  They made a trail in the water, the two girls, one who swam and one who drifted after. The trail was short. It appeared to begin at nothing and end nowhere. The moon painted it with a touch of silver. Florence swam steadily. She thought she knew her powers—had measured the distance well. She swam with the determination of one who prizes life as a precious gift, not lightly to be held, or carelessly put aside. Such a girl will go far. But did she fully know her powers? True, she had gone a great distance in other waters. But this was night in the north. The water was chilling. A sudden cramp, a brief struggle, and their path of silver would vanish. Only the drifting boat would speak of the night’s tragedy. Florence did not think of this. Possible tragedies which can in no way be averted are not worthy of consideration. She thought instead of the monstrous injustice that had been done them. “Why did they do it?” she asked. “How could they? What if they are rich, we poor? They have no right to override us. What if their boat is a thing of beauty and power, our own an old rowboat? The water does not belong to them. “And they laughed!” she said aloud. Jeanne heard and answered, “Yes. They laughed. I wonder why.” “There are three boats on the bay like that one,” Florence said. “I have seen that many. Perhaps there are more. Which one could it have been?” The little French girl did not reply. Then, because she needed her strength for swimming, Florence lapsed into silence. To an onlooker the outcome of this adventure might have seemed questionable. The water was cold, the distance considerable. To Florence, endowed as she was with splendid strength and great faith, not alone in her own powers but in the Creator’s goodness as well, there was never a question. Such superb endurance as she displayed! Hand over hand, arm over arm, she measured the yards without one faltering movement. Little wonder, this. Florence regarded her physical powers as a great gift. She thought of herself as the Roman maidens did of old. She was a child of the gods. So she swam on while the moon looked down upon her and appeared to smile. And the graceful, swaying cedars beckoned. At last, with a sigh of pure joy, she felt her hand grasp the post of a tiny plank dock, and knew that her testing was over. With one last, splendid effort she thrust her silent companion to a place on the plank surface. Then she followed. Petite Jeanne was completely benumbed with cold. Her lips were blue. When she attempted to stand, her knees would not support her. Gathering her in her arms as she might a child, Florence hurried toward the cottage not twenty yards away. The place was completely dark. For all that, she did not hesitate to knock loudly at the door. There came no answer. She knocked again, and yet again. Still no answer. She had just placed her shoulder squarely against the door, preparatory to forcing it, when a voice demanded: “Who’s there?” “I,” Florence replied. “We’ve had an accident. Boat turned over. We are soaked, chilled, in danger. Let us in!” There came a sound of movement from within. Then a heavy bar dropped back with a slam. As the door swung open, Florence gasped. She had seen the occupant of this cottage at a distance. Since she always dressed in garments of somber hue and lived here alone, Florence had expected to find her old. Instead, there stood before her, holding a lamp high like a torch, a most dazzling creature. A young woman, certainly not past twenty-five, with tossing golden hair and penetrating blue eyes, she stood there garbed in a dressing gown of flaming red. “Oh!” murmured Florence, for the time forgetting her urgent mission. “Bring her right in,” said a strong voice in a steady, even tone. “There are some coals in the fireplace. I’ll soon have it roaring.” The mysterious young lady was as good as her word. Five minutes had not elapsed ere a fire was laughing up the chimney. Stripped of their chilling garments and wrapped in blankets of the softest wool, the two girls sat before the fire while their strange hostess spent her time alternately chafing Petite Jeanne’s feet and hands and tending tea that was brewing. Florence found time to examine the interior of the cottage. The bar had been replaced at the door. As her eyes swept the walls, she was startled to discover that this cabin was entirely devoid of windows. More startling still was her next discovery. At the head of a low bed, within easy reach of one who slept there, were two thin, blue steel automatic pistols. The things fascinated her. She removed her gaze from them with difficulty. At that moment it struck her suddenly that this cabin bore all the marks of a trap. Had they been dumped out before it by someone with a purpose? Were they prisoners here? But why? To this question she could form but a single answer. And that one seemed absurd. “Green Eyes!” she whispered. There was a young lady, an actress, the star of Petite Jeanne’s cast, who appeared to be intensely jealous of Jeanne. They had called her Green Eyes because, in certain lights, her eyes seemed as green as the sea. Once Florence had fancied that she had seen her in a speed boat on these waters. She could not be sure. Would she stoop to such base plotting? It did not seem possible. “Besides,” the girl reassured herself, “this cabin is old. It was built for some other purpose. That it should have its present occupant is more or less in the nature of an accident. This woman has a purpose in hiding here. A mystery!” A thrill of pleasant anticipation shot through her, dispelling fear as the morning sun dispels the fog. “Mystery!” she whispered to herself. “That magic word, mystery!” “The tea is served,” said a pleasant voice. “Do you take one lump, two, or none at all?” “N-none at all,” Florence replied, bringing herself back to the present moment with a start. |
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