The Crimson Thread Part 6

"Two Hundred Dollars for a Handshake."

There was not time to read what followed. Hastily tearing the corner from the page, she thrust this sc.r.a.p 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 a.s.sist 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 un.o.bserved. 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 sc.r.a.p of printing she had torn from the discarded newspaper. In the employees' lunch room, over a gla.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed on.

"To-day I shall join the throngs that shop among the windows of State Street. I shall enter a store here and another there. I shall pause here to examine goods and there to make a purchase. At every place, as I pa.s.s on, I shall leave my mark, which is also my sign. If you chance to see me, if you know me, if you read my secret in my face or in my hands, grasp those hands and whisper: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' Then gold will clink for you, two hundred in gold.

"I am the Spirit of Christmas. Everywhere I go I leave a crimson trail behind."

This was the end. Lucile glanced up with a dazed and puzzled look in her eyes.

"What in the world can it mean?" she asked, holding the bit of paper before Cordie.

Cordie laughed. "That's something the paper is doing. I think it's just to make people buy the paper. No one has ever recognized her. She's clever."

"I'd like to find her," mused Lucile.

"Wouldn't you, though? Who wouldn't? You'd get the gold if you did; but you never will. She's keen. Why, only two days ago she was in this store for a half hour. Bought a book, mind you, and you may have sold it to her. Think of that! The day before that she was in the store for six hours. Think of that! And no one knew her. They'll never get her, trust her for that. But if they do, the gold will clink." The girl laughed a merry laugh, then hurried away for a cream-puff.

Left to herself, Lucile had time for a few moments of quiet thinking. She found her pulse strangely quickened by the news story and her companion's interpretation. Somehow, almost as if some strange power outside her were whispering it to her, she felt forced to believe that she could connect this new and interesting discovery with some of the other mysteries which had come to haunt her.

"But how?" she asked herself. "How?"

Cordie appeared to know a great deal about this "Spirit of Christmas"

lady and the gold that would clink for a handshake. But after all, she had revealed no facts that were not known to hundreds of thousands who had followed the matter closely. It had all been in the papers.

"No, it doesn't tell me anything about Cordie," Lucile whispered, "except--" she paused suddenly. Cordie had told of things that had happened in the city four days back. Could she have been in the city all this time? Probably had been. And without baggage, or so much as a dream-robe. How very strange!

But had she been without baggage? Might she not owe a board bill? Might not her belongings be in the hands of some landlady at the present time?

"It's a wonder she doesn't tell me about herself," Lucile murmured. "It's no use to ask her. A person who is forced to reveal her past is almost sure to tell anything but the truth. I must wait her time. It's true she has a little money; but perhaps not enough to pay the bill.

"I wonder," she went on thoughtfully, "why I don't cut her adrift? Why should I be looking after her? Haven't I enough to do in looking after myself?"

It was true that she had her own responsibilities, but she knew right well that if need be she would do a great deal more for the girl before casting her off to become an easy prey to the human hawks and vultures who haunt a great city.

"But this lady of the Christmas Spirit," she murmured. "The good fates surely know I need that gold. And if this strange little beauty, Cordie, costs me something, which she promises to do, I shall need it more than ever."

Once more her eyes ran over the sc.r.a.p of paper. They came to a sudden pause.

"Behind me I leave a crimson trail," she read.

For a moment her brow was wrinkled in puzzled thought. Then she gave a sudden start.

"If it should be! If it meant just that!" she exclaimed half aloud.

"But then, of course it couldn't. A crimson trail--a crimson trail----"

"Here's one for you," exclaimed Cordie, setting a delicious cream-puff before her. "There's just time for devouring them before we go back to work. Work! Oh, boy! I say it's work! But it's heaps of fun, anyway.

"Say!" she exclaimed suddenly, "Do you know James?"

"Who is James?"

"The man who carries away the packages from my desk."

"A stooped old man."

"Not a bit of it."

"They always are."

"He's not. Take a look at him. He's a sight for tired eyes. He--he's intriguing. I--I'm working on him. He's awful reserved, but I think he likes me. He's got a story. I'll get it. Leave that to me."

"So even little Cordie loves mysteries and has found one to study out,"

thought Lucile with an amused smile as she turned to go.