallway which led to a long narrow loading place for trucks. At this place, in summer, s.h.i.+ps docked; here their hundreds of tons of fruit, grain, flour, manufactured articles, and a hundred other commodities, were unloaded. She had a vague notion that just back of this loading place, beyond the fast closed doors, was a labyrinth of freight rooms.

"If only one of those doors were open," she breathed. "Perhaps one is unlocked. It's my best chance."

All this thinking consumed less than a moment of time. The next instant she went racing over the cement floor. She was across it and out upon the landing in a moment. This she knew was a perilous position. There was a night watchman about somewhere. Here she was in plain view. What would the watchman do if he found her? Her pursuer was not far behind.