"Oh, hello, Cousin Jack!" exclaimed Kitty, in delight. "How nice of you to call me up! How is everybody?"
"We're well, thank you! How are you all?"
"Oh, we're all right."
"Are you lonesome, away from your family?"
"No, not lonesome, though I'd like to see them. Tell Midget there are two hundred incubator chicks now."
"Well, that is a lot! Now, good-by, Kitsie; I can't run up too big a telephone bill for your father. We all send love. Be a good girl. Good-by."
Cousin Jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. It had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to Kitty, and the implied assurance that Marjorie was not there nearly made him give way.
"She isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what Kitty had said. And then the telephone rang, and it was the police department.
Mr. Maynard took the receiver.
"We've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with suspense. "She bought a ticket to New York, and went there on the three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. Nothing further is known, as yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that train, we will."