"Yards and yards of it," she breathed, throwing it before her in bright, billowy waves.

"And look!" cried Meg. "Batik!"

It was true; beneath the silk was a bolt of batik. This Meg took to the light and examined it with great care.

"It's genuine," she whispered at last. "Not the sham stuff that is made in American factories, but the kind that dark faced women dye with great skill and much labor, dipping again and again in colors such as we know nothing of."

Florence examined the cloth, then spread it over the back of a chair.

Then she sat down. There was a puzzled look on her face.

"It's very beautiful," she mused. "One could not hope to buy a more perfect present, sight unseen, but I'm wondering why a man should be willing to trace me down at infinite pains and then follow me in the face of danger and in the teeth of a storm for the sake of getting possession of two rolls of cloth. That seems strange."

"Does seem odd," said Meg. "But wait! Here's something else." She drew two long pasteboard tubes from the bottom of the bag.

"What do you suppose?" whispered Florence. Inserting one finger in the first tube she twisted it about, then began drawing it out. A roll of papers appeared.

"Papers," she whispered. "Probably important papers; deeds, stocks and bonds, perhaps."

Imagine her surprise when, having drawn the papers out and partly unrolled them, she found them to be pictures.

"Pictures!" she exclaimed in disgust. "And only printed pictures at that."

"But such wonderful pictures!" exclaimed Meg, holding one out to view.

It was indeed a wonderful picture, one of those vague, misty things that came out of the great war. This one was of a smoke clouded cannon in the foreground, belching black smoke and fire, and in the midst of the smoke, forming herself out of it, a most beautiful black-haired woman, her eyes burning, her hands clawing, leaping straight at the enemy.

"It _is_ a wonderful picture," said Florence when they had gazed at it in silence for a time. "But after all, it is only a print, and can't be worth much. I still don't see----"

"Tell you what," Meg broke in, "let's unroll them all and weight them down on the floor with books so we can have a good look."

"Good idea," said Florence, beginning to unroll one.

It was truly a remarkable collection of pictures which at length carpeted the floor. War pictures, all of them, and all displaying that strong spiritual interpretation which was so common in pictures of those times.

A French airplane falling in flames and beneath it an angel waiting to bear away the soul of the brave aviator; the American flag drifting in the clouds and seen from afar by a French soldier in the trenches; such were the themes.

"Don't you think they're grand?" said Meg.

"Yes," Florence responded, "but after all, they are only prints of the work of some great master. 'Veny LeCarte'" she read at the bottom of one.

"I believe, yes, they're all by the same man."

For some time they sat there in silence. They were at last about to rise when there came a light rap at their door.

"Let me in," came from outside. "I saw the light in the room as I was pa.s.sing and thought I'd come up to say 'Good morning and Merry Christmas.'" It was Lucile.

"Merry Christmas yourself," exclaimed Florence, throwing wide the door.

"Come in."

"This is Meg, Lucile; and Meg, that's Lucile," she smiled.

"But Florence, where in the world did you get those marvelous etchings?"

exclaimed Lucile after she shook hands with Meg. "And why do you carpet your floor with them? I nearly stepped on one."

"Etch--etchings!" stammered Florence. "They're mine--at least I bought them."

"Bought them! You? You bought them!" Lucile stared incredulous. Then, bending over, she read the name at the bottom of one. After that her eyes roved from picture to picture.

"Veny LeCarte," she murmured as if in a dream. "And she says she bought them!" She dropped weakly into a chair.

"Florence," she said at last, "do you know who Veny LeCarte was?"

"N-o."

"Well, I'll tell you. He was one of the most famous artists of France. He made etchings of the war. No one could surpa.s.s him. And unlike his fellow artists, who allowed a hundred copies to be made from each plate, he allowed but twenty. Then the plates were destroyed. He made these pictures. You have nearly all of them. And then he went away to the war, and was killed.

"Since that time his etchings have been much prized and have brought fabulous prices. Oh, Florence, tell me how you got them! Surely, surely you didn't buy them!"

"I did," said Florence unsteadily, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, "but I bought them in a strange way. I'll tell you about it." Then she told Lucile the whole story.

"And those pictures," she said at the end, "are the reason that man dogged my footsteps. It had not been his bag. He had not owned the pictures, but some way he had learned that the pictures were in this bag.

He had meant to buy the bag, but arrived too late."

The hour was late. What did that matter? To-morrow was Christmas.

Florence set about brewing some cocoa, and over the cups the girls engaged in such a talk fest as they had not enjoyed for months.

Everything that had happened to Lucile during those eventful weeks, from the first night to the last, had to be told. The wonderful cape, with its white fox collar, must be displayed. The gold coins must be jingled and jangled. Meg's story must be told all over again.

After that, problems yet unsolved must be discussed. Was the hawk-eyed man who had attempted to gain possession of Florence's bag the same one who had attempted to kidnap Cordie?

"That question," said Lucile to Florence, "can only be settled by you going down to the police station and looking at him."

"In that case, it will never be answered," said Florence, with a shudder.

Would a romance spring up between the rich girl Cordie and the gallant young policeman, Patrick O'Hara? Who could tell? So the conversation rambled on until early morning. At last Lucile hurried away and Meg and Florence prepared for three winks.

As Florence, with Meg by her side, was drifting off to sleep, she heard Meg say:

"To-morrow I must go back to the ship."

"Indeed you'll not," she roused up to protest. "You'll stay right here to-morrow and every day. And you're going to school, too. I need you to guard all my--my treasure."

How the pictures came to be in the bag which Florence had purchased at the sale, will probably always remain a secret. Perhaps the one who left the bag did not realize the value of the etchings. Who knows what may have been the reason? But they were truly valuable, and Florence learned this for certain on the following Monday. Later she sold them to a dealer for a good round sum. This money went far, not only to smooth the road to her own education, but to enable her to give Meg many a lift along the way.