Ruth, in low tones, told her chum her fears—told of Bilby’s call at the mill—mentioned the fact that the Indian girl was probably at this time at the roadside inn and that the rival moving picture producer was perhaps there likewise.
“What do you know about that!” gasped Helen. “Is there going to be a real fight for the possession of Wonota, do you think?”
“And for Totantora too, perhaps. For he figures importantly in this picture we are about to make up on the St. Lawrence.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Helen Cameron. “There is going to be something doing besides picture making. Why, Ruth! you couldn’t keep me from going with you to-morrow. And I know Tommy-boy will be crazy to be in it, too.”
Ruth made an appealing gesture as Helen began to back and turn the car.
“Don’t frighten Aunt Alvirah,” she whispered.
Helen was delighted with any prospect for action. It must be confessed that she did not think much about disappointment or trouble accruing to other people in any set of circumstances; she never had been particularly thoughtful for others. But she was brave to the point of recklessness, and she was at once excited regarding the suggested danger to her chum’s plans.
Bilby had already, Ruth understood, offered more money to Wonota and Totantora for their services than Mr. Hammond thought it wise to risk in the venture. And, after all, the temptation of money was great in the minds of the Indians. It might be that Bilby could get them away from Ruth’s care. And then what would the Alectrion Film Corporation do about this next picture that had been planned?
Aunt Alvirah made no complaint as to how or where the car went—as long as it went somewhere. She admitted she liked to travel fast. Having been for so many years crippled by that enemy, rheumatism, she seemed to find some compensation in the speed of Helen’s car.
The inn was several miles away from the Long Bridge; but the road was fairly straight, and as the car went over the ridges they could now and then catch glimpses of the hotel. On the right were cornfields, the dark green blades only six or eight inches high; and scattered over them the omnipresent scarecrows which, in the spring, add at least picturesqueness to the New England landscape.