“I’m looking. You have the true Western eye—the eye of a sharpshooter and a—sheriff.”
“The story you just told me is the story of Marta Sills. Is that her name or yours?”
“It belongs to us both. Being ‘particular pals,’ we shared alike. Interchange of names often comes handy with us.”
“Was it you or Bobbie Burr—the girl who just came—whom Jo met in a dance hall, and took to St.—some place on Lake Michigan?”
“Dear me! You cattlemen are such gay birds when you come to a city! How can I tell how many girls Jo Gary took to a dance hall? If that St. Something was St. Joe, he must have gone there to get married. It’s what most people go there for, and probably he’s no more saintly than the place is. Maybe it was named after him.”
“Tell me! Was it Bobbie Burr?”
“She never mentioned Jo Gary’s name to me, so how do I know. Yes, Francis; coming.”
She ran fleetly on to join the boy who was impatiently calling to her.
“Marta! How the plot does thicken!” she thought as she ran a race with Francis to the house. “Now we’re all here but Hebby. What next? Curtain soon, I expect. No need longer for understudies. I must start things before Kurt succumbs to her charms. That little subdued, clinging-vine air she has is most appealing to his type. He’ll come to forgive her anything.”
“Marta,” she said quickly, as she met the young girl, “come upstairs with me.”