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  "Besides," the girl reassured herself, "this cabin is old. It was builtfor some other purpose. That it should have its present occupant is moreor less in the nature of an accident. This woman has a purpose in hidinghere. A mystery!" A thrill of pleasant anticipation shot through her,dispelling fear as the morning sun dispels the fog.

  "Mystery!" she whispered to herself. "That magic word, mystery!"

  "The tea is served," said a pleasant voice. "Do you take one lump, two,or none at all?"

  "N-none at all," Florence replied, bringing herself back to the presentmoment with a start.

  CHAPTER III A GYPSY SECRET

  Hot tea and a blazing fire took the blue from Jeanne's lips and restoredthe natural faint flush to her fair cheeks.

  "You say your boat was overturned?" Their hostess abruptly broke thesilence that had fallen upon them.

  "Yes."

  "A rowboat?"

  "Yes."

  "Was it broken?"

  "I--I--" Florence hesitated. "I don't think so."

  "Then we should go for it at once. The wind is rising. It is offshore.The boat will drift across the bay. I have a rowboat. Perhaps you woulddo well to come with me. It will be something of a task to right it."

  She had spoken to Florence. When Petite Jeanne understood that she was tobe left alone in this windowless cabin, she shuddered ever so slightly,but said not a word.

  "I will go," replied Florence. She turned to Jeanne. "You will be morecontented here. The night air is very cold."

  They departed. Jeanne was alone. When she had made sure they were out ofhearing distance, she closed the door and dropped the massive oaken barin place.

  Scarcely had she done this than she found herself possessed of the ideathat someone beside herself was in the cabin.

  "There may be other rooms," she told herself. She searched in vain fordoors leading to them. She looked under the bed.

  Convinced at last that she was alone, she looked with wide-eyed interestat her surroundings. The walls were made of oak paneling, very wellexecuted and polished to the last degree. The fireplace was massive. Itwas built entirely of the strange honeycomb-like stone that is found inplaces along the upper bays of Lake Huron.

  "But why does she live where there is no light?" she asked herself inamazement.

  Hardly had she thought this than she became conscious for the first timeof a faint flush of yellow light lying on the floor at her feet.

  On looking up to discover its source, she found herself staring at a verybroad double skylight some distance above her head.

  "It's like those one sees on the cabins of ships," she told herself."Only higher up."

  Satisfied with her inspection of the place, she dropped into a commodiouschair and at once fell into a reverie which had to do with her past andthe very near future.

  How strange her life seemed to her as she reviewed it here in the dimlights of such unusual surroundings!

  Petite Jeanne, as you well know from reading _The Gypsy Shawl_, was bornin France. Her family, one of the country's best, had been impoverishedby the war. The war had left her an orphan. Possessed only of a pet bear,she had looked about for some means of support. A friendly and honorablegypsy, Bihari, had taken her into his family. She had learned to do thegypsy dances with her bear.

  These she had performed so divinely that in a contest she had been chosenfrom many other dancers to represent the wanderers of France in a charitypageant to be given at the Paris Opera.

  After many perils, brought upon her by the green-eyed jealousy of othergypsies, she had achieved a singular triumph on that great occasion.

  As guests of this pageant, two Americans sat in a box that night. One wasa playwright, the other a producer.

  As the dance progressed, as Petite Jeanne, seeming fairly to fly throughthe air, passed from one movement to another in her bewitching dance, oneof these men touched the other lightly on the arm to whisper: "She is theone."

  "The very one," the other had whispered back.

  "We must have her."

  "We will."

  That was all for the time. But now, after several months, Petite Jeanne,as she sat in this cabin by the side of a great lake, reveled in thedream of flitting through her gypsy dance with two thousand Americansswaying in unconscious rhythm to her every movement, and that not onenight, but many nights on end.

  "Nights and nights and nights," she now murmured, as she clasped herhands before her.

  But suddenly, as if a cloud had fallen over all, she became consciousonce more of dim light and night. Not alone that. There came to her now asense of approaching danger.

  The gypsies are curious people. Who knows what uncanny power theypossess? A gypsy, a very old woman, had in some way imparted to PetiteJeanne some of this power. It gave her the ability to divine the presenceof those she knew, even when they were some distance away. Was it mentaltelepathy? Did these others think, and were their thoughts carried by whoknows what power, as the radio message is carried over the ether, to thisgirl's sensitive brain? Who knows? Enough that a message now came; thatit caused her to shudder and glance hurriedly about her.

  "Gypsies," she said aloud. "There must be gypsies near, French gypsies,my enemies."

  Yet, even as she said this, the thing seemed absurd. She had inquired ofthe native population concerning gypsies. They did not so much as knowthat such people existed. This section of the country, where the greaterpart of all travel is done on water, and where the people are poor, hasseldom been visited by a gypsy caravan.

  "And yet," she said with conviction, "they _are_ near!"

  CHAPTER IV WHY?

  There is that about the woods and water at night which casts upon one aspell of irresistible loneliness and sadness. It is as if all thegenerations of those who have lived and died in the vicinity, whosecanoes have glided silently through rippling waters, whose axes haveawakened echoes and whose campfires have brought dark shadows into being,return at this hour to mourn their loss of a beautiful world.

  Florence felt something of this as the mystery lady donned a cloak ofsomber hue, then pushed a dark rowboat into the water.

  A faint knock of oarlock was the only sound that disturbed the grave-likestillness.

  Some dark bird, awakened from his sleep, rose in their path to goswooping away without a sound.

  The lady of the island did not speak. From time to time she glanced overher shoulder to sweep the water with her eye. When some object a littledarker than the water appeared in the distance, she pursued a course thatled directly to it.

  "There," she said, as they bumped against the object, "is your boat. Itdoesn't seem large, nor heavy. You are strong. Perhaps we can right it."

  Ten minutes of muscle testing struggle and the boat, half filled withwater, lay alongside.

  As Florence settled back to catch her breath before assisting in bailingout the boat, she exclaimed:

  "How can rich people be so thoughtless, reckless and cruel?"

  "Why!" said her hostess in a mild tone, "I haven't found them so."

  "Didn't they rush our boat, then laugh as it went over?"

  "Did they? Tell me about it." The young lady's tone suddenly took on anote of lively interest.

  Florence told her exactly what had happened.

  "That is queer," said the lady, as she finished. "Your boat is dark; yourfriend wore a dark cape. Until to-night I have spent every evening for aweek in this bay, sitting just as your companion was sitting, in anattitude of meditation, you might say. Since you were lying stretched outin the stern, you would be practically hidden by darkness. One mighteasily conclude that I was the intended victim of this little joke, if itmay be called that, and that you had stepped in the way of it."

  "But why should they run you down?" The question slipped unbidden fromFlorence's lips.

  It went unanswered.

  They bailed out the boa
t, took it in tow, then rowed back as they hadcome, in silence.

  "Why should anyone wish to run you down?" The lady of the island askedthis question quite abruptly the moment they entered the cabin.

  "Why I--I don't know." Florence remained silent for a moment before sheadded, "We have heard that there is an actress visiting the Eries, thoserich people over on the far point. From the description, it might beGreen Eyes."

  "Green Eyes? What a name!" The mystery lady opened her eyes wide.

  "It's not her real name," Florence hastened to assure her. "She's JensieJameson."

  "Oh! I have seen her. She is quite marvelous. But why do you call herGreen Eyes?"

  "Perhaps we're not quite fair to her. She seems jealous of my friendhere. Green-eyed, as we have a way of saying. Besides, in some lights hereyes are truly green."

  "Green Eyes." The tone of the mystery lady became reflective. "Howterrible! What can be worse than jealousy? Hatred is bad. But jealousy!How many beautiful friendships have been destroyed, how many happy homeswrecked by jealousy. If I were given to that terrible sin, I should fightit day and night.

  "As for this affair--" She changed the subject abruptly. "I think you mayfeel at ease. Unless I miss my guess, this bit of misfortune was notmeant for you at all.

  "And now--" She swung about. "What of to-night? Your clothes are not dry.I can loan you some. But are you not afraid to return to camp at thislate hour?"

  "We have little to fear." Florence smiled in a strange way. "We have abear."

  "A bear?"

  "A pet bear."

  "But you?" said Petite Jeanne. "Are you not afraid to stay here alone?"

  "I have never been afraid." The strange lady's tone was quiet, full ofassurance. "Besides, I trust God and keep my powder dry." She glanced atthe two guns hanging above her bed. "I have no right to be afraid. It ismy business not to be.

  "You may leave these on the little dock to-morrow," she said, as shehelped the girls into some loose fitting house dresses. "You will findyour own there."

  A moment later Florence saw the door to the cabin close as she pushedaway from the dock.

  A dark bulk greeted them at their own door. This was Tico, PetiteJeanne's bear, her companion in the gypsy dance which, they hoped, was tomake her famous. They had brought him along in order that, alone andquite unmolested in natural surroundings, the heart of the north woods,Jeanne might practice her part in the forthcoming play.

  Next morning Jeanne and Tico, the bear, wandered away into the forest.

  Florence went fishing. There is a type of fishing for every mood. Thisday Florence wished to think. Since she was in no mood for silentmeditation she fastened a large spoon-hook to her fifty yard line,dropped rod and reel in the bottom of the boat, wrapped the line abouther right hand, then went trolling along the edge of a weed bed.

  The water rippled slightly, the rushes nodded now and then to a gust ofwind. Her oars made a low dip-dip as she glided across the water. She didnot expect to get a bite. She was trolling more for thoughts than forfish.

  Into her mind crowded many questions. Who was the lady of the island? Whydid her blue eyes reflect so much of fearless daring? Why this strangeretreat? Why the automatics above her bed? Why was she here at all? Therewas something about this young woman that suggested intrigue, crime,possible violence.

  "And yet, in such surroundings!" She laughed out loud. "Could there be amore peaceful spot in all the world?"

  And indeed, could there be? Half a mile down the bay a tiny villagebasked in the sun. A general store, a confectionery, a grocery, a postoffice, a few scattered cabins and cottages; this was Cedar Point. Toright and left of her lay deep bays. Bays and points alike were dottedwith summer cottages, where tired city people came to rest and fish.Across the bay, half a mile away, were islands. Four of these islandswere small, one large. There, too, were cottages. Who lived in thosecottages? To this question she could form only a vague answer. Two orthree were owned by millionaires with speed boats and yachts.

  "They can have them." She gave her line a fling. "Gas driven things.Bah!" Her splendid muscles set her boat shooting forward. "What's betterthan the good old oars and a boat that's light and fast?"

  "I wish, though," she added with a scowl, "that they'd leave us alone."

  This sent her thoughts off on another tack. Once more her line wasforgotten.

  "Those people in that speed boat last night meant to run someone down,"she said with assurance. "Question is, who? And why? Were they afterPetite Jeanne? Was it Green Eyes? Or were they after the lady of theisland? She believes they were after her. But why were they after her?She didn't tell me a thing. She--"

  Of a sudden there came a great tug at her line.

  "Wow!" she cried, dropping the oars and snatching at her pole. "Got afish. Wonder what--

  "Wow, what a yank!"

  She gained possession of her rod in the nick of time. Not ten feet ofline were on her reel when she seized the handle and held fast.

  For a space of ten seconds it seemed the stout line would snap. Then itwent slack.

  "Dumb! Lost him. I--

  "No." She reeled in furiously. The fish was coming toward her. Then hewhirled about. As the line went taut again the fish leaped high out ofthe water.

  "A pike or a muskie!" she murmured. "I must have him!"

  A battle royal followed. Now the fish, yielding stubbornly yard by yard,approached the boat. Then, catching sight of her, he leaped away, makingthe reel sing.

  Again she had him under control. Not for long. A raging demon fightingfor freedom he was.

  For fully a quarter of an hour she fought him until, quite worn out, heyielded, and a twenty pound muskie shot head foremost into her landingnet.

  "To think," she exclaimed, "that I could come out to mull things over andshould catch such a fish!

  "Ah well, life's that way. I come to think. I catch a fish. We come hereseeking absolute quiet, and what do we find? Mystery, intrigue, and allthat promises to keep us up late nights figuring out the next move on thecheckerboard of life."

  CHAPTER V THE GYPSY CHILD

  In the meantime, accompanied by the lumbering bear, Petite Jeanne hadfollowed a narrow way that led to the heart of the forest. At first herway was along a grass-grown road that narrowed to a path used in autumnby hunters. This path at last became only a trail for wild animals. In asoft marshy spot she came upon the clean-cut prints of a wild deer'shoofs and the smaller marks of her fawn. There, too, she measured thefootprints of a bear.

  "A small, black brother of yours," she said to Tico. The bear appeared tounderstand, for he reared himself on two legs to sniff the air and showhis teeth.

  Leaving this path at last, she climbed a low hill. There she entered anarrow grass-grown spot devoid of trees.

  Here, with only the fir and balsam trees standing in a circle at arespectful distance to witness, she robed herself in one of those filmycreations known to Paris alone.

  Then, with all the native grace that the Creator had bestowed upon her,she went through the steps of that weird dance that was to be the climaxof the drama in which she had been given a great part.

  "It is now moonlight at the back of a battlefield," she whispered softlyto herself. "This is a dance to the dead, to the dead who liveforevermore, to those beautiful brave souls who loved their land morethan life."

  Should one have happened upon her there, dancing with the bear, he mustsurely have been tempted to believe in fairies. So light was her step, solissom and free her slight form, so zephyr-like her flowing costume, sogreat the contrast between her and the cumbersome bear, that she seemedat this moment a creature of quite another world. Yet this fairy wascapable of feeling fatigue. In time she wound her filmy gown about herand threw herself on a bed of moss, to lie there panting from exhaustionbrought on by her wild gyrations.

  * * * * * * * *

  Florence, having thought out her proble
ms as far as she was able tofollow them, which was not far, and having conquered her muskie, hadrowed home, docked her boat and entered the cabin. She remained for a fewmoments indoors; then she reappeared with a basket on her arm. She tookthe trail of Jeanne and the bear.

  It was on this same trail that she experienced a severe shock.

  As she trudged along over the moss padded path, her soft soled sneakersmade no sound. Thus it happened that, as she rounded a clump of darkspruce trees, she came unobserved upon a little woodland fantasy playedby a child and a chipmunk. The chipmunk was in the path, the child at oneside. A nut was in the child's hand, a gleam of desire in the chipmunk'seye.

  The little striped creature advanced a few steps, whisked his tail,retreated, then advanced again. The statuesque attitude of the child wasremarkable. "Like a bronze statue," Florence told herself.

  The fingers that held the nut did not tremble. One would have said thatthe child did not so much as wink an eye.

  For a space of ten minutes that bit of a play continued. The thing wasremarkable in a child so young.

  "Not a day over seven," Florence told herself, as she studied the child'severy feature and the last touch of her unusual attire.

  At last patience won. The chipmunk sprang forward to grasp the nut, thenwent flying away.

  Did Florence utter an unconscious, but quite audible sigh? It would seemso. For suddenly, after one startled upward glance, the child, too,disappeared.