The Crimson Thread Part 22

"Would you mind telling me about yourself?"

"Not a bit. Guess I ought to. You did me a good turn. My name's Meg."

"I guessed that much."

"How?"

"That's what the man and the woman called me."

"The man and the woman?" For a moment the girl's face was puzzled. Then, "Oh yes, I----"

She paused for a moment as if about to tell something about the strange man and woman who had told Florence that the train left at eleven-thirty.

If this had been her intention she thought better of it, for presently she said:

"My mother and father are dead. Since I was ten years old I've lived with my uncle, mostly on s.h.i.+ps."

"How--how thrilling!"

"Well, maybe, but you don't learn much on s.h.i.+ps. There's an old saying: 'You can't go to school if you live on a ca.n.a.l boat.' s.h.i.+ps are about as bad. I've got through eighth grade, though, and I want to go some more.

That day I took your place and you wore my clothes I----"

"Who--who's that?" Florence had heard the movement of feet outside.

"No friend of mine; not this time of night. Must be yours."

"It might be the man!"

"What man? Your friend?"

"No. Not my friend; an awful man who wanted the bag."

"What bag?"

"A bag I bought at an auction. My--my Christmas surprise. There--there he is," she whispered tensely as there came a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Meg.

"Oh, don't!" Florence struggled to her feet. "Don't let him in!"

"Why not?" Meg had risen. In her hand was an affair resembling a policeman's club, only it was made of iron--a heavy belaying pin. "Why not?" she repeated. "If I don't fancy him, he'll let himself out fast enough." At the same time there came a rattle at the door k.n.o.b. Florence sank back into her chair.

CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERY LADY'S NEW ROLE

Such a party as it was; that one which was being enjoyed by Lucile and her friends of the juvenile book corner. Such crisp brown cream biscuits!

Such breast of turkey with cranberry sauce and dressing! Such pudding!

Even in the days of her childhood at home Lucile had never seen a more sumptuous feast. All this, in the midst of the gayest of Christmas spirit, made the occasion one long to be remembered by any person whose mind was not too much occupied by bewitching thoughts of other important things.

As for Lucile, her mind was indeed engaged with dreams that were far from the realm of food and drink. She was thinking of that meeting she had so long dreamed of and which she still had the courage to hope might come to pa.s.s, her own meeting with the Mystery Lady of the Christmas Spirit.

"I shan't fail to recognize her," she a.s.sured herself, "though she be dressed like an Eskimo or a South Sea Island maiden."

At last the time came for strolling down the Boulevard toward the music hall. Lucile stared at the pa.s.sing throngs until Laurie teasingly asked her whether she hoped to see in one of them the face of a long lost brother.

At last she found herself in the opera chair of the great hall. Now, at least, she was in the same room as the Mystery Lady, or soon must be, for if the Mystery Lady had not entered she soon would. In ten minutes the first note would be struck. There was a thrill in that.

It was to be a truly wonderful program, such a one as the girl had perhaps never listened to before. And she loved music, fairly adored it.

As she thought how her interest this night must be divided between the fine music and the Mystery Lady, she found herself almost wis.h.i.+ng that the Mystery Lady had not brought into her life so much that was unusual, perplexing and mysterious.

"Perhaps I shall be able to locate her before the music begins," she thought to herself. "Then, during a recess, I'll glide up to her and whisper, 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.'"

Though she scanned the sea of faces near and far, not one of them all, save those of her own little group, was familiar to her.

It was with a little sigh of resignation that she at last settled back in her seat and allowed her program to flutter to her lap.

The time for the first number had arrived. The musicians had taken their places. The rows of violinists and cornetists, the standing ba.s.s viol player, the conductor with his baton, all were there. Like soldiers at attention, they waited for the soloist.

Mademoiselle Patricia Diurno, the country's most talented young pianist, was to lead that night in the rendition of three master concertos.

There was an expectant lull, then mighty applause. She was coming. At a door to the right she appeared. Down a narrow way between rows of musicians she pa.s.sed, a tall, slim, gracefully beautiful lady.

In the center of the stage she paused to bow in recognition of the applause, then again, and yet again. Then, turning with such grace as only a trained musician knows, she moved to her place and with a slight nod to the leader, placed her hands upon the keys, then sent them racing over the keys, bringing forth such glorious music as only might be learned beside a rus.h.i.+ng brook in the depths of the forest.

Lucile gripped her seat until her fingers ached. She strove to remain seated while her face went white and then was flushed with color.

"It is she," she whispered to herself. "It cannot be, yet it is! The same eyes, the same nose, the same hair. I cannot be mistaken. It is she!

Patricia Diurno, the celebrated, the most wonderful virtuoso, is the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas! And I? How am I to remain in this seat for two mortal hours while before me sits a woman pouring forth bewitching music, a woman who for a handclasp has the power to make me rich, yes, rich? Two hundred in gold. How--how can I?"

CHAPTER XIX MEG WIELDS A BELAYING PIN

Florence started back at sight of the one who opened the door in response to Meg's "Come in." It was indeed the small man of the burning, hawk-like eyes. His disposition appeared to have been changed by his battle with the storm. It was plain from the first that he was now a man not to be trifled with; at least not by two girls in a lonely s.h.i.+p's cabin at an hour fast approaching midnight. He twisted his face into an ugly grin.

His smile was more horrible than a snarl would have been. His white teeth showed like an angry dog's.

"The bag!" he said in a tone that was a command. It was evident that he was both angry and desperate.

"What bag?" said Meg, rising as her companion, wrapping her blanket closer about her, slunk further into the corner.

"My bag!" His tone was threatening. He advanced a step.

Florence could see a deep red stealing up beneath the natural tan of the daughter of the sea as she too advanced a step. Meg showed not the slightest fear.

"There's no bag here." Her hand was behind her, gripping the belaying pin. "No bag at all unless you call that thing a bag." She pointed to a canvas duffel bag that hung in the corner. "That's mine. You can't have it. You can't have anything in this cabin. You can't even touch anything or anybody, so you better get out."