"Why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "I remember that girl. I didn't think much about her,—for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road. But, somehow, I don't think that child went to New York,—no, I don't think she did."
"Where did she get off?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.
"Ah, that I don't know. You see, the summer crowds are travelling now and I don't notice individuals much."
"Can't you tell by your tickets?" asked Mr. Bryant.
"No, sir; I don't see's I can. You know, lots of people did go to New York on my train, and so, I've lots of New York tickets, but of course I couldn't tell if I had hers. And yet,—seems to me,—just seems to me,—that child got off at a way station."
"Then," said Mr. Maynard, with a businesslike air, "I must telephone or telegraph or go personally to every way station between Seacote and New York. It's a strange case. I can only think my daughter became suddenly demented; I can think of no other reason for her conduct. Can you, Jack?"
"No, Ed, I can't. And yet, Marjorie is a child who always does unexpected things. Some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind might account for this strange freak, quite naturally."
"I can't see how. But we will do what we can. Good-day, Mr. Fischer, and thank you for your help and interest."