  When they saw Marian’s hand go back for the throw, the two other girls, their fear overcome by curiosity, sprang silently to a position beside their companion. What they saw made them draw back in fright. Two rounds of a ladder extended above the outer rim of the boat. Above the last round appeared a face. This face, though almost completely hidden by a heavy muffler, was undoubtedly that of a man. Before they had time to move, however, they saw the bottle of liquid gas strike the top rail and burst. The liquid spattering over the man’s face and clothing, brought forth a sharp exclamation. The next instant, seeming to struggle against an invisible foe, he made desperate attempts to dismount from his lofty position. In this he was partially successful. He disappeared from sight. But the next moment there came the thud of a falling body. The ladder was still in position. The three girls held their breath. “He fell,” said Lucile in a tremulous whisper. “I only hope he—” “No you don’t!” Lucile interrupted. “No one wishes a person seriously injured.” Lucile shuddered. “Well, anyway he wasn’t,” said Florence, “for there he is. The gas is working splendidly.” The man was dancing about below, swinging his arms and shouting madly. “Like a drunken man,” whispered Marian, with a frightened laugh. “He’ll be over it in a minute,” said Lucile. “Liquid’s all over his clothes—keeps evaporating and getting into his lungs.” True to Lucile’s prophecy, the man, a few moments later, having calmed down, appeared to pause to consider. It was evident that he wavered between two opinions. Twice he started in the direction of the ship, each time sending cold chills creeping up Lucile’s spine. “We have no more gas,” she whispered. “Make it sulphuric acid this time!” Marian whispered savagely. “No! No! You couldn’t!” Lucile shuddered. Pausing each time, the man turned back. The second time he wheeled about and, racing madly down the beach, disappeared beyond a long line of pleasure boats. “Well,” said Florence, gathering her dressing gown about her and springing through the window, “we have a ladder. Looks like a good one.” “It is a good one!” she exclaimed a moment later, “a brand new one. We’ll show it to Timmie. Perhaps it will serve as evidence to trap the rascal.” “Speaking of rascals,” said Marian a few moments later as they sat looking at one another in silence, “what do you think is the meaning of all this?” “Perhaps he came for the blue candlestick,” Lucile suggested. “How could he?” demanded Florence. “How would he know we had it? What would he want of it? It’s only a curio. Belongs to the museum, I guess. Anyway, I’ll see to-morrow. I’m going to take it to the new museum and show it to one of the curators, a Mr. Cole. I met him at a party on the campus a short while ago.” Suddenly Lucile sprang to her feet, then rushed to the other end of the room. “Wha—what’s the matter?” demanded Marian. “Going to prepare some more gas,” Lucile called back over her shoulder. “Nothing like having a little chemist in the family these days. Gas is almost as useful in times of peace as it was in the days of war.” Next morning Marian showed the ladder to the aged dry dock keeper. “No,” he said after examining it carefully, “I never saw that before. It’s new and not very heavy. Probably bought for the purpose and carried here. You say you didn’t see the man’s face?” “Not much of it.” “Wouldn’t recognize him?” “Probably not.” “Well, I’ll go round and see the folks close to here that sell ladders, but I guess it won’t be any use. There’s too many places where you can get ladders in a big city like this. He might ’a’ stole it too. Mighty queer!” He shook his head as he walked away. That same day Florence wrapped the blue candlestick carefully in tissue paper, snapped three rubber bands about it, then made her way with it to the surface line where she took a car for down town. She kept a close watch to the right, to the left and back of her for any signs of being followed. She scrutinized the faces of those who entered the car with her and even cast a glance behind the car to see if there chanced to be a taxi following. Truth was, the events of the last hours had played havoc with her nerves. The candlestick in her possession was like the presence of some supernatural thing. It haunted her even in the day, as a thought of ghosts in a lonely spot at night might have tormented her. It was with a distinct sense of relief that, after leaving the car and passing over a half mile of board-walk, she entered the massive door of the new museum. For a moment, after entering, she permitted her eyes to roam up and down its vast, high-vaulted corridors, to catch the echo of voices which came murmuring to her from everywhere. She saw the massive pillars, the polished floors, the miles of glass cases, then a distinct sense of sorrow swept over her, a feeling of pity for the ragged giant of a building out by the lake front which had once housed all these treasures of beauty, antiquity and wealth. “Temporary! Temporary” kept running through her mind. “Too hastily built and of poor material. Now it is abandoned to decay. Life is like that. That’s why one should struggle to lay foundations, to prepare one’s self for life. For eighteen years, without education, one may be good enough. Then, like the old museum, one is cast aside, abandoned to decay.” As these thoughts swept through her mind she resolved more strongly than before, that, come what might, she would continue her battle for a university education. Suddenly recalling her mission, she asked the attendant to tell her where she might find Mr. Cole. “Mr. Cole’s office,” said the man courteously, “is in the left wing, third floor. See those stairs at the other end of this hall?” “Yes.” “Take those stairs. Go to the third floor. At the last landing go straight ahead. His door is the fourth to your right.” “Thank you,” and Florence hurried on her way. A moment later she was knocking at the door of the great archaeologist’s studio. “Why, it’s Miss Huyler!” he exclaimed as he opened the door to her. “Come right in. What may I do for you?” Ruthaford Cole was one of those rare men who have studied their subject so thoroughly and who have traveled so widely in search of further knowledge that they have no need to assume a false air of importance and dignity to make an impression. Under middle age, smooth-shaven, smiling, he carried the attitude of a boy who has picked up a few facts here and there and who is eager to learn more. But show him a bit of carving from the Congo and he is all smiles; “Oh! Yes, a very nice bit of modern work. Good enough, but done to sell to traders. Possesses no historical value, you know.” A bit of ivory from the coast of Alaska, rudely scratched here and there, a hole torn out here, an end broken off there, browned with age, is presented and he answers, his face lighting up with genuine joy, “Now there is really a rare specimen. Handle of a bow-drill; made long before the white man came, I’d say. Tells stories, that does. Each crudely scratched representation of reindeer, whale, wolf or bear has its meaning.” That was the type of man Cole was. Frank and friendly to all, he gave evidence in an unassuming way, of a tremendous fund of knowledge. Now, as Florence unwrapped the blue candlestick, he watched the movement of her hands with much the same look that a terrier wears when watching his master dig out a rat. Once the candlestick was in his hand, he held it as a merchant might a bit of costly and fragile china-ware. Florence smiled as she watched him. She had hoped he would say at first glance: “Why, where did you chance to find that? It was lost from one of our cases while we were moving! We believed it stolen.” Florence had had quite enough of adventure and mystery. She was convinced that holding this trophy she was sure to experience more trouble. Mr. Cole did not do the expected thing. What he did was to turn the candlestick over and over. A look of amazement spread over his usually smiling face. “No,” he murmured, “it can’t be.” Two more turns. He held it to the light. “And, yet, it does seem to be.” Stepping to a door which led to a balcony, with an absent-minded “Pardon me,” he disappeared through the door, but Florence could still see him. As he held the thing to the light, turning, turning, and turning it again, the look of amazement grew on his face. As he re-entered the room, he exclaimed: “It is! It most certainly is! I am astounded.” Motioning Florence to a seat he dropped into the swivel chair before his desk. For a moment he sat staring at the candlestick, then he asked: “Would you mind telling me where you found this?” “In the old museum.” “The old museum!” “Yes, I thought you might have lost—” “No, no,” he interrupted, “we never possessed one of these. There is one in the Metropolitan Museum. It’s the only one I ever saw save one I chanced upon on the east coast of Russia. I tried to buy it from the natives. They would not name a price. Decamped that very night; utterly disappeared. Thought we might steal it, I suppose. Suspicious. Superstitious lot. “The question is,” he said after a moment, “now you have it what are you going to do with it?” “Why,” smiled Florence, “return it to the owner if—if he can be found.” “The owner,” Cole’s eyes narrowed, “I fancy will not call for it. I have reason to believe that were you to advertise your find in the papers he would not venture to call for it. And yet,” he said thoughtfully, “it might be worth trying.” He sat for a long time in a brown study. “Miss Huyler,” he said abruptly, “this is a strange affair. I am not at liberty, at the present moment, to tell you all I know. One thing is sure: it is not safe for you to be carrying this thing about, for in the first place it is valuable, and in—” “Valuable? That?” exclaimed the girl. “Quite valuable. Well worth stealing. I’d almost be tempted myself,” he smiled. “But there is another reason why it is not safe. I am not at liberty to tell you. But if you will trust me with it, I will place it in one of the gem cases. Our gem room is guarded day and night. It will be safe there, and neither it nor you will be safe if you keep it. By the way,” he broke off suddenly, “what is your address?” Florence gave the address of a friend where her mail was left. “You live there?” “No, but no mail is delivered where I do live.” “Where can that be?” he asked in some surprise. “In a boat,” she smiled. “In a pleasure yacht. Oh, it’s not afloat,” as he looked at her in astonishment. “Might I ask the name of the boat and the location?” he half apologized. “Someone might wish to visit you. It will be proper and very important that he should. Otherwise I would not ask.” “The O Moo,” answered Florence quietly. “Foot of 71st Street.” She rose to go. He grasped her hand for a second, looking as if he would like to say more, then bowed her out of the door. As she entered the corridor, she was conscious of a strange dizziness. It was as if she had spent the better part of a night poring over an absorbing story. She had come to the museum to rid herself of the blue candlestick and the mystery attached to it. The candlestick was gone but the mystery lay before her deeper and darker than ever. |
|
