The Crimson Thread Part 27

He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said:

"Call me on the phone at that number to-morrow, or else at the Butler House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful silver fox skins back. I--might have a customer for them if you do."

"It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did," he smiled.

"But it's going to be all right anyway."

Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start.

"Right on the Gold Coast!" was his mental comment. "Out where there is nothing but palaces and mansions!"

CHAPTER XXIII MEG'S SECRET

And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all.

Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence was thinking fine things about Meg.

"This girl Meg certainly has a way about her," she thought. "She does things to people."

She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. "Surely," she told herself, "she didn't use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn't do that, though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve."

One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman.

Florence hadn't heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told her she might run along. How was she to account for that?

She didn't bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised to tell.

It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had blown itself out and the stars were s.h.i.+ning. They were soon aboard a car bound for home.

An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet, Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts.

Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this would not be surprising.

She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous experiences of an exciting night are all at an end.

At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all; for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence's Christmas secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the witching hour when secrets are revealed.

"There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before the tower clock strikes midnight," said Florence, glancing at the small clock on her desk.

"Oh!" laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. "There really isn't much to tell. I've already told you that since I was a slip of a child I've lived on s.h.i.+ps with my uncle. He's a mate. We've been on a lot of s.h.i.+ps because he often drinks too much and can't hold his position. He's a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way."

"That man who----"

"No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim, a sailor. My uncle sent him.

"Well, you know," she went on, "at first I was just sort of a s.h.i.+p's mascot and the sailors' plaything. They rode me on their backs and carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast.

"That didn't last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me to work. And I've been at work ever since."

She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and hard as a farmer's wife's.

"I don't mind work," Meg continued. "I love it. But I like to learn things, too; like to learn them out of books, with folks to tell me what it means. I've gone to school all I could, but it wasn't much. I want to go some more.

"Uncle has signed up for a sea voyage through the Ca.n.a.l to England. He wanted me to go along as cook. It's a lumber s.h.i.+p; sure to be a rough crew. I don't mind 'em much."

Something suddenly clattered on the floor. It was Meg's belaying pin.

"I--I guess you sort of get rough when you go on the sea," she apologized, smiling. "That's partly why I didn't want to go. My uncle would have made me go that day you changed places with me, if he'd found me. He likes to have me along because he can get a better berth himself if he can bring along a good cook. Good sea cooks are scarce.

"I'm not going now. His train's gone and he's gone. He left that day."

"So that was what the man and the woman meant by the train leaving at eleven-thirty?" asked Florence.

"Yes. That woman was the matron of the Seamen's Home. She thought I ought to go. She didn't know everything. She didn't understand. I'm eighteen.

My uncle hasn't any right to claim me now, and I owe him nothing.

Everything that's been done for me I've paid for--paid with hard labor."

Again she spread her seamed hands out on her lap.

"But now," she said after a moment's silence, "now I'm not sure that I know how I'm going to school. It costs a lot, I suppose, and besides I've got to live. They let me stay on that s.h.i.+p. That's something, but it's a long way from any school, and besides----"

"Wait," Florence broke in. "Let me tell you----"

But just then Meg held up a warning finger. Loud and clear there rang out over the snow the midnight chimes.

"Midnight," whispered Florence, reaching out a hand for the bewitching bag.

CHAPTER XXIV THREE QUESTIONS

"He's coming round all right." It was the house doctor of the hotel who spoke. Lucile was still bending over Patrick O'Hara. "He's regaining consciousness. It's only a scalp wound. A narrow squeak. An inch to the right, and it would have got him. He'd better go to the hospital for a little extra petting and patching, but he's in no danger--not the least.

And as for your friend Laurie--he's got a b.u.mp on his head that'll do to hang his hat on for a day or two. But outside of perhaps a bit of a headache, he's O. K. Your friends are riding under a lucky star, I'd say."

"A lucky star," thought Lucile. Again she was free. Had the Lady of the Spirit of Christmas vanished? No. For once fortune was with her. As if fascinated by the scene, the lady still stood there, looking down at Patrick O'Hara.

Twenty seconds later this lady felt a tug at her arm as a girl in a low but excited whisper said: "You are the Spirit of Christmas."

"What?" the lady stared at her for a second, then a smile lighted her face. "Oh yes, why to be sure! So I am. In the excitement of the moment I had quite forgotten. Surely I am. So it is you who win? I am glad, so very, very glad! I do believe you recognized me five minutes ago, and that you've been working over that brave young policeman ever since, when I might easily have slipped away. What wonderful unselfishness! Here is the gold!"

Lucile felt a hard lump of something pressed into her hand and without looking down knew that it was ten double eagles. A warm glow crept over her.

"I did see you," she said, after murmuring her thanks, "but you see Patrick O'Hara was wounded trying to rescue a friend of mine. So how could I desert him for gold?"

"Yes, yes, how could you? Who was your friend?"

"Cordie."