CHAPTER XXII

THE ARMORED HORSE

As for Jeanne, once more dressed as Pierre and feeling like just no one at all, she had gone wandering away into the shadows of the orchestra floor, when suddenly she started. Someone had touched her arm.

Until this moment she had quite forgotten the lone auditor seated there in the dark. Now as she bent low to look into that person's face she started again as a name came to her lips.

"Rosemary Robinson!"

"It is I," Rosemary whispered. "I saw it all, Pierre." She held Jeanne's hand in a warm grasp. "You were wonderful! Simply magnificent! And the director. He was beastly!"

"No! No!" Jeanne protested. "He was but doing his duty."

"This," Rosemary replied slowly, "may be true. But for all that you are a marvelous 'Juggler of Notre Dame.' And it is too bad he found out.

"But come!" she whispered eagerly, springing to her feet. "Why weep when there is so much to be glad about? Let us go exploring!

"My father," she explained, "has done much for this place. I have the keys to every room. There are many mysteries. You shall see some of them."

Seizing Jeanne's hand, she led the way along a corridor, down two gloomy flights of stairs and at last into a vast place where only here and there a light burned dimly.

They were now deep down below the level of the street. The roar and thunder of traffic came to them only as a subdued rumble of some giant talking in his sleep.

The room was immense. Shadows were everywhere, shadows and grotesque forms.

"Where are we?" Jeanne asked, scarcely able to repress a desire to flee.

"It is one of the property rooms of the Opera House. What will you have?" Rosemary laughed low and deep. "Only ask for it. You will find it here. All these things are used at some time or another in the different operas."

As Jeanne's eyes became accustomed to the pale half-light, she realized that this must be nearly true. In a corner, piled tight in great dark sections, was a miniature mountain. Standing on edge, but spilling none of its make-believe water, was a pond where swans were wont to float.

A little way apart were the swans, resting on great heaps of grass that did not wither and flowers that did not die.

In a distant corner stood a great gray castle. Someone had set it up, perhaps to make sure that it was all intact, then had left it standing.

"What a place for mystery!" Jeanne exclaimed.

"Yes, and listen! Do you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The river. We are far below the river. Listen. Do you not hear it flowing?"

"I hear only the rumble of traffic."

"Perhaps I only imagine it, but always when I visit this place I seem to hear the river rushing by. And always I think, 'What if the walls should crumble?'"

"But they will not crumble."

"We shall hope not.

"But see." The rich girl's mood changed. "Here is a charger! Let us mount and ride!"

She sprang toward a tall object completely covered by a white cloth. When the cloth had been dragged off, a great steed all clad in glittering armor stood before them.

"Come!" Rosemary's voice rose high. "Here we are! You are a brave knight. I am a defenseless lady. Give me your hand. Help me to mount behind you. Then I will cling to you while we ride through some deep, dark forest where there are dragons and cross-bowmen and all sorts of terrifying perils."

Joining her in this spirit of make-believe, Jeanne assisted her to the back of the inanimate charger.

Having touched some secret button, Rosemary set the charger in motion. They were riding now. Swaying from side to side, rising, falling, they seemed indeed to be passing through some dark and doleful place. As Jeanne closed her eyes the illusion became quite complete. As she felt Rosemary clinging to her as she might cling to some gallant knight, she forgot for the time that she was Petite Jeanne and that she had suffered a dire disappointment.

"I am Pierre!" she whispered to herself. "I am a brave knight. Rosemary loves me."

The disquieting effect of this last thought awakened her to the realities of life. Perhaps, after all, Rosemary did love her a little as Pierre. If this were true--

Sliding off the steed, then lifting Rosemary to the floor, she exclaimed:

"Come! Over yonder is a castle. Let us see who is at home over there."

Soon enough she was to see.

The castle was, as all stage castles are, a mere shell; very beautiful and grand on the outside, a hollow echo within. For all that, the two youthful adventurers found a certain joy in visiting that castle. There was a rough stairway leading up through great empty spaces within to a broad, iron-railed balcony. From this balcony, on more than one night, an opera lover had leaned forth to sing songs of high enchantment, luring forth a hidden lover.

They climbed the stairs. Then Petite Jeanne, caught by the spell of the place, leaned far out of the window and burst into song, a wild gypsy serenade.

Rosemary was leaning back among the rafters, drinking in the sweet mystery of life that was all about her, when of a sudden the French girl's song broke off. Her face went white for an instant as she swayed there and must surely have fallen had not Rosemary caught her.

"Wha--what is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

For a space of seconds there came no answer, then a low whisper:

"Those eyes! I saw them. Those evil eyes. Back of the mountain. They glared at me."

"Eyes?"

"The dark-faced man. He--he frightens me! The way out! We must find it!"

Roused by her companion's fears, Rosemary led the way on tiptoe down the stairs. Still in silence they crossed the broad emptiness of the castle, came to a rear door, tried it, felt it yield to their touch, and passed through, only to hear the intruder come racing down the stairs.

"He--he did not see us!" Rosemary panted. "For now we are safe. This--come this way!"

She crowded her way between a stairway lying upon its side and a property porch. Jeanne, whose heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs, followed in silence.

"What a brave knight I am!" she told herself, and smiled in spite of her deathly fears.

"The way out," Rosemary whispered over her shoulder. "If I only can find that!"

A sound, from somewhere behind, startled them into renewed effort.

Passing through a low forest of property trees, they crossed a narrow bare space to find themselves confronted by a more formidable forest of chairs and tables. Chairs of all sorts, with feet on the floor or high in air, blocked their way.

As Rosemary attempted to creep between two great piles, one of these toppled to the floor with a resounding crash.

"Come!" Her tone was near despair. "We must find the way out!"

As for Jeanne, she was rapidly regaining her composure. This was not the only time she had been lost in an Opera House. The Paris Opera had once held her a prisoner.

"Yes, yes. The way out!" She took the lead. "I think I see a light, a tiny red light."

For a second she hesitated. What was this light? Was it held in the hand of the unwelcome stranger? Was it an "Exit" light?

"It's the way out!" she exulted. A quick turn, a sharp cry and she went crashing forward. Some object had lain in her path. She had stumbled upon it in the dark.

What was it? This did not matter. All that mattered were Rosemary and the way out.

Where was Rosemary? Leaping to her feet, she glanced wildly about. A move from behind demoralized her. One more wild dash and she was beneath that red light. Before her was a door. And at that door, pressing the knob, was Rosemary.

Next instant they had crowded through that door.

But where were they? Narrow walls hemmed them in on every side.

"It's a trap!" Rosemary moaned.

Not so Jeanne. She pressed a button. They were in a French elevator. They went up.

Up, up they glided. The light of a door came, then faded, then another and yet another.

In consternation lest they crash at the top, Jeanne pressed a second button. They came to a sudden halt. A light shone above them. A second, slower upward glide and they were before still another door. The door swung open. Still filled with wild panic, they rushed into a room where all was dark, and lost themselves in a perfect labyrinth where costumes by hundreds hung in rows.

Crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, with scarcely room to breathe, they stood there panting, waiting, listening.

Slowly their blood cooled. No sound came to their waiting ears. Still Jeanne felt Rosemary's heart beating wildly.

"To her I am a knight," she thought. "I am Pierre."

Then a thought struck her all of a heap. "Perhaps I am not Pierre to her. She may suspect. Yes, she may know!" A cold chill gripped her heart. "If she finds out, what an impostor she will believe me to be!

"And yet," she thought more calmly, "I have meant no wrong. I only wanted to be near the opera, to be ready for any great good fortune that might befall me.

"Besides, how could she know? Who would tell her? The lady in black? But how could she know? No! No! My secret is safe.

"Come!" she whispered a moment later, "I think we have escaped from those most terrible eyes."

Creeping out, they made their way along a corridor that welcomed them with ever-increasing brightness until they stood before a passenger elevator. A moment later they stood in the clear bright light of late autumn afternoon.

Throwing back her chest, the little French girl, who for a moment was Pierre, drank in three deep breaths, then uttered a long-drawn:

"Wh-e-w!"

"This," said Rosemary, extending her hand as she might had she been leaving a party, "has been delightful. So perfectly wonderful. Let's do it again sometime.

"One more thing!" She whispered this. "They have never found my pearls. But it really does not matter, at least not very much. What are pearls among friends?"

Before Petite Jeanne could recover from her surprise she was gone.

"I suppose," she sighed as she turned to go on her way, "that some people have many terrible adventures and want none, and some have none but want many. What a crazy, upside-down world this is, after all."

She was well on her way home when a question, coming into her mind with the force of a blow, left her stunned.

"Why did Rosemary say: 'The pearls have not been found. It does not matter?'

"Does she believe I took the pearls?" she asked herself, when she had partially recovered her poise. "And was she telling me I might keep them?

"How absurd! And yet, what did she mean?

"And, after all, how could she help believing that I took them? I ran away. There has been no explanation. Unless--unless she knows that I am Petite Jeanne and not Pierre! And how could she know?"

That night as, once more playing the role of Pierre, she entered the boxes, she found Jaeger, the detective, in his place. And, lurking deep in the shadows was the lady in black. She shuddered anew.