Green Eyes

  "There now!" exclaimed Tillie. "We've got 'em. Just swing your end in;then up with it."

  The brown mesh of the net was all ashimmer with tiny, flapping fishes.

  "Seems a shame," said Florence, as she helped scoop the minnows into oneof the waiting buckets. "So many tiny lives snuffed out just for fun."

  "They wouldn't ever get much bigger," said Tillie philosophically. "Popsays they're just naturally little fellows like some of the rest of us."

  She set the bucket down. "We'll leave this one right here. We'll take theother one down a piece. We'll get one more haul. That'll be enough. ThenTurkey'll be here."

  Once more they dragged the net over the sandy shallows, circled, closedin, then lifted a multitude of little fishes from the water.

  The last wriggling minnow had gone flapping into the bucket, whensuddenly Tillie straightened up with first a puzzled, then an angry lookon her face.

  Seizing a heavy driftwood pole that lay upon the beach, she dashed awayover the sand.

  To her horror, Florence saw that the strange bear, who had undoubtedlyfollowed them, had just thrust his head into their other bucket ofminnows.

  "Bears like fish," she thought. "Tillie will be killed!

  "Tillie! Tillie!" she screamed. "Don't! Don't!"

  She may as well have shouted at the wind. Tillie's stout arms brought theclub down twice on the bear's head. Thwack! Thwack!

  With a loud grunt, the bear turned about and vanished into the brush.

  At the same instant Petite Jeanne appeared at the door. She had heardFlorence scream.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "A--a--something tried to steal our minnows," Florence stammered. "I--Ithink it was a dog. Tillie, here, hit him.

  "Oh! Tillie, meet my buddy, Petite Jeanne. She's from France; anactress."

  "An actress!" Tillie stared at Jeanne as she might have looked at anangel. "I've heard of them," she said simply.

  "I thought," Florence said in a low tone to Tillie, "that you were afraidof that bear."

  "Afraid--" Tillie scratched her head. "Yes, I am. But when I get good andmad, as Pop says, I'm not afraid of nobody nor nothin'."

  At that moment there came a loud whoop from the water. It was TurkeyTrot.

  "Got any?" he shouted.

  "Plenty," Tillie shrilled back.

  The boat swung in. Tillie, with a bucket in each hand, waded out to it.The precious cargo was stowed safely aboard; then seizing the oars, witha good-bye and thank you, Tillie rowed rapidly away.

  "She's a dear!" exclaimed Florence. "We're going to like her a lot.

  "Think of living in a bathing suit, not as a pose, but as a mere matterof business!" she said to herself some time later. "What a life that mustbe!

  "Jeanne won't know about that bear," she resolved a moment later. "Shemust not know about those gypsies. It would disturb her. And she mustrest; must not be disturbed in any way. Believe me, this being a 'mother'to a budding actress is no snap. But it's lots of fun, all the same!"

  CHAPTER X A GASP IN THE DARK

  That evening Florence, reposing on an affair of white birch and pillowsthat was half chair and half couch, lived for a time in both the past andthe future.

  Once more beneath the moon she battled her way toward the mystery cabinon the island. Again she stood looking at its strange interior and itspuzzling tenant.

  With a vividness that was all but real, she saw the gleam of black watersas they neared Gamblers' Island.

  "Gamblers' Island," she mused. "A lady cop. What is one to make of allthat?

  "And the gypsies? How did they come to that island? Can it be that theytruly have a speed boat? Did they run us down? Or was it the young peopleat the millionaire's cabin, and Green Eyes?

  "Perhaps neither. It may be that the lady cop is right; that someonemeant to run her down instead. But who could it be?"

  A thought came to her. That day she had seen a speed boat leave Gamblers'Island. Might there not be reason enough for the gamblers wishing to rundown the mystery lady?

  "A lady cop. What could be more natural? Gamblers fear detectives.

  "But are there gamblers on that island?" Once more she was up against astone wall. She knew nothing of those who lived on the island. She wishedthat the lady cop were more communicative.

  "Perhaps she will tell me much in time."

  Only one thing stood out clearly. In so far as was possible, PetiteJeanne must be protected from all these uncertainties and strange doings.She must have peace and rest. Great opportunity lay just before her. Shemust be prepared for it.

  As if reading her thoughts, Jeanne suddenly sprang to her feet.

  "I wish," she exclaimed, "that I might practice my part back there in theforest in the moonlight. It would help to make it real."

  "Well, why not?" Florence rose.

  "Why not, indeed?" Jeanne danced across the floor.

  "Come, Tico!" she called, as she danced out of her bathrobe and into agaudy gypsy costume. "To-night there is work to be done."

  Florence knew that it required real courage for Jeanne to take this step.She was afraid of dark places at night.

  "And what is more spooky than a woodland trail at night?" she askedherself.

  Her admiration for the little French girl grew. "She has real grit," shetold herself. "She means to succeed; she will do anything that will aidin making success possible.

  "And she will succeed! She must!"

  By the gleam of a small flashlight, they made their way, now between tallcedars that stood like sentinels beside their path, and now beneath broadfir trees that in the night seemed dark Indian wigwams.

  They crossed a narrow clearing where the vacant windows of an abandonedhomesteader shanty stared at them. They entered the forest again, to findit darker than before. The moon had gone under a black cloud.

  "Boo!" shuddered Jeanne. "How quite terrible it all is!"

  Tico rubbed against her. He appeared to understand.

  When at last they came to the little grass-grown spot where Jeanne wasaccustomed to do her bit of acting, the moon was out again, the grassglowed soft and green, and the whole setting seemed quite jolly as Ticoplayfully chased a rabbit into a clump of balsams.

  "It is charming," said Jeanne, clapping her hands. "Now I shall dance asI have never danced before."

  And she did.

  Florence, who had witnessed the whole drama as it was played on thestage, dropped to a tuft of green that lay in the shadowy path, andallowed herself to enter fully into the scene as it would be enacted onthat memorable night when the little French girl should make her firstappearance before an American audience.

  "It is night on a battlefield of France," she whispered to herself. "Thewounded and dead have been carried away. Only broken rifles and twoshattered cannon are to be seen. Petite Jeanne is alone with it all.

  "Jeanne is a blonde-haired gypsy. Until this moment she has cherished agreat hope. Now she has learned that the hope is groundless. More thanthat, she believes that her gypsy lover has perished in this day'sbattle.

  "The depth of her sorrow is immeasurable. One fact alone brings hercomfort. She has still her pet bear and her art, the art of dancing.

  "On this lonely battlefield, with the golden moon beaming down upon her,she begins to do the rhythmic dance of the gypsy."

  Even as she came to this part of the drama's story, Jeanne and the bearbegan to dance.

  "It is exquisite!" she whispered softly. "The moonlight has got into hervery blood. If only, on that great night, she can feel the thing as shedoes to-night!"

  She did not say more. She did not even think any more. She watched withparted lips as the slender girl, appearing to turn into an elf, wentgliding across the green.

  The dance was all but at an end when suddenly, without warning, the biggirl was given a shock that set her blood running cold.

  A twig snapped directly behind her. It was followed by an audible g
asp.

  At such a time, in such a place, carried away as she had been by thedramatic picture spread out before her, nothing could have startled hermore.

  Yet she must act. She was Jeanne's defender. Strangers were here in thenight. Who? Gypsies? Gamblers? Indians?

  She sprang to her feet and whirled about to stare down the trail.

  "No one," she whispered.

  The dance was at an end. Jeanne threw herself upon the ground, exhaustedbut apparently quite unafraid.

  "She did not hear. I must not frighten her. She may never know." Florencewalked slowly toward her companion.

  "Come," she said quietly. "It is damp here; not a safe place to rest. Wemust go."

  Jeanne rose wearily to follow her.

  Strangely enough, as they made their way back over the trail they cameupon no sign that anyone had been there besides themselves.

  Stranger still, Florence and Jeanne were to hear of that gasp weekslater, and in a place far, far away. Of such weird miracles are somelives made.

  CHAPTER XI A SECRET BEGUN

  Next day it rained. And how it did rain! The lake was a gray mass ofspattered suds. The trees wept.

  Petite Jeanne was quite content. She had started to read a long Frenchnovel. There was a box of bonbons by her side, and plenty of wood for thefire.

  "It does not matter." She shrugged her shoulders. "To-morrow the sun willshine again." At that she lost herself in her book.

  Florence enjoyed reading. Sometimes. But never in the north woods. Eachday, every day, the woods and water called to her. She endured inactionuntil lunch time had come and gone. Then she drew on her red raincoat andannounced her intention of going fishing.

  "In the rain!" Jeanne arched her brows, then shuddered. "Such a coldrain."

  "It's the best time, especially for bass. Rain spatters the water. Theycan't see you, so they take your bait."

  She drew a pair of men's hip boots up over her shoes and knickers, donneda black waterproof hat, and, so attired, sallied forth to fish.

  "The sprinkle box is a good place," she told herself.

  John Kingfisher, an Indian, had told her of the sprinkle box. Thesprinkle box belonged to a past age for that country; the age of logging.To keep trails smooth, that huge loads of logs might glide easily to thewater's edge, trails in those days had been sprinkled from a large tank,or box, on a sled. The water from the box froze on the trail. This madethe sleds move easily.

  When an anchorage for a very large raft had been needed one spring, asprinkle box had been filled with rocks and had been sunk in the bay.

  Since water preserves wood, the box remains to-day, at the bottom of thebay, as it was twenty years ago.

  "You find it by lining a big poplar tree on shore with a boathouse on thenext point," the Indian had told her. On a quiet day she had found it.She had seen, too, that some big black bass were lurking there.

  They would not bite; seemed, indeed, to turn up their noses at heroffering. "You wait. I'll get you yet!" She had shaken a fist at them.

  So now, with the rain beating a tattoo on her raincoat, she rowed awayand at last dropped her line close to the submerged sprinkle box.

  Fish are strange creatures. You may make a date with them, but you nevercan be sure of finding them at home at the appointed hour. A rainy day isa good day for fishing. Sometimes. The fish of the ancient sprinkle boxvery evidently were not at home on this rainy day. Florence fished fortwo solid hours. Never a bite. She tried all the tricks she knew. Never anibble.

  She was rolling in her line preparatory to returning home, when, on thelittle dock on Mystery Island that led to the lady cop's abode, she spieda solitary figure. This figure was garbed from head to toe in rubber hatand slicker. Like some dark scarecrow, it put out a hand and beckoned.

  "The lady cop!" Florence caught her breath. "What adventure now?"

  She welcomed this promised innovation for a rainy day. A few strong pullsat the oars and she was beside the dock.

  "Come up," said the lady cop, giving her a hand. "Come in. I must talk."

  "Talk!" The girl's heart leaped. "Talk. The lady cop is about to talk.What will she tell?" She followed gladly enough.

  When the bar was down at the door and they had found seats before thefire, she glanced about the room. Everything was just as it had been onthat other occasion. The furnishings were meager; a sort of bed-couch, arustic table, some chairs, a fireplace. No stove. And on the walls, stillthose two objects, the automatic pistols. But these did not seem sostrange now.

  "I live here," the young lady began, "because this place fits my purpose.I must not be known to many. I have told you a little. No other livingsoul in this community knows as much about me."

  "And even I do not know your name," Florence suggested quietly.

  "A name. That means little in the world of crime and police. The criminaltakes a new name when it suits his purpose. So does a detective. For themoment I am Miss Weightman." She smiled. "I am not at liberty for thepresent to tell you whether or not that is my true name. And it reallydoes not matter."

  For a time after that she stared moodily at the fire. Florence respectedher very evident desire for silence.

  When at last the lady cop spoke, it was in a tone deep and full ofmeaning. "There are days," she began, "when silence is welcome, when itis a joy to be alone. Sunshine, shadowy paths, gleaming waters, goldensunsets. You know what I mean.

  "But on a dreary day of rain and fog, of leaden skies, dripping trees anddull gray waters, one needs a friend."

  Florence nodded.

  "If you were to be a detective, a lady detective," Miss Weightman askedquite abruptly, "what sort would you wish to be, the sort that staysabout courts, prisons and parks, looking after women and children, or onewho goes out and tracks down really dangerous wrongdoers?"

  "I'd want to go after the bad ones." Florence squared her shoulders.

  "Of course you would," her hostess approved. "I'm after a dangerous onenow, a man who is known from Maine to Florida, from Chicago to SanFrancisco. And he's up here right now."

  The last declaration burst upon the girl with the force of a bombshell.

  "In--in a quiet place like this!" She could not believe her ears.

  "It's a way crooks have of doing," the other explained. "When they havecommitted a particularly dangerous crime, or are in possession of stolengoods difficult to dispose of, when the police are after them, they hideout in some quiet place where you'd least expect to find them.

  "Besides," she added, "this location is particularly advantageous. TheCanadian border is not far away. In a speed boat, it is but a matter ofan hour or two, and you are over the line. He has a speed boat. He hassome young men with him. Perhaps they are his sons. Who knows?

  "But this--" she checked herself. "This is starting at the wrong end ofmy story. It can do no harm for you to know the facts from the beginning.I need not pledge you to secrecy. Through my work I have learned to judgecharacter fairly accurately."

  "Thanks!" said Florence, charmed by this compliment from so strange ahostess.

  CHAPTER XII THREE RUBIES

  "Life," said the lady cop, as the toe of her shoe traced odd patterns inthe ashes before the fire, "at times seems very strange. We are born withcertain impulses. They are with us when we enter the world. They are inus, a part of our very being. There is in these very impulses the powerto make or break us.

  "One of these impulses sometimes takes the form of a vague longing. We donot always understand it. We want something. But what do we want? This wecannot tell.

  "As this longing takes form, many times it discloses itself as a desirefor change. We feel an impulse that drives us on. We wish to go, go, go.For most of us, extensive travel is impossible. We have our homes, ourfriends, our duties. We do not wander as the Indians and the Eskimos do.Spring, with its showers and budding trees, beckons to us in vain. So
,too, does the bright, golden autumn.

  "But, after all, what is at the back of all this longing but a desire totake a chance? The savage, roving from place to place, wagers his verylife upon his ability to procure food in the strange land in which hewanders.

  "So we, too, at times, feel a desire to make wagers with life. But we arecity-dwellers, living in homes. No matter. We must take a chance.

  "No more wholesome impulse can be found in a human soul than this.Without this impulse implanted in a human heart, the New World wouldnever have been known. Man would still be dressing in skins, living incaves, and retiring to his rest by the light of a tallow dip.

  "The desire to take a chance is in every heart. No one knows this betterthan does the professional gambler. He seizes upon this impulse, invitesit to act, and reaps a rich harvest."

  She paused to throw fresh fuel upon the fire. There was dry birch bark init. It flamed up at once. As the light illumined her intense face andcaused her eyes to glow, she said with startling suddenness:

  "Somewhere there are three priceless rubies. I must find them!"

  Florence sat up quite suddenly and stared at her.

  "Three--three rubies!" she exclaimed. Not the words, but the manner inwhich they had been spoken, had startled her.

  "Three large rubies set in a manner so unique as to make the whole affairwell nigh priceless," the lady cop went on quietly.

  "You see," she said, leaning toward Florence, "the thing is Oriental inits design and workmanship. In fact it came from Japan. They are clever,those little Japs. This bit of jewelry is very old. Perhaps it oncegraced an Empress's olive brow, or was worn by a priest of some long lostreligion.