The Yale man was astonished by this show of fear, for it was too intense, he fancied, to be that of a refined and timid girl, frightened by a stranger’s address.
Besides that, there was something in the rose-color natural to the rounded cheeks of the girl, something in her confident and graceful carriage, something in her easy and assured manner which seemed to indicate that she would not fear a strange man.
Although she was well dressed, her clothes being of expensive material, Merriwell’s discerning eyes discovered that her style was not the style of New York, and already he had decided that she was from some other place. This girl seemed more like a native of Boston than New York.
“You have no reason to fear me,” said Frank, in his most reassuring manner. “But I am sure you will recognize me if you stop to think a moment. If you assure me that you do not recognize me, I’ll leave you at once.”
Gradually the color was returning to her face, which, although refined, had a sort of wild beauty about it that was suggestive of woods and hills and outdoor life. She looked at Frank in surprise, but there came a quick flash of recognition.
“Why—why!” she gasped, and the sound of her voice seemed to stir echoing memories within him, “is it—are you—Frank Merriwell?”
He had made no mistake; she knew him.
“Yes,” he said; “but even now I cannot——”
A man dashed past Jack Diamond and went straight at Frank, who did not see him. Without a word, he struck Merry a blow that caused him to stagger and nearly fall. Then he clutched the girl by the wrist, his face contorted, as he hissed:
“So he is another one of them? How many are there?”