Green Eyes

  Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Mark C. Orton and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _A Mystery Story for Girls_

  GREEN EYES

  _By_ ROY J. SNELL

  The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago New York

  COPYRIGHT 1930 BY THE REILLY & LEE CO. PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE I The Mysterious Islander 11 II The Lady of the Island 22 III A Gypsy Secret 29 IV Why? 35 V The Gypsy Child 45 VI Haunting Melody 51 VII Gypsy Moon 57 VIII Sun-Tan Tillie 61 IX Banging a Bear 68 X A Gasp in the Dark 73 XI A Secret Begun 80 XII Three Rubies 87 XIII Charmed Days 100 XIV The Dance of Death 107 XV Fishing and Fighting 119 XVI Ships That Pass in the Twilight 128 XVII Voices in the Forest 132 XVIII Reveries 139 XIX The Stolen Trunk 147 XX 13-13 And Other Signs 157 XXI "Fishin'" 163 XXII Kidnapped 175 XXIII Strange Deliverance 181 XXIV Outbound in the Night 188 XXV A Scream in the Night 195 XXVI "A Boat! A Boat!" 204 XXVII The "Spank Me Again" 212 XXVIII Glowing Waters 219 XXIX Fading Shore Lines 227 XXX Their Crowded Hour 232 XXXI Petite Jeanne's Dark Hour 238 XXXII Petite Jeanne's Triumph 243 XXXIII Fast Work 251 XXXIV The Treasure Chest 257

  GREEN EYES

  CHAPTER I THE MYSTERIOUS ISLANDER

  It was night on Morton's Bay. A bright half moon painted a path of silverover water as still as the night.

  At the very center of this narrow bay some dark object cast a shadow.This was a rowboat. It was painted black. The anchor lay in its prow. Theboat did not drift. There are times of perfect calm on the upper watersof Lake Huron.

  One figure was noticeable in this boat. A slight girl, she sat bent overas if in sleep, or perhaps in deep meditation.

  There was another person in the stern of the boat. A large girl, she layin perfect repose against a pile of pillows. Was she asleep? Did shedream? She was thinking. One thinks best when at perfect repose. Wherecould be found more perfect repose? Perhaps nowhere. Yet this girl, whowas none other than our old friend, Florence Huyler, was slightlydisturbed.

  The rowboat had but now ceased rocking. The moment before, a powerfulspeed boat, passing at a terrific rate, had stirred the waters and hadsent deep ridges and furrows to lift and drop it, lift and drop it manytimes.

  Florence did not like speed boats. They hurried too much. She was seldomin a hurry. She and this other girl had come to the little settlement toseek repose. More than once a speed boat had interrupted her meditations.Now it had happened again.

  "They're taking a wide circle," she told herself. "More than likelythey'll come back. Why can't they leave us in peace?"

  The circle made by the speed boat widened. Perhaps they would not returnafter all. Her thoughts shifted to other matters.

  The figure in the forward seat was that of the blonde French girl, PetiteJeanne. She had not moved for a quarter of an hour. What were herthoughts? Or did she think?

  "Perhaps she is asleep," Florence told herself. She had not stirred whenthe speed boat rocked them.

  "Ought I to warn her if they return?" Florence asked herself. "Mighttopple over into the bay. She can't swim."

  Yet, even as she thought this, Florence smiled at the idea of danger.What if the French girl could not swim? One swimmer was enough. AndFlorence could swim. Few better. Once she had swum the Ohio river, a milewide, on a wager.

  "Easy to rescue her," she thought. "But then, why get wet?"

  She shuddered at the thought of a plunge. It was August, but the seasonwas late. These northern waters were still cold.

  Once more her thoughts shifted. To her right she had caught the gleam ofa light. This light suggested mystery. Where the light shone was anisland; not much of an island, a pile of rocks overgrown with cedars, butan island all the same. And in the midst of the cedars, dark, mysterious,all but hidden, was a cottage. And in the cottage lived a lady whodressed in somber garments and rowed a black boat. She visited no one,was visited by no one, and was seldom seen save in early morning, or atnight. This much Florence had learned by watching the cabin from adistance.

  "Mystery!" she whispered. "Of all places, on these northern waters in acommunity where no man locks his doors. Mystery! Oh, well, probablynothing."

  For all her whispered words, she was convinced that there _was_something. She meant to find out what that something was.

  But now her thoughts were rudely broken off. With a roar that wasdeafening, the racing speed boat was once more upon them.

  Coming closer this time, it set a current of air fanning their cheeks andshowered them with fine spray.

  The little French girl, waking from her reverie, stared wildly about her,then clutched at the seat. Just in time. The rowboat, rocking violently,threatened to tumble them into the water.

  "Selfish!" Florence muttered. "As if there wasn't room enough for both ofus in all Lake Huron!"

  Just then a question entered her mind. Was there a purpose in all this?What purpose?

  To these questions she could form no answer. She resolved to remain rightthere, all the same; at least until Petite Jeanne had finished hermeditations and asked to be taken in.

  "What can so completely fill the mind of little Jeanne?" she askedherself. "Perhaps it is her part in the play. Ah yes, that must be it."

  That wonderful play! At once her mind was filled with bright dreams forthe little French girl.

  Petite Jeanne, as you will remember if you have read our other book, _TheGypsy Shawl_, had once lived and traveled with the gypsies of France.Florence and her friend Betty had found her there in France. In hercompany they had passed through many thrilling adventures. When thesewere over, Florence had invited her to visit America. She had come.

  More than that, a marvelous future had appeared like a bright, beckoningstar before her. In France she had taken part in a great charity play,staged in the famous Paris Opera. There she had performed the ancientgypsy dance in the most divine manner. She had won the acclaim of theelite of Paris. Not alone this; she had caugh
t the eye of a renownedproducer of drama. Finding himself prepared to stage a drama in which theFrench gypsies had a part, he had sent to France for Petite Jeanne. Aprolonged search had ended in America. He had found Petite Jeanne withher friend Florence Huyler in her own city, Chicago.

  The director had laid his plans before her. Her most important part inthe drama was to be exactly that of her feat in Paris, to dance the gypsydance with a pet bear beneath a golden moon. There were, of course, minorparts to be played, but this was to be the crowning glory.

  "Would Petite Jeanne do this?"

  Would she? The little French girl had wept tears of joy. Since hersuccess at the Paris Opera she had dreamed many dreams. This engagementpromised to make these dreams come true.

  Only one sorrow had come to her. There was no part in the drama forFlorence.

  To Florence this was no deprivation. Acting had never appealed to her.Life, to her, was more than acting on a stage. Life, vivid life, physicalstrength, the great out-of-doors, this was her world.

  "But when you are rich and famous," she had said to Petite Jeanne, "Iwill be your 'mother.' Every star, you know, must have a 'mother' toprotect her from impudent and stage-struck people."

  "Yes, and well you are able to protect me!" laughed Petite Jeanne,squeezing her arm. "_Parbleu!_ Your arm, it is hard and strong as aman's!"

  Florence had not waited until the French girl was rich and famous tobecome her guide and protector. She had entered upon the task at once.

  "At least until she is safely launched upon her career, and wellaccustomed to America, I will stay by her side," she had said to thegreat producer, Jeffry Farnsworth.

  To this Farnsworth agreed. He at once made provisions for their immediateneeds.

  Rehearsals had begun. They proceeded in a satisfactory manner for threeweeks. Then Farnsworth announced a four weeks' breathing spell.

  "Go north, where it is cool," he had said to Florence. "Our French lilydroops a little in this humid climate. The north waters and woods will bemedicine to her body and religion to her soul."

  So here they were, drifting on a silent bay, with the moon and the starsabove them and all the world, save one restless speed boat, at rest.

  Far back in the bay, on a narrow point among the pines and cedars, wastheir temporary home. A log cabin it was, with a broad fireplace at itsback, with heavily cushioned rustic chairs in every corner, and with suchan air of freshness, brightness and peace hovering over it as is foundonly where sky, water and forest meet in the northland.

  Thinking of all this, Florence, too, had fallen into a deep reverie when,with the suddenness of a world's end, catastrophe befell them.

  With a rush and a roar, a demon of speed sprang at them.

  "The speed boat!" she screamed in Jeanne's ear. "Jump!"

  The words were not out of her mouth when, with a swirling swing, she waslost in a mountain of foam. Their rowboat toppled over, casting them intothe chilling water of the bay.

  At once Florence was on the surface, swimming strongly.

  "But what of Jeanne? She does not swim. I must save her." These were thethoughts uppermost in her mind when a blonde head bobbed up close besideher.

  Her hand flew out. It grasped something, the girl's cape. It was loose.It came away. Jeanne began to sink. One more desperate effort andFlorence had her, first by the hair, then by an arm.

  "Jeanne!" she panted. "Jeanne! Get hold of my blouse and cling tight!"

  The frightened French girl obeyed.

  When she had secured a firm hold, Florence swam slowly. She must havetime to think. The boat was overturned, perhaps smashed. At any rate shecould not right it. The speed boat had not paused. It was far away. Thenight and dark waters were all about them.

  "They never slackened their pace!" she muttered bitterly. "And theylaughed! I heard a laugh. It was a woman. How could they?"

  What was to be done?

  On the shore a single light gleamed.

  "It's the light of that mysterious islander," she told herself. "Thatwoman who goes out only at night. That is by far the nearest point. Wemust try for that. It is our only chance. She must let us in; make afire; dry us out. Jeanne will perish of cold."

  With that she turned her face toward that light and, swimming strongly,glided silently through the dark water. The waters were not more silentthan her fair burden, who floated after her like a ghost.

  CHAPTER II THE LADY OF THE ISLAND

  They made a trail in the water, the two girls, one who swam and one whodrifted after. The trail was short. It appeared to begin at nothing andend nowhere. The moon painted it with a touch of silver.

  Florence swam steadily. She thought she knew her powers--had measured thedistance well. She swam with the determination of one who prizes life asa 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 hadgone 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 pathof silver would vanish. Only the drifting boat would speak of the night'stragedy.

  Florence did not think of this. Possible tragedies which can in no way beaverted are not worthy of consideration. She thought instead of themonstrous 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 notbelong 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 haveseen 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 intosilence.

  To an onlooker the outcome of this adventure might have seemedquestionable. The water was cold, the distance considerable. To Florence,endowed as she was with splendid strength and great faith, not alone inher own powers but in the Creator's goodness as well, there was never aquestion.

  Such superb endurance as she displayed! Hand over hand, arm over arm, shemeasured the yards without one faltering movement. Little wonder, this.Florence regarded her physical powers as a great gift. She thought ofherself 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 purejoy, she felt her hand grasp the post of a tiny plank dock, and knew thather testing was over.

  With one last, splendid effort she thrust her silent companion to a placeon the plank surface. Then she followed.

  Petite Jeanne was completely benumbed with cold. Her lips were blue. Whenshe attempted to stand, her knees would not support her.

  Gathering her in her arms as she might a child, Florence hurried towardthe cottage not twenty yards away.

  The place was completely dark. For all that, she did not hesitate toknock 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, preparatoryto forcing it, when a voice demanded:

  "Who's there?"

  "I," Florence replied. "We've had an accident. Boat turned over. We aresoaked, chilled, in danger. Let us in!"

  There came a sound of movement from within. Then a heavy bar dropped backwith a slam.

  As the door swung open, Florence gasped. She had seen the occupant ofthis cottage at a distance. Since she always dressed in garments ofsomber 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 mostdazzling creature. A young woman, certainly not past twenty-five, withtossing golden hair and penetrating bl
ue eyes, she stood there garbed ina 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. "Thereare some coals in the fireplace. I'll soon have it roaring."

  The mysterious young lady was as good as her word. Five minutes had notelapsed ere a fire was laughing up the chimney. Stripped of theirchilling garments and wrapped in blankets of the softest wool, the twogirls sat before the fire while their strange hostess spent her timealternately chafing Petite Jeanne's feet and hands and tending tea thatwas brewing.

  Florence found time to examine the interior of the cottage. The bar hadbeen replaced at the door. As her eyes swept the walls, she was startledto discover that this cabin was entirely devoid of windows. Morestartling still was her next discovery. At the head of a low bed, withineasy reach of one who slept there, were two thin, blue steel automaticpistols.

  The things fascinated her. She removed her gaze from them withdifficulty.

  At that moment it struck her suddenly that this cabin bore all the marksof 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 thatone seemed absurd.

  "Green Eyes!" she whispered.

  There was a young lady, an actress, the star of Petite Jeanne's cast, whoappeared to be intensely jealous of Jeanne. They had called her GreenEyes 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 thesewaters. She could not be sure. Would she stoop to such base plotting? Itdid not seem possible.