"Some weeks ago a priceless necklace was stolen from this very box. You recall that?"
"How could I forget?" Florence sat up, all attention.
"Of course. Petite Jeanne, she is your best friend.
"She cast suspicion upon herself by deserting her post here; running away. Had it not been for me, she would have gone to jail. I had seen through her masquerade at once. 'This,' I said to myself, 'is Petite Jeanne. She would not steal a dime.' I convinced others. They spared her.
"Then," she paused for a space of seconds, "it was up to me to find the pearls and the thief. I think I have accomplished this; at least I have found the pearls. As I said, you can help me. You know the people living on that curious man-made island?"
Aunt Bobby! Meg! How could they be implicated? All this she said to herself and was fearful.
Then, like a bolt from the blue came a picture of Meg's birthday package.
"You know those people?" the "lady cop" insisted.
"You will go there with me after the opera?"
"There is need for haste. We will go in Robinson's big car. Jaeger will go, and Rosemary. Perhaps Jeanne, too. You will be ready? That is all for now.
"Only this: I think Jeanne is to have the stellar role to-night."
"Jeanne! The stellar role? How could that be?"
There came no answer. The lady in black was gone.
The strangest moment in the little French girl's career was that in which, as the juggler, she tripped out upon the Opera House stage. More than three thousand people had assembled in this great auditorium to see and hear their favorite, the city's darling, Marjory Dean, perform in her most famous role. She was not here. They would know this at once. What would the answer be?
The answer, after perfunctory applause, was a deep hush of silence. It was as if the audience had said: "Marjory Dean is not here. Ah, well, let us see what this child can do."
Only her tireless work under Miss Dean's direction saved Jeanne from utter collapse. Used as she was to the smiling faces and boisterous applause of the good old light opera days, this silence seemed appalling. As it was, she played her part with a perfection that was art, devoid of buoyancy. This, at first. But as the act progressed she took a tight grip on herself and throwing herself into the part, seemed to shout at the dead audience: "You shall look! You shall hear! You must applaud!"