“Can’t I help you?” suggested the sympathetic Beth.
“How?”
“What is your name, please?” asked Beth. “Mine is Beth Baldwin.”
“Cynthia—Cynthia Fogg,” mumbled the other girl, and so hesitatingly that Beth half believed that the last name, at least, was born of the thick river mist out into which the wonderful blue eyes were staring. Nevertheless, Beth said nothing to betray her doubt.
“You say these—these people will search the boat for you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“People from the—the institution from which you have run away?”
Cynthia turned her head quickly so that Beth could no longer see her face, replying in a muffled tone: “Yes; from the institution.”
“How do you know they are on board?” continued the practical Beth.
“Somebody that knows me saw me at that last landing—just as the steamboat was pulling out,” replied Cynthia. “I know he’ll telephone up the river to Marbury. And I’ll never get away from them now.”