“I understand better than you think,” she said, suddenly. “Don’t you see, you big stupid, that I know where we are going? That tells me something. I can put two and two together.”
“Then I needn’t try to do any more explaining of things I can’t explain.”
“Of course not. You are forgiven all. Just think, Bob, it’s nearly a year since you stood up with Tom and me.”
“That’s so!”
“How time does go! See”—as the car turned at a crossing—“we are going northward. We are bound for the village of Winnetka. Does that tell you anything?”
“Nothing at all,” said Orme, striving vainly to give the Indian name a place in his mind.
On they sped. Orme looked at his watch. It was half-past ten.
“We must be nearly there,” he said.
“Yes, it’s only a little way, now.”
They were going eastward again, following a narrow dirt road. Suddenly the chauffeur threw the brakes on hard. Orme and Bessie, thrown forward by the sudden stopping, clutched the sides of the car. There was a crash, and they found themselves in the bottom of the tonneau.