CHAPTER III A NEW MYSTERY
It was a very satisfactory reflection that Lucile's mirror returned toher next morning at ten. After fifteen minutes of such gymnastics as evena girl can perform in her own room with the shades down, followed by fiveminutes of a cold shower, she stood there pink and glowing as a child.The glow of health and joy remained on her cheeks even after her drabworking dress had been drawn on. It was heightened by the half hiding ofthem in that matchless white fox collar. Almost instantly, however, alook of perplexity overspread her face as her eyes caught the reflectionof a tiny spot of crimson against the darker color of the gorgeous capewhich had so mysteriously come into her possession.
"The crimson thread," she whispered. "I do wonder what it could mean."
The elevated train whirled her swiftly to her place of toil.
To her vast relief, the first familiar figure to catch her eyes as shepassed between the tables of books in her own corner at the store wasthat of Laurie Seymour.
Could it be that as he smiled and nodded to her she caught in his eye alook of witching mockery? One thing she did see plainly enough--therewere slight bruises and two freshly plastered cuts on his right hand.
"Got them when he went down the chute," she told herself.
As she paused before him she threw back the broad front of the mysteriouscape and said:
"You should know something about this, I am sure."
"Beg pardon?" He started and Lucile thought she saw a sudden flush on hischeek.
"You should know something about this," she repeated.
"Why, no, begging your pardon again," he answered easily. "Having had nosisters and having never ventured into matrimony, I know almost nothingabout women's garments. I should say, though, that it was a fine cape, acorking fine one. You should be proud of it, really you should."
This was all said in such a serious tone, and yet with such a concealedtouch of mockery in it, that Lucile abruptly turned away. Plainly therewas nothing to be learned from him concerning the mystery, at least notat the present moment.
As she turned, her eyes chanced to fall upon a stack of books that stoodby the end of the table.
"Well, well!" she exclaimed. "There were two hundred books in that stacklast night! Now they are at least a third gone!"
"Yes," Laurie smiled, and in his smile there was a look of personalinterest. "Yes, they are going very well indeed. We shall need to beordering more soon. You see, it's the critics. They say it is a goodbook, an especially good book for young folks. I can't say as to that. Itsells, I can assure you of that, and is going to sell more and more."
As Lucile made her way to the cloak room, she was reminded of a rumorthat had passed through the department on the previous day. The rumor hadit that Jefrey Farnsworth, the author of this remarkable book "BlueFlames," (of which she and Laurie had just been speaking, and which wasproving to be a best seller in its line and threatening to outsell thelatest popular novel) had disappeared shortly after the publication ofhis book.
The rumor went on further to dilate upon the subject to the extent thatthis promising young man (for he was a young man--no rumor about that)had received a letter the very day he had vanished. There was no mysteryabout the letter. Having been found on his table, it had proven to be buta letter from his publishers saying that his book would undoubtedly be agreat success and that, should he be willing to arrange a lecture to begiven before women's clubs regarding his work and his books, they had nodoubt but that he would greatly profit by it and that in the end hissales would be doubled. Women's clubs all over the land would welcome himwith open hands and sizable checks. The letter had said all this and somefew other things. And upon that day, perhaps the most eventful day of hislife, Farnsworth had vanished as completely as he might had he grownwings and flown to the moon.
"Only a rumor," Lucile said to herself, "but if it's true, it's mysterynumber two."
Instantly there flashed through her mind the puzzling look of unusualinterest that she had noticed on Laurie's face as he spoke of the hugesales of the book.
With this recollection came a strong suggestion which she instantly putfrom her mind.
After hanging the mysterious cape in a secluded corner, she hunted outher sales-book and plunged into her work. Even a sales-book of soiled redleather may be entrusted with a mystery. This she was to learn soonenough.
Such an afternoon as it proved to be! She had need enough for that robuststrength of hers. Saturday afternoon it was--two weeks before Christmas.As the clock struck the noon hour the great office buildings poured forthpeople like a molten stream. Bosses, bookkeepers, stenographers,sales-managers, office boys, every type of man, woman and overgrown childflooded the great stores. Mingling with these were the thousands uponthousands of school children, teachers, and parents, all free for anafternoon of pleasure.
A doubtful sort of pleasure, this. Jostling elbow to elbow, trampling andbeing trampled upon, snatching here, snatching there, taking up goods andtossing them down in the wrong place, they fought their way about. Thetoy department, candy department, children's book department--these werethe spots where the great waves of humanity broke most fiercely. Crowdedbetween a fat woman with a muff and a slim man with a grouch, Lucilewrote a sale for a tired looking little lady with two small children. Inthe meantime an important appearing woman in tight fitting kid gloves wasinsisting that Lucile had promised to "wait upon" her next. As a matterof fact Lucile had not seen her until that very moment, and had actuallypromised to sell a large book to a small person who was in a hurry tocatch a train.
"Catch a train!" Lucile exclaimed to the checking girl. "There must be atrain leaving every two minutes. They're all catching trains."
So, crowded, pushed and jostled about, answering a hundred reasonablequestions and two hundred unreasonable ones every hour; smiling when asmile would come, wondering in a vague sort of way what it was all about,catching the chance remark of a customer about "Christmas spirit," Lucilefought her way through the long day.
Then at last, a half hour before closing time, there came the lull.Blessed lull! Almost as abruptly as it had come, the flood ebbed away.Here and there a little group of people moved slowly away; and heresomeone argued over a long forgotten book or hurried in to snatch up abook and demand instant attention. But in the main the flood-tide hadspent itself.
Creeping back into a dark corner and seating herself upon the floor,Lucile added up her sales and then returned to assist in straightening upthe tables which had taken on the appearance of a chip yard.
"People have a wonderful respect for books," she murmured to Laurie.
"Yes, a lot of respect for the one they buy," smiled Laurie. "They'llwreck a half dozen of them to find a spotless copy for their ownpurchasing."
"Yes, they do that, but just think what a shock to dear Rollo or Algernonif he should receive a book with a slightly torn jacket-cover for aChristmas present!"
"That _would_ be a shock to his nervous system," laughed Laurie.
For a time they worked on in silence. Lucile put all the Century classicsin order and filled the gaps left by the frenzied purchasers. Laurie,working by her side, held up a book.
"There," he said, "is a title for you."
She read the title: "The Hope for Happiness."
"Why should one hope for it when they may really have it?" Laurieexclaimed.
"May one have happiness?" Lucile asked.
"Surely one may! Why if one--"
Lucile turned to find a customer at her elbow.
"Will you sell me this?"
The customer, a lady, thrust a copy of Pinocchio into her hand.
"Cash?"
"Yes. I'll take it with me, please."
There was a sweet mellowness in the voice.
Without glancing up, Lucile set her nimble fingers to writing the sale.As she wrote, almost automatically, she chanced to glance at thecustomer's hands.
One's hands m
ay be as distinctive and tell as much of character as one'sface. It was so with these hands. Lucile had never seen such fingers.Long, slim, tapering, yet hard and muscular, they were such fingers asmight belong to a musician or a pickpocket. Lucile felt she would alwaysremember those hands as easily as she might recall the face of some otherperson. As if to make doubly sure that she might not forget, on theforefinger of the right hand was a ring of cunning and marvelous design;a dragon wrought in gold, with eyes of diamonds and a tongue of ten tinyrubies. No American craftsmanship, this, but Oriental, Indian orJapanese.
Without lifting her eyes, Lucile received the money, carried her book tothe wrapper and delivered the package to the purchaser. Then she returnedto her task of putting things to rights.
Scarcely a moment had elapsed when, on glancing toward her cash bookwhich lay open on a pile of books, she started in surprise.
There could be no mistaking it. From it there came a flash of crimson.Imagine her surprise when she found that the top page of her book hadbeen twice pierced by a needle and that a crimson thread had been drawnthrough and knotted there in exactly the same manner as had that otherbit of thread on the blue cape.
It required but a glance to assure her that through this thread there ranthe single strand of purple. The next instant she was dashing down theaisle, hoping against hope that she might catch a glimpse of the mysterywoman with the extraordinary fingers and the strange ring.
In this she failed. The woman had vanished.
"And to think," she exclaimed in exasperation, "to think that I did notlook at her face! Such a foolish way as we do get into--paying noattention to our customers! If I had but looked at her face I would haveknown. Then I would have demanded the truth. I would have--" she pausedto reflect, "well, perhaps I shouldn't have said so much to her, but Iwould have known her better. And now she is gone!"
But there was yet work to be done. Drawing herself together with aneffort, she hurried back to her table where the disorderly pile of bookslay waiting to be rearranged.
"Speaking of happiness," said Laurie, for all the world as if theirconversation had not been interrupted, "I don't see much use of writing abook on the hope for happiness when one may be happy right here and now.Oh, I know there are those who sing:
"'This world's a wilderness of woe. This world is not my home.'
"But that's religion, of a sort; mighty poor sort, too, I'd say. Ideabeing that this world's all wrong and that if you enjoy any of it, if thescent of spring blossoms, the songs of birds, the laugh of children atplay, the lazy drift of fleecy clouds against the azure sky, if thesethings make you happy, then you're all wrong. I guess they'd say: 'Lifehere is to be endured. Happiness only comes after death.' Huh! I don'tthink much of that."
"How can one secure happiness?" Lucile asked the question almostwistfully. She was over-tired and not a little perplexed.
"There's a lot of things that go with making people happy," said Laurieas his nimble fingers flew from book to book. "I'm quite sure thathappiness does not come from long hours in a ball-room nor from smokingcigarettes, nor any one of the many things that put dark rings about theeyes of our young new rich or near rich, and that set their eyelidstwitching.
"Happiness," he mused, throwing back his head and laughing softly. "Why,it's as easy to be happy as it is to tell the truth. Have friends and betrue to them. Find a place you love to be and be there. Keep your bodyand mind fit. Sleep eight hours; eat slowly; take two hours for quietthinking every day. Have a crowd you love, a crowd you feel that youbelong to and fit in with. Of course they'll not be perfect. None of usare. But loveable they are, all the same.
"For instance, take the crowd here," he said, lowering his voice. "Youand I are transients here. Christmas eve comes and out we go. But look atDonnie and Rennie, Bob, Bettie, and dear old Morrison over there in thecorner. They're the regular ones, been here for years, all of them.
"See here," he continued earnestly, "I'll bet that when you came in hereyou had the popular magazine notion of the people who work in departmentstores; slang of the worst kind, paint an inch thick, lip stick, sordidjealousy, envy, no love, no fellowship. But look! What would happen ifRennie, the dear mother and straw-boss of us all, should slip before acar and be seriously injured to-night? What would happen? Not a soul ofus all, even us transients, but would dig down and give our last penny tobuy the things that would help her bear it. That's what I mean, a gangthat you belong to, that you suffer with, endure things with and enjoylife with! That's the big secret of happiness."
As Lucile listened to this short lecture on happiness, she worked. Atlast her task was done. Then with a hurried: "Thanks awfully. Goodnight,"she rushed for the cloak-room preparatory to donning the fur-lined cape.She half expected to find it gone, but it was not, and after throwing itacross her shoulders she dashed down the stairs to join the homewardrushing throng.
As she snuggled down beneath the covers that night, she found her minddwelling with unusually intense interest upon the events of the past twodays. Like pictures on a screen, strange, unanswerable questions passedthrough her mind. Who was the mystery woman of the night shadows in thebook department? Why had Laurie given her his pass-out? Why had she lefther gorgeously beautiful cape behind for a shop girl to wear home? Howhad the unusual crimson thread come to be drawn into the cloth of thecape? Had the mystery woman put it there? Had she drawn that threadthrough the page of Lucile's cash book? It seemed that she must have. Butwhy? Why? Why? This last word kept ringing in her ears. Why had Lauriegiven up his pass-out? Where had he slept that night? How did it happenthat an elevator in a department store at night ran of its own accordwith no one to work the lever? Surely here were problems enough to keepone small brain busy.
Then again, there was the problem of the missing author of thatwonderfully successful book. What did Laurie know about that? Why had hetalked so strangely about it?
When she had allowed all these problems to pass in review before hermind's eye, she came to but one conclusion--that she would believe Lauriea sincere and trustworthy person until he had been proven otherwise. Herfaith had been shaken a bit by the revelation of the night before.
"Life," she whispered sleepily to herself, "is certainly strange. Surelyone who can talk so wonderfully about happiness can't be bad. And yetit's all very mysterious."
Right there she concluded that mysteries of the right sort added much tothe happiness of us all, and with that she fell asleep.