Becoming interested in the story, Mrs. Purvis seemed to get over her fright, and was exceedingly sensible for a woman.
“It certainly is not my bag, Mr. Burroughs, and if my card is in it, I can only say that I must have given that card to the lady who owns the bag.”
This seemed distinctly plausible, and also promised further information.
“Do you remember giving your card to any lady with such a bag?”
Mrs. Purvis smiled. “So many of your American women carry those bags,” she said; “they seem to be almost universal this year. I have probably given my card to a score of ladies, who immediately put it into just such a bag.”
“Could you tell me who they are?”
“No, indeed;” and Mrs. Purvis almost laughed outright, at what was doubtless a foolish question.
“But can't you help me in any way?” I pleaded.
“I don't really see how I can,” she replied. “You see I have so many friends in New York, and they make little parties for me, or afternoon teas. Then I meet a great many American ladies, and we often exchange cards. But we do it so often that of course I can't remember every particular instance. Have you the card you speak of?”
I thanked my stars that I had been thoughtful enough to obtain the card before leaving West Sedgwick, and taking it from my pocket-book, I gave it to her.