  There were dark looks on many faces as the story of the kidnapping of the two girls and the atrocious attempt at their lives spread about the village. The native population of this Northland is intensely loyal to its own people. The summer sojourners, too, had come to have a great love for the happy, carefree Tillie, who caught their minnows and helped to launch their boats. “Something will come of this,” was the word on many a tongue. As for Florence, after receiving Jeanne’s open-hearted and joyous welcome home, her first thought was of the lady cop. “We must tell her at once,” she said to Tillie. “Our experience may fit into the task she has before her.” “Yes,” replied Tillie, “we must.” They rowed at once to the lonely cabin among the cedars. But what was this? As they made their way up from the dock, they spied a white paper fluttering at the door. “Gone!” was Florence’s intuition. She was right. On the paper, written in the round hand of the lady cop, were these words:
For a moment they stared in silence. “Gone!” Florence repeated at last. “They have gone! She means the gamblers.” “Another world,” Jeanne read in a daze. “And we have her trunk!” Florence exclaimed suddenly. “Her trunk?” Jeanne’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. She had not been told of this episode. “Sit down.” Florence eased herself unsteadily to a low railing. Then she told the story of the trunk. “And now,” she concluded, “we have that mysterious trunk, which was wanted by the gamblers, though why, not even the lady cop could guess, on our hands. They want it. She wants it. We have it. And we do not know her real name. She implied the Miss Weightman was an assumed name. What a pickle!” “What a sour pickle indeed!” agreed Jeanne. “And to-morrow we leave for Chicago.” “To-morrow! It does not seem possible.” The little French girl’s heart went into a flutter. This meant that ten days from this time she would be at the center of a great stage strewn with broken instruments of war, and lighted only by an artificial moon, doing the gypsy tarantella while a vast audience looked on and— Applauded? Who could say? So much must come of this crowded quarter of an hour. Her heart stood still; then it went racing. “Ah, well,” she sighed, “only time can tell.” “I guess that’s true,” Florence agreed, thinking of quite another matter. “We may be able to find her in Chicago and return her trunk. “And now—” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Now I must go to our cabin and sleep.” The remainder of that day was uneventful. But night set all the village agog. After a good sleep, Florence had assisted Jeanne with the packing in preparation for the morrow’s departure. They had said their sad farewell to night and the stars, a farewell that night and stars were not to accept as final. They had crept beneath their blankets and had fallen fast asleep. Florence awoke some time later with the glow of an unusual light in her eyes. Springing out of bed, she rushed to the window. The next instant she was shaking Jeanne as she exclaimed excitedly: “Jeanne! Jeanne! Wake up! There is a fire! A big fire somewhere on the bay!” After struggling into their outer garments, they rushed to the water’s edge and launched their boat. They had not gone far before they discovered the location of the fire. “It’s on Gamblers’ Island.” Her voice was tense with emotion. “It’s the gamblers’ cottage. It will burn to the ground.” This last seemed certain. Already the flames were mounting high. Even in the village there was scant fire protection. On the smaller islands there was none. Florence seemed to hear the beating of her own heart. Here was swift revenge for a cowardly crime. But was it revenge? The lady cop had said the gamblers were gone. Perhaps they were not all gone. One might have remained behind to light the blaze, to cover some evil deed. Who could tell? Then again, the fire might have been accidental, a mouse chewing a match. All this time Florence was rowing sturdily. They were approaching the scene of the fire. Other boats were coming. Rowboats, motor boats, speed boats, like particles of steel attracted by the magnet, they came nearer and nearer to a common center, the fire. At a certain distance all paused. The night was very nearly still. A faint breeze carried the soaring sparks away from the tiny island forest and out toward the water. As the scores of craft came to rest they formed a semi-circle. It was strange. The quiet of the night, the flames rushing silently upward. The light on the water, the faces of two hundred people, tense, motionless, lighted red by the flames. And above it all a million stars. Florence had seen something akin to this pictured in a book. She searched her mind for that picture and found it; a circle of gray wolves sitting in a circle about a half burned-out camp fire, beside which a lone wanderer slept. “Only these are not wolves,” she told herself. “They are people, kind-hearted people. It is the home of wolves that is going up in flames. May they never return!” “And they never will.” She started at the sound of a voice at her elbow. Unconsciously she had spoken aloud. Tillie, who had slipped up beside her in her rowboat, had answered. “That is not their island,” Tillie explained. “They only leased it. Now they will not be allowed to rebuild.” “You should thank God for that.” “I have,” Tillie replied frankly. Once more there was silence. Some time later Tillie spoke again. “We have her trunk, the lady cop’s. You are goin’ to-morrow. Will you take it?” “I believe not,” Florence said thoughtfully. “I haven’t her true name. It will be safer here. If I find her I will send for it.” After that for a space of a full half hour silence reigned supreme. Not a boat left that unbroken circle. What held them there? There was nothing they could do. What is the dread, all-potent charm that holds a throng to the scene of a fire until the last shingle has flared up, the last rafter fallen? Does it hark back to days when our ancestors knew no homes, but slept by camp fires in the forest? Who can say? As the last wall crumbled in and the chimney came down with a crash, as if touched by a magic wand the circle melted away into the night. Half an hour later Florence and Jeanne were once more sleeping soundly. Such is the boundless peace of youth. |
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