"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 Nepa.s.sok, 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-bas.e.m.e.nt 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."

CHAPTER XIII LUCILE'S DREAM

That evening on the L train Lucile read a copy of the morning paper, one which she had carefully saved for a very definite reason. It was the paper which was exploiting the Lady of the Christmas Spirit. Lucile always got a thrill out of reading about the latest doings of that adventurous person who had managed to be everywhere, to mingle with great throngs, and yet to be recognized by no one.

"Well, I declare!" she whispered to herself as a fresh thrill ran through her being. "She was to be in our store this very afternoon; in the art room of the furniture store. That's the very room in which I saw Cordie and the Mystery Lady. This Lady of the Christmas Spirit may have been in the room at that exact moment. How very, very exciting!"

Closing her eyes, she tried to see that room again; to call back pictures of ladies who had entered the room while she had been looking down upon it.

"No," she thought at last, "there isn't one that fits; one was tall and ugly, one short, stout and middle aged, and two were quite gray. Not one fits the description of this Christmas Spirit person; unless, unless--"

her heart skipped a beat. She had thought of the Mystery Lady.

"But of course it couldn't be," she reasoned at last. "It doesn't say she was to be there at that very moment. I was not standing on the stair more than ten minutes. There are six such periods in an hour and nine and a half working hours in a store day. Fine chance! One chance in fifty. And yet, stranger things have happened. What if it were she! What----"

Her dreamings were broken short off by the sudden crumpling of paper at her side. Cordie had been glancing over the evening paper. Now the paper had entirely disappeared, and Cordie's face was crimson to the roots of her hair.

"Why Cordie, what's happened?" exclaimed Lucile.

"Noth--nothing's happened," said Cordie, looking suddenly out of the window.

That was all Lucile could get out of her. One thing seemed strange, however. At the stand by the foot of the elevated station Cordie bought two copies of the same paper she had been reading on the train. These she folded up into a solid bundle and packed tightly under her arm.

"I wonder why she did that?" Lucile thought to herself.

As often happens in bachelor ladies' apartments, this night there was nothing to be found in their larder save sugar, milk and cocoa.

"You get the cocoa to a boil," said Lucile, "and I'll run over to the delicatessen for something hot. I'm really hungry to-night." She was down the stairs and away.

Somewhat to her annoyance, she found the delicatessen packed with students waiting their turn to be supplied with eatables. The term had ended, and those who were too far from home to take the holidays away from the University were boarding themselves.

After sinking rather wearily into a corner seat, Lucile found her mind slipping back over the days that had just flown.

"To-morrow," she told herself soberly, "is the day before Christmas. It is my last day at the store. And then? Oh, bother the 'and then'! There's always a future, and always it comes out somehow."

That she might not be depressed by thoughts of the low state of her finances, she filled her mind with day dreams. In these dreams she saw herself insisting that Cordie reveal to her the secret hiding place of the Mystery Lady. Having searched this lady out, she demanded the return of her well worn, but comfortable, coat. In the dream still she saw the lady throw up her hands to exclaim:

"That frayed thing? I gave it to the rag man!"

Then in a rage she, Lucile, stamps her foot and says: "How could you! Of course now I shall keep your cape of fox skin and Siberian squirrel."

"Ah," she whispered, "that was a beautiful dream!"

Glancing up, she saw there were still six customers ahead of her and she must wait for her turn.