Part 27 (1/2)

He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said:

”Call me on the phone at that number to-morrow, or else at the Butler House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful silver fox skins back. I--might have a customer for them if you do.”

”It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did,” he smiled.

”But it's going to be all right anyway.”

Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start.

”Right on the Gold Coast!” was his mental comment. ”Out where there is nothing but palaces and mansions!”

CHAPTER XXIII MEG'S SECRET

And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all.

Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence was thinking fine things about Meg.

”This girl Meg certainly has a way about her,” she thought. ”She does things to people.”

She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. ”Surely,” she told herself, ”she didn't use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn't do that, though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve.”

One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman.

Florence hadn't heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told her she might run along. How was she to account for that?

She didn't bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised to tell.

It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had blown itself out and the stars were s.h.i.+ning. They were soon aboard a car bound for home.

An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet, Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts.

Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this would not be surprising.

She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous experiences of an exciting night are all at an end.

At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all; for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence's Christmas secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the witching hour when secrets are revealed.

”There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before the tower clock strikes midnight,” said Florence, glancing at the small clock on her desk.

”Oh!” laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. ”There really isn't much to tell. I've already told you that since I was a slip of a child I've lived on s.h.i.+ps with my uncle. He's a mate. We've been on a lot of s.h.i.+ps because he often drinks too much and can't hold his position. He's a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way.”

”That man who----”

”No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim, a sailor. My uncle sent him.

”Well, you know,” she went on, ”at first I was just sort of a s.h.i.+p's mascot and the sailors' plaything. They rode me on their backs and carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast.

”That didn't last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me to work. And I've been at work ever since.”

She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and hard as a farmer's wife's.