CHAPTER XXI A FALCON COMES TO LIFE

It was the keen blue eyes of the Irish girl, Merry, that made an important discovery connected with Petite Jeanne’s disappearance.

Knowing that Merry was up bright and early every morning, Florence called her at seven o’clock the next morning to tell her of Jeanne’s disappearance.

“But what can have happened?” the girl asked in tearful consternation.

“That,” replied Florence, “is just what we all would like to know.”

“I’m coming down,” Merry announced. “Coming right away.”

“Then come to the theatre. I’m going there at once. The night watchman is on till eight. He’ll let us in. Places never look the same by the light of day. We may discover some clue.”
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And indeed they did. As has been said, it was Merry who came upon it. She was passing through a narrow corridor between two doors, when something caused her to look up at the sill of a narrow window just above her head.

At once she let out a little cry of surprise.

“The Marble Falcon!” She could scarcely believe her eyes.

The next instant she did not believe them, for the thing resting there on the window sill turned its head slowly, as though it were set on a wooden pivot, and then quite as slowly winked an eye.

Merry felt her knees sinking beneath her. Gripping the doorknob, she stood there shaking until her senses returned.

She recovered just in time to seize a thin silken cord that dangled from one of the creature’s feet. At that instant the falcon, a real one and quite alive, spread two very capable wings and went flapping away through the half open door.
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Only the silken line held tightly in the Irish girl’s hand prevented him from soaring aloft as he had, without doubt, done on other occasions.

Merry gave a little cry as he came fluttering down and alighted on one of her outstretched hands. The cry attracted Florence’s attention. She came hurrying up.

“A falcon, a real live falcon!” cried Merry. “Now, what do you think of that?”

“A live falcon!” Florence stared in astonishment.

Then she went into a brown study.

“Wings,” she murmured after a time. “The flutter of wings. Those were her very words. Merry, you may have made an important discovery!”

“She told me once,” replied the Irish girl, “that gypsies were very fond of falcons. Do you think there could be anything in that?”

“There may be.” Florence’s tone was thoughtful. “There may be a whole lot.”

“What are you going to do next?” Merry demanded with a sudden start.
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“I must stay right here until nine o’clock. There was to have been a rehearsal at that hour. The director will be furious.”

“As if she could help it!”

“That’s just the trouble. You see she really had no business being here at that hour. And she was doing a thing that would have angered them beyond words, should they have found it out. How can we tell them anything without going into the whole affair?”

“That’s not an Irish question,” Merry smiled, “so you can’t expect an Irishman to answer it. We Irish folk tell the blunt, unadorned truth. If that means a fight, then we fight.

“And,” she added whimsically, “I don’t think we mind a good fight much, either.

“But say!” she exclaimed. “If you’re going to stay for the scrap, I’m not. It’s not my fight.

“Besides, I’ve something I want to try out. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not in the least.”
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With that, the strange little girl from the shop of broken gifts gathered the silk cord into her hands, and with the falcon still perched upon her wrist, walked down the corridor and out into the sunlit street.