“Well, well!” crooned the Judge. “It doesn’t sound very probable, but I must admit it’s not impossible—no, not altogether impossible.”
Jacqueline lifted her face from the pocket handkerchief.
“Caroline will tell you it’s so, when she gets back from the beach,” she hiccoughed, “and Aunt Edie and Uncle Jimmie, when they come in September.”
“Yes, of course,” cried Aunt Martha eagerly.
“Hm!” boomed the Judge like a bee, but not a benevolent one. “But what shall we do until they come? This little girl is in a pretty awkward fix, because of these beads, if she can’t prove to us that she’s Jacqueline Gildersleeve.”
“Send for the other child,” bristled Aunt Martha, “the real Caroline. Guess I’ve got some say in the matter, if she’s my honest-to-goodness niece.”
The Judge shook his head.
“This one is your niece,” he said, with finality, “until there’s proof to the contrary, and I won’t send for the other child and have Eunice Gildersleeve upset for what may be a cock-and-bull story. Let’s see!” he mused. “Uncle Jimmie and Aunt Edie are our next hope. Where can we reach these relatives of yours?” He turned to Jacqueline.
“I don’t know where they are now,” Jacqueline confessed mournfully. “All their letters have gone to Caroline, of course, and they’re moving about all the time, and changing their address.”
“Well,” said the Judge, “you must think up somebody else who can identify you, and some way of making the identification by telegraph. A mere description isn’t enough. There must be some distinguishing feature. You haven’t a strawberry mark on your left arm, have you?”