CHAPTER XVII

A SURPRISE VISIT

To Florence with her interest in mechanical things and her love for the glorious throb of life, the cotton mill was a place of great enchantment. As she entered now she was greeted by the crack-crack-crack of a hundred shuttles and by the boom-bang of weavers’ beams.

“It sounds like a battle,” she told herself. “And so it is—a battle against depression, cold, hunger and despair.” She looked about her. Everywhere hands were busy, faces bright and hearts light.

“And to think,” she whispered, “all unknown to these honest, happy ones, there hangs above them a shadow like some great bombing airplane, a shadow that some day may drop a bomb as if from the sky upon all this glorious harmony of noise and still it forever. Unless—” she was thinking of the spy who, all undiscovered, lingered in their midst. He was a thief. No, he did not take their money, nor their other trifling treasures. He took their means of living—or would if he could.

“And who is he?” she asked herself. “Who?” She thought of the hunchback German who tended the motors, of the two dark-faced silent sisters who so resembled the spy that had escaped. “That one too may come back,” she told herself. Danby Force had said that he was sure they had not discovered all the secrets. “It’s a complicated process. Each secret is known by only one or two workers.” These had been his words. “No one of them knows all of it.” She thought of the black-eyed girl she had seen carrying away the bottle of dye stuff. “She may have wanted to analyse it,” she thought. “More likely that she merely used it to dye that dress she wore last night.” She laughed in spite of herself. Then she recalled the little ape-like man working out there among the shrubbery. He might know a great deal. Who could tell?

“No one knows now.” She clenched her hands tight. “But we shall know!”

That evening after working hours she was favored with a surprise visit. She had entered her tiny room in the canary-cage house. Weary and perplexed, wondering uneasily whether she had as yet been of any real service to this unusual community, and wondering too in a disturbed sort of way whether she should not tell Danby Force there was no use of her staying longer, she threw herself on her bed and had fallen half asleep when a touch like the brush of a feather awakened her.

At once she sprang to a sitting position.

“It is I, Verna.” There followed a low laugh. “You have a caller. And such a romantic one! You’d never guess.” Verna laughed a low, happy laugh.

“Danby Force is not romantic,” said the big girl, fumbling at her hair.

“And it’s not Mr. Force,” said Verna. Her cheeks, Florence saw, were flushed. “It is Hugo, Hugo!” There was a note of deep admiration in her tone as she repeated the name a second time softly: “Hugo.”

“Oh, Hugo?” Florence started. Hugo, the one who had stolen her act, was here to see her. She wondered why. And, what was more, this lovely school girl admired him greatly.

“Did you see him?” she asked.

“No. Oh! I wish I had!” Verna clasped her hands. “Mother opened the door. She seated him, then called me from the kitchen to tell you. Aren’t you thrilled? You are not hurrying at all.”

“No,” Florence said quietly, “it isn’t wise to hurry—at least not for a man.” She smiled at this, then gave the girl a pat on the cheek.

She found herself considerably disturbed as she stepped into the little parlor.

“Ah!” Hugo, the magnificent, sprang to his feet at sight of her. And he was, in his own way, magnificent,—bright blue suit, orange colored tie, a flower in his buttonhole, a smile showing all his white teeth. “Ah, Miss Huyler. I came to congratulate you, to tell you how wonderful the party was last night. You certainly are a marvelous hostess. We of the mill—”

He broke short off to stare at something on the wall. He stood there for a count of ten, then he murmured, “How exquisite! How charmingly beautiful!”

He was looking at a picture. It was indeed beautiful. Done by a very great artist who had chanced to visit the little city, it was carefully done,—a picture of a very beautiful face.

“Yes,” Florence said quietly, “that is a picture of Verna, the daughter of this house.”

“Do you mean to say she lives—that she is real!” The man’s astonishment was genuine.

“Yes,” Florence replied.

“I must meet her.” Hugo smiled a dazzling smile.

“She’s only a child in high school.”

“High school,” he murmured low. “Ah, that is the age of romance, of exquisite grace and beauty. I must meet her,” he repeated.

For just no real reason at all Florence wished to say, “I hope you never do,” and there came also a temptation to emphasize her thought with two or three words that do not often appear in print. What she did say was, “Won’t you have a seat? You wanted to see me about something?”

“Yes—yes—ah—” Hugo appeared to dance toward a chair. He sat down with the flourish of an expert rider mounting a horse. “Yes,—er—” He was on his feet again, circling about that picture. At last, like a bee that has circled a flower, his gaze came to a center close to the picture. “Ah yes,” he murmured. “A very great artist. A priceless thing!” Heaving a sigh, he tore himself away.

“Yes, Miss Huyler.” His change of poise and tone was fairly stunning. As he wheeled about he was once more the social conquistador, seeking, the girl knew not what advantage. “Yes, Miss Huyler, we admire you. In fact we enjoyed the party so much we wish you to organize another within a week, a truly wonderful party, a harvest ball. A thing to be done in costume, a masked ball.”

Florence might have reminded him that she had started her little social meeting as one sort of affair and that he had ended it in quite a different manner. She might have told him that if he wanted any sort of party at all, he was quite free to get it up as he chose. She did nothing of the kind. Instead, she said: “And does Mr. Force approve?”

“Oh, Force!” Hugo made a dismissing gesture. “He doesn’t mind. He wants this dead old town wakened up!”

“Does he?” Florence said quietly.

“Does he?” Hugo stared. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Florence started. “Yes, yes, I suppose that is why I’m here,” she replied hurriedly. It would never do for any of these people to guess why she was here. “Yes. And I am sure the party will be all right. I can count on your assistance and—and all the others?”

“Absolutely! Absolutely! That’s the spirit!” Hugo sprang forward to grasp her hand. For Florence that was a disturbing handclasp. Hugo’s hand was hot and trembling. After holding her hand ten seconds too long for her comfort, he suddenly dropped it to do three more turns about the room. Then, making a grab at his hat, and snatching a look at his watch, he exclaimed: “Must be going!” At that he bolted out of the room.

“What a remarkable person!” she thought a trifle wearily. “He’s a living impersonation of jazz.” He was a great deal more than that, but this she was to discover at a later date.

In the meantime she went to her room for a look at her mail. This was followed by a few moments of thinking. Those were very solemn thoughts indeed. “How,” she asked herself, “is this affair to end? Shall I discover the spy? If so, how and when? Will the spy be a man or a woman? Will there be a struggle, a trial perhaps?” She shuddered. “After all,” she thought, “perhaps I should have accomplished more by attempting to follow the dark lady’s trail.”

In time her thoughts began to wander. She thought of Hugo. “At least,” she told herself, “he has good taste in art. That is a lovely picture of Verna.”

Drawn by this thought, she left her room to wander into the small living room. Instantly her lips parted in a suppressed cry of surprise. _The picture was gone!_

“But then,” she thought, “why raise an alarm? I have been out of the room for some time. Perhaps a member of the family has carried it away.” She decided at last upon a course of watchful waiting. “I’ll find it in another room,” she told herself. But would she?