The Magic Curtain Part 12

One second the light was there. The next it was gone. And in that same second the moon went under a cloud. The place was utterly dark.

CHAPTER XIII A NYMPH OF THE NIGHT

Florence had never seen the face lit up there in the night; yet it struck fear to her heart. What must we say, then, of Pet.i.te Jeanne? For this was the face of one who, more than any others, inspired her with terror. He it had been who called after her at the door of the opera, he who had looked out from the bushes as she slept in the sun. At sight of him now, she all but fell among the rocks from sheer panic.

As for Florence, she was startled into action. They were, she suddenly realized, many blocks from any human habitation, on a deserted strip of man-made sh.o.r.e land lighted only by stars and the moonlight. And at this moment the moon, having failed them, had left the place black as a tomb.

With a low, whispered "Come!" and guided more by instinct than sight, she led Jeanne off the tumbled pile of rocks and out to the path where gra.s.s grew rank and they were in danger at any moment of tripping over pieces of debris.

"Who--who was that?"

Florence fancied she heard the little French girl's heart beating wildly as she asked the question.

"Who can tell? There may be many. See! Yonder, far ahead, is a light."

The light they saw was the gleam of a camp fire. In this desolate spot it seemed strangely out of place; yet there is that about fire and light that suggests security and peace. How often in her homeland had Pet.i.te Jeanne felt the cozy warmth of an open fireplace and, secure from all danger, had fallen asleep in the corner of a gypsy's tent. How often as a child had Florence, in a cane-seated rocker, sat beside the humble kitchen stove to hear the crackle of the fire, to watch its glow through its open grate and to dream dreams of security and peace.

What wonder, then, that these two bewildered and frightened ones, at sight of a glowing fire, should leap forward with cries of joy on their lips?

Nor were they destined to disappointment. The man who had built that fire loved its cheerful gleam just as they did, and for the very same reason: it whispered to him of security and peace.

He was old, was this man. His face had been deeply tanned and wrinkled by many a sun. His hair was snow white. A wandering philosopher and preacher, he had taken up his abode in a natural cavern between great rocks. He welcomed these frightened girls to a place of security by his fireside.

"Probably nothing to frighten you," he rea.s.sured them. "There are many of us sleeping out here among the rocks. In these times when work is scarce, when millions know not when or where they are to eat and when, like our Master, many of us have nowhere to lay our heads, it will not seem strange that so many, some by the aid of a pile of broken bricks and some with cast-off boards and sheet-iron, should fas.h.i.+on here homes of a sort which they may for a brief time call their own.

"Of course," he added quickly, "all too soon this will be a thing of the past. Buildings will rise here and there. They are rising even now. Three have been erected on these very sh.o.r.es. Scores of buildings will dot them soon. Palm trees will wave, orange trees blossom, gra.s.s and flowers will fringe deep lagoons where bright boats flash in the sun. All this will rise as if by magic and our poor abodes built of cast-off things will vanish, our camp fires gleam no more." His voice trailed off into nothingness. For a time after that they sat there silent, staring at the fire.

"That," said Florence, speaking with some effort, "will be too bad."

"No, I suppose not." The old man's voice was mellow. "It's going to be a Fair, a great Exposition. Millions of eager feet will tramp over the very spot where we now sit in such silence and peace. They are to call it the 'Century of Progress.' Progress," he added dreamily. "Progress. That is life. There must be progress. Time marches on. What matter that some are left behind?

"But, see!" His tone changed. "Great clouds are banking up in the west.

There will be a storm! My poor shelter does well enough for me. For you it will not suffice.

"You will do well to go forward," he advised, as they sprang to their feet. "It is a long way back over the path you have come. If you go forward it is only a matter of a few blocks to a bridge over the railroad tracks. And across that bridge you will find shelter and a street car to carry you home."

As he stood there by the fire, watching their departure, he seemed a heroic figure, this wandering philosopher.

"Surely," Florence whispered to herself, "it is not always the rich, the famous, the powerful who most truly serve mankind."

Once more she was reminded of the little old lady and her one treasure, the priceless cameo fas.h.i.+oned by skilled and loving fingers so many years ago.

"And I promised to return it to her!" This thought was one almost of despair.

"And yet," she murmured, "I made that promise out of pure love. Who knows how Providence may a.s.sist me?"

There appeared to be, however, little time for thoughts other than those of escape from the storm. Their hurried march south began at once.

As for the man who had so inspired them with terror, the one of the evil eye, he had not followed them. There is some reason to doubt that he so much as saw them. Had his attention been directed toward them, it seems probable that he would have pa.s.sed them by as unknown to him and quite unimportant for he, as we must recall, knew Jeanne only as the boy usher, Pierre.

Truth was, this young man, who would have laughed to scorn any suggestion that his home might be found in this tumbled place, was engaged in a special sort of business that apparently required haste; for, after pa.s.sing down the winding path at a kind of trotting walk, he hastened past a dark bulk that was a building of some size, turned to the right, crossed a temporary wooden bridge to come out at last upon the island which was also a part of the city's "made land." It was upon this island that Florence, a few evenings before, had discovered the mysterious girl and the more mystifying house that was so much like a s.h.i.+p, and yet so resembled a tiny church.

Even while the two girls talked to the ragged philosopher, this evil-eyed one with the dark and forbidding face had crossed the island and, coming out at the south end, had mounted the rock-formed breakwater where some frame-like affair stood.

At the far end of the frame was a dark circle some twenty feet in diameter. This circle was made of steel. It supported a circular dip-net for catching fish. There was a windla.s.s at the end of the pole supporting the net. By unwinding the windla.s.s one might allow the net to sink into the water. If luck were with him, he might hope to draw it up after a time with a fair catch of perch or herring.

All day long this windla.s.s might be heard screaming and creaking as it lifted and lowered the net. For the present it was silent. The fisherman slept. Not so this dark prowler.

The man with the evil eye was not alone upon the rocks that night, though beyond a shadow of a doubt he believed himself to be. Off to the left, at a distance of forty yards, a dark figure, bent over in a position of repose and as still as the rocks themselves, cast a dark shadow over the near-by waters. Did this figure's head turn? Who could say? Certainly the man could not, for he believed himself alone. However, he apparently did not expect to remain unmolested long, for his eyes were constantly turning toward the barren stretch of sand he had crossed.

His movements betrayed a nervous fear, yet he worked rapidly. Having searched about for some time, he located a battered bucket. This he filled with water. Bringing it up, he threw the entire contents of the bucket upon the windla.s.s. Not satisfied with this, he returned for a second bucket of water and repeated the operation.

Satisfied at last, he drew a package wrapped in black oilcloth from beneath his coat and tossed it to the center of the dangling net. Then with great care lest the rusty windla.s.s, for all the careful soaking he had given it, should let out a screeching complaint, he quietly lowered the net into the lake. The water had done its work; the windla.s.s gave forth no sound.

After this he turned and walked slowly away.

He was some fifty feet from the windla.s.s, busy apparently in contemplating the dark clouds that threatened to obscure the moon, when almost at the same instant two causes for disturbance entered his not uneventful life. From the direction of the lake came a faint splash. At the brow of the little ridge over which he had pa.s.sed to reach this spot, two men had appeared.

That the men were not unexpected was at once evident. He made no attempt to conceal himself. That the splash puzzled him went without question. He covered half the distance to the breakwater, then paused.

"Poof! Nothing! Wharf rat, perhaps," he muttered, then returned to his contemplation of the clouds. Yet, had he taken notice before of that silent figure on the rocks, he might now have discovered that it had vanished.

The two men advanced rapidly across the stretch of sand. As they came close there was about their movements an air of caution. At last one spoke:

"Don't try anything, Al. We got you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. And the goods are on you!"

"Yeah?"

The dark, evil-eyed one who was apparently known as Al, stood his ground.

The moon lost itself behind a cloud. The place went dark. Yet when the moon reappeared, bringing out the gleam of an officer's star upon the breast of one of the newcomers, he stood there motionless.

"Will you hand it over, or shall we take you in?" It was the man with the star who spoke.

"You've got nothing on me!" Al threw open his coat. "Look me over."

"We will. And then--"