The next twenty-four hours were spent in delightful speculation. So her name was Cecily Marlowe! Was she any relation of Miss Benedict? "Marlowe" and "Benedict" were certainly dissimilar enough.
"But then she might be a relation on Miss Benedict's mother's side," suggested Marcia.
"Does it sound likely when you think what she said just at the last—that she didn't know why she was there?" replied Janet, scornfully. "She couldn't be in doubt about it if she were a relation, either come on a visit or there to stay!" Which argument settled that question.
"But where do you suppose she has come from?" marveled Marcia. "She said she'd always lived in a little country village, and she didn't know a thing about American money. She's foreign—that's certain. Even her clothes and her way of speaking show it. But from where?"
"Did you notice that she said 'shilling'?" suggested Janet. "That shows she must be English. She looks English. Now will you tell me how she could get 'way over here from England and not know why she had come?"
"It sounds as if she might have been kidnapped," said Marcia. "Why, Janet! this is precisely like a mystery in a book. Do you realize it? And here we are living right next door to it! It's too good to be true!"
Janet's mind had, however, gone off on another tack. "I can't understand that remark she made about the music. 'Träumerei' is certainly about as well known as any piece of classic music. She said she never remembered hearing it, and yet it seems somehow familiar to her. Can you make anything out of that?"
Marcia couldn't. "Maybe it's all just a notion," she suggested helplessly. "Suppose I play some on the violin here in our window right now. She seems to enjoy it so. And maybe she'll open her shutter again."
So they sat on the window-seat, and Marcia played her very best, including the "Träumerei," but no golden head appeared from behind the shutter that afternoon.