CHAPTER XII

SILVER GRAY TREASURE

"What do you think!" exclaimed Cordie. "It was such a strange thing to happen. I just have to tell some one, or I'll burst. I daren't tell Lucile. I am afraid she'd scold me."

James, the mysterious seaman who carried bundles in the book department, looked at her and smiled.

"I've heard a lot of stories in my life, and them that wasn't to be repeated, wasn't. If you've got a yarn to file away in the pigeon holes of somebody's brain, why file it with me."

She had come upon James while on the way from the cloak room. She would have to wait a full half hour before Lucile would have finished her work, and she felt that she just must tell some one of her thrilling adventure with Dick and the policeman.

Seated on the edge of a table, feet dangling and fingers beating time to the music of her story, she told James of this thrilling adventure.

"You came out well enough at that," he chuckled when she had finished. "Lots better'n I did the last time I mixed into things."

Cordie wondered if this remark had reference to his chase after the hawk-eyed young man who had followed her to the furnace room that night. But asking no questions, she just waited.

"Funny trip, that last sea voyage I took," James mused at last, his eyes half closed. "It wouldn't have been half bad if it hadn't been for one vile crook.

"You see," he went on, "sometimes of a summer I run up to Nome. I've always had a few hundred dollars, that is up until now. I'd go up there in the north and sort of wander round on gasoline schooners and river boats, buyin' up skins; red, white, cross fox, and maybe a silver gray or two. Minks and martin too, and ermine and Siberian squirrel.

"Always had a love for real furs; you know what I mean, the genuine stuff that stands up straight and fluffy and can't be got anywhere far south of the Arctic Circle--things like the fox skin that's on that cape your pal Lucile wears sometimes. When I see all these pretty girls wearin' rabbit skin coats, it makes me feel sort of bad. Why, even the Eskimos do better than that! They dress their women in fawn skin; mighty pretty they are, too, sometimes.

"Well, last summer I went up to Nome, that's in Alaska, you know, and from there I took a sort of pirate schooner that ranges up and down the coast of Alaska and into Russian waters."

"Pirate," breathed Cordie, but James didn't hear her.

"We touched at a point or two," he went on, "then went over into Russian waters for walrus hunting--ivory and skins.

"We ran into a big herd and filled the boat up, then touched at East Cape, Siberia.

"There wasn't any real Russians there, so we went up to the native village. Old Nepassok, the chief, seemed to take a liking to me. He took me into his storeroom and showed me all his treasure--walrus and mastodon ivory, whale bone, red and white fox skins by the hundred, and some mink and beaver. Then at last he pulled out an oily cotton bag from somewhere far back in the corner and drew out of it--what do you think? The most perfect brace of silver fox skins I have ever seen! Black beauties, they were, with maybe a white hair for every square inch. Just enough for contrast. Know who wears skins like that? Only the very wealthiest people.

"And there I was looking at them, worth a king's ransom, and maybe I could buy them."

"Could you?" breathed Cordie.

"I could, and did. It took me four hours. The chief was a hard nut to crack. He left me just enough to get back to Chicago, but what did I care? I had a fortune, one you could carry in two fair sized overcoat pockets, but a fortune all the same.

"I got to Chicago with them," he leaned forward impressively, "and then a barber--a dark faced, hawk-eyed barber--done me out of them. Of course he was a crook, just playing barber. Probably learned the trade in jail. Anyway he done me for my fortune. Cut my hair, he did, and somehow got the fox skins out of my bag. When I got to my hotel all I had in my bag was a few clothes and a ten dollar gold piece. I raced back to the barber shop but he was gone; drawed his pay and skipped, that quick.

"That," he finished, allowing his shoulders to drop into a slouch, "is why I'm carrying books here. I have to, or starve. Just what comes after Christmas I can't guess. It's not so easy to pick up a job after the holidays.

"But do you know--" he sat up straight and there was a gleam in his eye, "do you know when I saw that barber fellow last?"

"Where?"

"Down below the sub-basement of this store, in the boiler room at night."

"Not--not the one who was following me?"

"The same. And I nearly got him, but not quite."

"You--you didn't get him?"

Cordie hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad. She hated violence; also she had no love for that man.

"I did not get him," breathed James, "but next time I will, and what I'll say and do for him will be for both you and me. G'night!" He rose abruptly and, shoulders square, gait steady and strong, he walked away.

"What are you dreaming about?" Lucile asked as she came upon Cordie five minutes later.

"Nothing much, I guess. Thinking through a story I just heard, that's all."