There were several other words which they could not make out.
Mary took the letter, spread it on the desk before her and gazed intently at it through the magnifying glass. Then, smiling up at the others, a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “This is it—perhaps.
‘Dear Little Bodil,
When you reach the strange place where you are going, you may be lonesome. If you are, do write often to your good friend,
Miss Burger.’”
“Well, I reckon that’ll do pretty nigh as well as anything else,” Jerry said. Then, glancing out of the window at the late afternoon sun, he grinningly announced that since the calf, by that time, had milked the cow, he and Dick would accept Mary’s previously given invitation and stay for supper.
“Oh, Jerry!” Mary stood up and caught hold of the cowboy’s arm. “I know by the gleam in your eyes that you think this bit of paper may be a clue worth following up.”
“Yes, I sure do,” was the earnest reply. “I reckon this Miss Burger, if we got the name right, was a friend to the little girl somewhere, sometime.”
“Shall we write to her now?” Mary dropped back into the desk chair. “If she’s living, she will surely answer.”
“But,” Dick was not yet convinced that it was a helpful clue, “how can Miss Burger know—”
“Stupid!” Dora interrupted. “Of course Miss Burger won’t know whether Little Bodil was eaten by wild animals or carried off by bandits, but if the child lived, it’s more than likely, isn’t it, that she did write and tell this friend.”
“True enough!” Dick agreed. “But, Lady Sleuth, if Bodil wrote Miss Burger telling where she was, isn’t it likely that Mr. Pedersen also wrote the same woman telling where he was, and presto, his long search would be over. He would have found his child.”