Kitabı oku: «The Automobile Girls at Newport: or, Watching the Summer Parade», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XV – RUTH IN DANGER

Hugh, looking much embarrassed, came up early next morning to see Ruth.

“I have an invitation to deliver to you, Ruth, but I am rather ashamed to do it, for I am afraid you will be angry. Mother told me to come over and ask Miss Stuart and yourself and the girls – except Barbara – to come out with us for the day on the yacht.”

“Why, Hugh Post!” cried Ruth. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Hugh said, desperately; “mother told me to explain to you exactly how things stand, so you will not think her rude. You see, mother is visiting Mrs. Erwin, and of course Mrs. Erwin, Gladys, and her devoted Harry Townsend have to go along on the yacht with us. Well, Gladys told mother that neither she nor Mr. Townsend could go if Barbara went. Gladys would not tell mother why, and, as you told me to keep that scene in the conservatory a secret, I didn’t know what it was wisest for me to do.”

“Thank you,” Ruth answered; “but tell your mother that none of us can accept.”

“O Ruth!” exclaimed Hugh. “I am fearfully disappointed, and mother I know will be angry.”

“I am afraid I don’t care, Hugh,” was Ruth’s reply. “I don’t like your mother’s inviting any of us, if she had to leave Bab out.”

As Hugh turned to leave the front porch, where he had found Ruth alone, she called after him: “Wait a minute, please. I don’t know what to tell Aunt Sallie. Your mother will be sure to speak to her of her invitation, and Auntie will think I should have let her refuse for herself. Oh, I know!”

Ruth’s face cleared. “I will go tell Aunt Sallie that she and Grace and Mollie are asked. I’ll stay with my dear Bab,” she finished a little defiantly. “If I am also left out of the party, no one will think anything of it.”

“Oh, I say, Ruth,” Hugh urged, “please come.”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head decidedly.

“I expect you’re right,” Hugh replied.

Miss Sallie, Mollie and Grace accepted Mrs. Post’s invitation with pleasure. As Mrs. Post’s yacht was small, they did not think it strange that the other two girls were left out.

How angry Mollie would have been, had she guessed the truth. Not a step would she have gone. As it was, she begged Barbara to go in her place.

But Bab was too clever. She understood what had happened, and was glad to be left out of the party. She put her arm around Ruth’s waist, whispering coaxingly: “Do go along with the others, old story-teller. You know you were asked.”

Ruth shook her head decidedly. “Not on your life,” she slangily retorted. Fortunately, Miss Sallie did not hear her.

“What shall we do this afternoon, Bab?” inquired Ruth after luncheon. “Suppose you and I go for a long walk?”

“Don’t think I am a lazy good-for-nothing, Ruth,” Barbara begged, “but I have a little headache, and I must write to mother. Mollie and I have been neglecting her shamefully of late. I haven’t even written her about the wonderful ball.”

“Are you going to tell her what happened, Bab?” Ruth inquired.

“I suppose so,” sighed Bab. She was half inclined to discuss the unfortunate affair with Ruth, but changed her mind.

“Well, Bab,” Ruth declared, “I shall go for the walk ‘all by my lonesomes.’ I’ll be back in time for dinner. The others are to dine on the yacht, so we need not look for them until bedtime. I think I’ll take the cliff walk, for the sea is so splendid to-day.”

Left alone, Barbara got out her writing materials and sat down by the window, but she did not begin to write.

“I wonder,” she asked herself, “why we have been mixed up in burglaries ever since Ruth began talking about our trip to Newport? First, our poor little twenty-dollar gold-pieces disappear; then we have that dreadful robber at New Haven. Now Mrs. Post’s emerald necklace is stolen! It could not all have been Mr. Townsend!” Barbara sat with her hands clenched.

“If it is true,” she went on, “and I saw the necklace disappear with my own eyes, then we have another Raffles to deal with. Mr. Raffles, the second! I believe I am the only person that suspects him. Well, Mr. Harry Townsend!” Barbara’s red lips tightened, “you are successful now, but we shall see whose wits are better, yours or mine!”

Barbara’s face turned a deep crimson. “I understood. He wanted to suggest I was the thief. Only he didn’t dare to accuse me openly the other night. I won’t tell mother,” Barbara at last decided. “I’ll just watch – and wait!”

Barbara wrote her mother a long, happy letter, without a hint of the troubles she began to feel closing in on her. Then she straightened her own and Mollie’s bureau drawers and arranged their clothes in the two closets. Still Ruth did not come.

Twice Barbara went into her room. It was half past five – six – Mrs. Ewing’s early dinner was served at half after six.

“Mrs. Ewing,” Barbara said, knocking timidly at her door. “Have you seen anything of Ruth? She has been gone such a long time that I am worried about her.”

But Mrs. Ewing knew nothing of her.

“I believe I’ll go to meet her,” said Barbara, “and hurry her along. She must be on her way home.” Ralph was on the yacht with Hugh, or Barbara would have asked him to accompany her.

For the first half mile along the cliff walk Barbara strolled slowly, expecting every moment to see Ruth hurrying along. As the walk dipped down into hollows and rose again in the high places, it was difficult to see any distance ahead.

The walk was entirely deserted, and Bab’s heart commenced to beat faster as the darkness began to gather.

“I suppose,” thought Barbara, “Ruth has gone somewhere to make a visit, and has stayed late without thinking. She’s probably at home, now, waiting for me, so I’ll get the scolding from Mrs. Ewing for being late to dinner. I believe I’ll go on back home.” Barbara actually turned and started in the opposite direction.

Something within her seemed to call: “Bab! Bab!” The voice was so urgent she was frightened. “Ruth needs you,” it seemed to say.

Bab began calling aloud, “Ruth! Ruth!” Her voice sounded high and shrill in her own ears; but only the echo answered her, and the noise of the waves pounding against the shore. She could see the distant lights in the houses along the way, but Barbara dared not stop to ask for help while that inner voice urged her on.

Barbara was running, now, along the narrow, difficult path. “O Ruth, dear Ruth!” she cried. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you anywhere, needing me?” She heard a low sound and stopped. Nothing but her own imagination! There were always queer noises along the cliff shore, where the water swirled into little eddies and gurgled out again.

Barbara waited. She heard nothing more, so she plunged on. Suddenly she drew back with a gasp of horror. Part of the cliff walk had disappeared! Where a bridge of stone had spanned a narrow chasm there was a terrible, yawning hole. Jutting out their vicious arms were rocks, rocks, forming a sheer drop of seventy feet to the beach below.

Involuntarily, Barbara had flung herself down on her hands and knees to keep from falling over into the abyss.

“Ruth couldn’t have,” she thought. “No, no!” But hark! Was that again the low moaning sound of the waters? Barbara lay flat on the rocks, stretching her head over the embankment. There, in a cleft between two great rocks, fifteen feet below her, a dark object hung!

“Ruth! Ruth!” Bab called, her voice coming from her throat in a hoarse cry. Again she heard the faint moan. This time she knew the sound. It was Ruth! What could she do? Run for help? Any second, Bab realized, Ruth’s strength might fail, and she would let go her grasp. Barbara could not bear to think of the horrible end.

As far as she could see, Ruth’s feet rested on a narrow ledge of rock, while she clung with her hands to a cliff that jutted out overhead. “Ruth! Ruth!” Barbara called again, but this time her voice was clear and strong. “It is Bab! Do you understand? Hold on a little longer. I am coming.”

Swiftly a prayer came into Barbara’s mind: “Lord, show me the way.” Yet even while she prayed she acted. “Help, help!” Bab called out.

She tore off the long woolen shawl which she had wrapped round her when she came out to seek Ruth. With hands that seemed to gain a superhuman strength Bab tore it into three, four strips. She dared not make the strips narrower for fear they would not hold. Then she took off her skirt of light wool and wrenched it into broad bands. How, Barbara never knew. She felt that the power was given her.

Growing out from a rock between Bab and the moaning figure on the cliff below was a small tree, its roots deeply imbedded in the hard soil. Ruth had evidently reached out to grasp this tree as the cliff bridge gave way beneath her feet; but, missing it, her feet had touched a ledge of rock and she had flung out her arms and clasped the stone above her. How much longer would her failing strength serve her?

Bab again lay down and measured the length of her queer rope. She found that by reaching the tree she could tie the rope to it and it would then be long enough to extend to Ruth. Removing her shoes, Barbara slowly, and with infinite caution, crawled down the jagged rocks, clinging with her hands and toes. Finally she arrived at the tree, and fastened her rope securely around it, only to find it dangled just above Ruth’s head. Yet what was the use? If Ruth for an instant let go the rock to which she clung her feet would slip from the ledge, and Bab’s poor woolen strings could never hold her.

But Barbara understood this. She was face to face with the great moment of her life, and, though she was only a simple country girl, neither her brains nor her strength failed her.

Did she stop at the tree after the rope was tied? No! Still clinging, sliding, her hands bruised and bleeding, Barbara was making her way to where Ruth hung. Bab had said truly that she could climb. Never had a girl a better opportunity to prove her boast! There were moments when she believed she could not go on. Then the thought of Ruth renewed her courage.

Just above Ruth’s head, on the left side of her, was a great boulder with a curved, smooth surface. It was to this rock Bab made her way. She was so close to Ruth now that she could lean over and touch her. “Courage, dear,” she whispered, and she thought she saw Ruth’s pale lips smile. She had not fainted; for this, Barbara was grateful.

When Barbara was a little girl her mother had been ashamed of her tomboy ways; but she had given in, with a gentle sigh, when Bab grew and flourished by playing boys’ games, by learning various boyish arts; among them was the knack of tying a sailor knot.

Edging closer and closer to Ruth she managed to reach out and catch hold of the rope she had fastened to the tree. With one hand on her own rock, with the other she drew the cord about Ruth, fastening it firmly under her arms. The rope was not strong enough to draw Ruth up to safety, but it would steady her should her hands give way.

Somehow, in some way, Barbara must get further help.

Now that her first duty was over, she began to call loudly: “Help, help!” Her shouts roused Ruth, who joined feebly in the cry. No sound answered them. Only the seagulls swept over them, uttering their hoarse call.

Barbara felt her own strength going. She tried to crawl up the slippery rock again, but her power was gone. She, too, felt herself – slipping, slipping! With one wild cry she caught at her rock, and all was still!

CHAPTER XVI – HELP ARRIVES

Mr. Cartwright was dining alone on his Japanese veranda, as his wife was with the yachting party, and was not expected to dinner.

Jones, the butler, came in softly, placing the soup in front of his master. As he put down the plate his hand shook. Surely he heard a cry!

At the same moment Mr. Cartwright started up. “Jones, what was that?” They both stood still. There was no further sound.

“Must ’ave been children playing, sir,” suggested Jones, and Mr. Cartwright continued his dinner.

“Help, help!” The sound came from afar off, loud and shrill. This time there was no mistake.

“Coming!” Mr. Cartwright shouted. “Coming!” As he ran across the lawn, closely followed by Jones, he snatched a heavy coil of rope left by the workmen who had been swinging hammocks and arranging for Mrs. Cartwright’s outdoor bazaar.

“Call again, if you can,” Mr. Cartwright yelled. Faintly, a voice seemed to come up out of the earth. “Help, help! Oh, please!”

Mr. Cartwright caught the direction of the voice, and ran along the cliffs. In a moment he espied the fallen bridge and guessed what had happened; then he and Jones saw the two girls in their perilous position.

Leaning over, he called: “Can you hear me?”

Bab answered, “Yes.”

“Then keep still,” shouted Mr. Cartwright, “and I’ll have you up here in a moment.”

Quickly he knotted the rope around Jones’s waist; then, some yards farther on, he tied it round his own. “Go back,” he said to his butler, “and lie down.” Jones was large and heavy; Mr. Cartwright was a tall man, thin, but strong.

Slowly he lowered himself to the tree where Bab had tied her poor rope, and flung an improvised lasso over to Bab. “Not me,” said Barbara, forgetting her grammar. “Ruth first.”

“Can she climb with the help of the rope?” asked their rescuer.

Ruth had not spoken, but she opened her eyes, gave a shudder and fainted.

Like a flash Bab had thrown the lasso over her shoulders, and Ruth hung swaying in the air! Fortunately her feet were still on the ledge of the rock. Mr. Cartwright caught his rope round the tree, at the same time calling to Jones, “Throw me another coil!” He then clambered down and half carried, half dragged the fainting Ruth to the top of the cliff.

Once above, he dropped his burden, and again flung the lasso over the edge of the rocks to Barbara, who, crawling and being pulled by turns, came up in safety. When she had reached the top, and stood by the side of the fainting Ruth, Bab’s courage deserted her, and she burst into tears.

“Get the young ladies to the house at once,” ordered Mr. Cartwright, far more frightened than he had been while playing rescuer.

How fared the yachting party? They did not have a good day. Hugh was in a bad humor because Ruth had not come; Ralph missed Barbara, and, try as they might to avoid it, the conversation would drift back to the lost emeralds.

“I shall never understand it,” said Mrs. Erwin to Aunt Sallie, in subdued tones. “The detectives say they have made a thorough search of my servants’ quarters, have watched their movements ever since the night of the theft, and they can find none of them of whom they are even suspicious. They do say” – this time Mrs. Erwin dropped her voice to a whisper, for the woman who was with Mrs. Post at the time of the robbery was approaching them – “they say that the burglar was probably – one of the guests!”

This woman, who had worn a gold-colored brocade, was an American, who had married a Frenchman, but her husband was supposed to have been dead several years. She had come to Newport, this season, with letters of introduction, and was already very popular.

“Do you know,” she inquired, “where Miss Le Baron and Mr. Townsend are? No one has seen them recently.”

“Oh,” laughed Mrs. Erwin, “we leave those two young people alone. I believe they have an affair of their own. Have you known Mr. Townsend before this meeting?”

“Oh, no,” replied the woman, in a curious tone; “at least, I have met him once or twice. I can’t say I know him.”

“Ladies,” Governor Post said, coming up to them, “I believe I will cheat you of part of your sail today. There are ugly clouds gathering, and I think it better to put into harbor. We can go ashore, or not, as we feel inclined.”

As the yacht neared the shore, Miss Sallie grew restless. It was the first time since the beginning of their trip that she had been separated from any of her girls. As soon as dinner was over she begged Governor Post to put herself, Grace and Mollie ashore. Immediately the rest of the party agreed to disembark with her.

Ralph and the two girls followed Aunt Sallie home. For once, she hurried on before them, urged by a kind of foreboding.

She found Mrs. Ewing, white and frightened, walking up and down in front of her gate. Mr. Ewing and the maids had left the house, half an hour before, to search for the lost girls.

Thoughtlessly Mrs. Ewing rushed up to Miss Stuart. “Have Ruth and Barbara joined you?” she asked.

“Why, no,” replied the two girls in amazement. Ralph stared in surprise; but Miss Sallie spoke firmly. “Tell me, at once, what has happened.” In the midst of real danger Miss Stuart was a different woman, as Mr. Stuart well knew when he allowed her to chaperon the automobile girls.

Mrs. Ewing had nothing to tell. All she knew was that the girls had gone out for a long walk, and, at eight o’clock, had not come back.

“Come with me, Ralph,” Miss Sallie demanded. Grace and Mollie followed them.

“Don’t be frightened, Mollie,” Grace begged, trying to talk cheerfully, though she was trembling violently. “Rely upon Ruth and Bab to get safely out of a scrape.”

Just as they reached the end of the street that turned into the cliff walk, Miss Sallie espied a servant of the Cartwrights running in their direction. “Stop him!” she commanded Ralph.

“Sure, mum, I am to tell you,” the gardener’s boy said, “the young ladies was not killed.”

“Not killed!” the girls cried, in horror. Ralph took hold of Mollie’s hand.

“That is what I was to say, mum,” said the boy, evidently much excited. “They is not much hurt and will be home soon.”

“Take me to them, at once,” ordered Miss Sallie, asking no further questions. The gardener’s boy led the way.

When the party arrived, Mrs. Cartwright, still in her yachting suit, ran out to meet them. Ruth came to the door, walking a little stiffly. Barbara followed her, and straightway begged Mollie not to cry.

“It’s all over, silly little Mollie,” she whispered, “and neither Ruth nor I am hurt. We are just a little scratched, and very dirty, and we want to go to bed.”

“Mr. Cartwright has already had the doctor in to see us, Auntie,” said Ruth. “He is in the drawing room now. We have no broken bones or strains, though my shoulders ache rather badly.”

Mollie and Grace were both crying, just because there was nothing, now, for them to cry about.

Miss Sallie made Ruth sit down again, as her niece was almost too weak to stand. After listening in silence to Ruth’s story, Aunt Sallie held out her hand to Mr. Cartwright. “My brother and I can never thank you, and I shall not attempt it. Ruth means all our world.” Then she turned to Barbara, and gathered her in her arms. “My child,” she said, “you are the bravest girl I ever knew.” Miss Stuart choked, and could say no more.

“Do you remember, Bab,” asked Mollie, when Barbara was safe in her own bed, “how once you said you would one day repay Ruth and Mr. Stuart for their kindness to us? Well, I think, and I know they will think, that you have kept your promise. Yes; I’m going to let her go to sleep, Miss Sallie,” Mollie called back, in answer to Miss Stuart’s remonstrance.

Ruth and Barbara were utterly worn out, and had been put into warm baths and rubbed down with alcohol. “I am not even going to give two such sensible girls doses of aromatic spirits of ammonia,” declared the doctor, who had driven over from Mrs. Cartwright’s with them and had seen the girls safely in bed. “They will be all right in a day or two,” he assured Miss Sallie, “as soon as they get over the nervous shock.”

It took six telegrams to Mr. Stuart and Mrs. Thurston to persuade them the girls were unhurt and able to remain in Newport.

CHAPTER XVII – THE FORTUNE-TELLERS

“My dears,” said Mrs. Cartwright, two days after the accident, coming into the sitting-room, where Ruth and Bab were idling, “I suppose you know that you are the heroines of Newport. No one is talking about anything but your accident. You have almost put the jewel robbery out of our minds. How do you feel this morning?”

“Oh, as fit as anything,” smiled Ruth, though she still looked a little pale. “I have just written a long letter to father, to assure him that I shall be well enough to play in the tournament next week.”

“That is fine,” declared Mrs. Cartwright. “And you, Bab?”

“There never was much the matter with me,” Bab answered.

“Then you are just the girls I am looking for,” said Mrs. Cartwright, clapping her hands. “You know, I asked you, Bab, to play gypsy fortune-teller at my bazaar; now I want to ask Ruth to join you. Everyone thinks you are both laid up from your accident, and no one will suspect who you are. The plans for the bazaar are going splendidly. I think I shall make lots of money for my poor sailors. I shall have it as simple and attractive as I can – a real country fair, with booths and lemonade stands. I am going to give these jaded Newport people a taste of the simple life. Do say you will help me.”

Both girls shook their heads. “We do not know how to tell fortunes,” they protested.

“Oh, it’s only fun,” argued Mrs. Cartwright. “You can make up any foolishness you like as you go along. I’ll show you how to run the cards, as they call it. Has either of you ever seen anyone do it?”

Bab confessed she had watched “Granny Ann.” Suddenly she left her chair, and came hobbling over to Mrs. Cartwright, saying, in Granny Ann’s own high-pitched, whining voice: “Lovely lady, would you know the future, grave or gay, cross my hand with a silver piece and list to what I say.”

Gravely, Mrs. Cartwright extracted a dollar from her silver purse, and made the gypsy sign on Bab’s outstretched hand. Barbara immediately told her such a nonsensical fortune, in a perfectly grave voice, that she and Ruth both screamed with laughter.

“You’ll do, Bab,” said Mrs. Cartwright. “Won’t you join her, Ruth?”

“Well,” said Ruth, “I never desert Mrs. Micawber these days, or, to put it plainly, Miss Bab Thurston. So I’m game.”

“Thursday, then, remember, and this is Tuesday,” said Mrs. Cartwright. “I am the busiest woman in Newport, so I must run away now. You should see my house and lawn. They are full of workmen. The fair is to begin promptly at four, and will last until midnight. We shall have dancing on the lawn, but I want you girls and a few friends to come into the house after supper. When you finish playing fortune-tellers you can slip up to my room and dress. Nobody must guess, when you come down, that you have not just arrived. Now, I positively must be off. Tell Mollie and Grace I am depending on them to act as waitresses. Gladys isn’t willing to help. She wants all her time for Harry Townsend.”

“Ruth,” said Aunt Sallie, the afternoon of the bazaar, “I really cannot permit you to go anywhere, looking as you do, even if you are wearing a disguise. You are too horrible!”

“Come and see Barbara,” Grace called from the next room. “I am sure she must look worse. Why,” she asked, laughing, “do you and Ruth want to disguise yourselves as such dreadful-looking gypsies. You might just as easily have arranged to look like young and charming ones.”

“Oh, no,” said Bab. “We want to look like the real thing, not like stage gypsies.” Barbara had arranged to appear as much like “Granny Ann” as she possibly could. A red and yellow handkerchief was bound around her head almost to her eyebrows, her face was stained to a deep brown, with lines and heavy seams drawn over it; even her hands were made up to look old and weather beaten.

“Remember, you have never seen nor heard of these extraordinary fortune-tellers before,” warned Ruth. “And don’t forget, Barbara and Ruth are at home at Mrs. Ewing’s, but they may feel well enough to come to the fair in the evening.” Ruth caught Bab’s arm, and together they made a low curtsey.

“Beautiful ones,” Ruth went on, pointing to Miss Sallie, who was looking handsome in a gown of pale gray crêpe, with a violet hat and sunshade, and to Mollie and Grace, who were dressed like Swiss peasant girls, “your fortunes I would like to tell before you go to the Fair. Easy it is for my wise eyes to perceive that you will be the belles and beauties of the entertainment. Now, farewell!”

The “gypsies” were to drive over early to Mrs. Cartwright’s in a closed carriage. Ralph was to take Miss Sallie, Grace and Mollie in the motor car later on.

“Granny Ann” and “old Meg” slipped inside the gypsy tent before any of the guests had arrived at the bazaar. They had gazed in wonder at Mrs. Cartwright’s beautiful lawn, changed to look like a country fair. It was hung with bunting and flags, and had small tables and chairs under the trees; also a May-pole strung with long streamers of different colored ribbons. Mrs. Cartwright had planned a May-pole dance as one of the chief features of the afternoon, and Mollie and Grace were both to take part.

For the gypsies, life was a serious matter. The tent was divided by a red curtain; on a low wooden table burned a round iron pot filled with charcoal and curious odorous herbs; a pack of dirty cards lay near it. “The cards must be dirty,” argued Ruth, “or no one would believe we were the real thing in gypsies.” Two rough stools stood by the table, and the only daylight shone through the tent flap. On the other side of the curtain, Mrs. Cartwright had been kinder to her gypsies. Here were a wicker couch and big chairs, where they could rest and talk; also a table for refreshments, “for,” laughed Mrs. Cartwright, as she left the tent to welcome her first guests, “I have always heard that gypsies are a particularly hungry race of people.”

Mrs. Cartwright’s fair was a huge success. The most fashionable “set” in Newport were present, entering into the spirit of the occasion with great zest.

Gladys and Harry Townsend were seen everywhere together; but to-day there was often a third person with them, the Countess Bertouche, the woman of the gold-colored brocade, but lately introduced in Newport society.

“I believe Gladys is engaged to Harry Townsend,” whispered Grace to Mollie, when she had observed Harry bending over Miss Le Baron and talking to her in a more devoted manner than usual.

“Well,” retorted pretty Mollie, with a toss of her head, “I am sure I do not envy either one of them.”

All afternoon the gypsy tent had been flooded with visitors. Barbara and Ruth had the time of their lives. No one recognized the two automobile girls in the aged crones who mumbled and told strange fortunes in hoarse tones.

It was growing late, and the gypsy tent was for the time deserted. Ruth was resting on the couch in the back of the tent, while Bab sat near her, talking over their experiences of the afternoon.

Suddenly the tent flap opened, and Grace and Mollie rushed in. Before either of them spoke, they turned and fastened the flap down again securely, so no one could enter without their knowing it.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ruth and Bab at once, for it was plain to see their visitors were greatly excited.

Grace and Mollie started talking together. “Mrs. Cartwright’s diamond butterfly – ” then they both stopped. “Are you sure no one can hear? Mollie, you tell,” finished Grace.

“The butterfly has gone, vanished right off Mrs. Cartwright’s frock, this afternoon, while she was talking to her visitors. You know, she changed the ornament she wore in her hair into a brooch. She showed it to me early this afternoon, when I first came, and now – it is gone! I tell you, girls, there’s a thief among these Newport people. I think it, and so does Mrs. Cartwright, and ever so many others. Promise you’ll never tell,” went on Mollie, “but there are two detectives here watching all the guests! I’d like to find the thief myself. I’d know Mrs. Cartwright’s butterfly anywhere.”

There were noises at the tent door.

Barbara heard Gladys’s high, querulous voice, saying, coquettishly: “I don’t want my fortune told, Harry. I would much rather you told it to me any way.” But Mr. Townsend insisted.

“Fly, girls – do, please! They are coming in!” said Barbara. “No; you can’t get out, but you must stay perfectly still behind this curtain, and not breathe a single word.”

It was almost entirely dark in the gypsy tent, the only light coming from the burning pot of fire on the table. Barbara stooped low, when she opened the door to allow Harry, Gladys and the Countess Bertouche to come in.

“It groweth late,” Bab began, croakingly. “Evil may come. No good fortunes fall between dusk and darkness. Beware!”

Gladys shuddered. “Let’s not go in,” she urged.

But Harry Townsend only laughed. “Don’t let the old hag frighten you,” he retorted, lightly. “Here,” he turned to the gypsy and spoke in a voice no one of the girls had ever heard him use, “here, you old swindler, speak out! What kind of fate do you read for me in the stars?”

Barbara picked up the pack of dirty cards, and began to shuffle them slowly. An idea was revolving in her head. Dared she do it? But Barbara was a girl who was not easily daunted.

After a minute of silence she shook her head. “What I see I dare not reveal,” she whined. “All black, dark, dark mystery!”

“Oh, stuff!” jeered Mr. Townsend. “Don’t try that dodge on me. Tell what you know.”

Barbara flung down the cards and blew three puffs into the smouldering pot of fire. Ashes and tiny flames shot up from it. She started back, then pointing a finger, she hissed: “Something is moving toward you, curving and coiling and twisting round you. Mercy!” she cried. “It is a green snake, and its fangs have struck into your soul!”

Harry Townsend’s face grew livid. In a moment the look of youth vanished from his face, his lips turned blue, and his eyes narrowed to two fine points.

The Countess Bertouche came forward. “Harry,” she said, “come away. You forget yourself. Don’t listen to such nonsense.”

“Harry!” thought Gladys to herself, angrily. “She certainly presumes on a short acquaintance! Harry, indeed!”

But Barbara had not finished.

“Stay!” she said, holding up a warning finger. “Another messenger appears. It is a beautiful, bright thing, sparkling and darting toward you. Why,” she added, quickly, “it is lighting on your coat. It has flown inside – a beautiful butterfly, born of summer time and flowers. Or” – this time Barbara leaned over and whispered in his ear – “or it may be made of diamonds and come from a jeweler’s shop.”