“Don’t be so nervous,” Terry admonished. “You’ll be so disappointed if you’re wrong. However—come on, Sim!”
Terry and Sim, with none of the reluctance Arden was sure she would have experienced, marched around to the door. Arden drew back into the shadows of the fog and waited. She heard her chums enter, dimly heard the murmurs of their voices as, presumably, they asked for time-tables and caught the squeak of the door hinges again.
“Where’d she go?” Terry murmured. Evidently she and Sim could not see the hidden Arden.
“I hope this isn’t her idea of a joke, to get us here and then run back,” grumbled Sim.
“No! No! Here I am!” exclaimed Arden, coming forth out of the gloom. “Did you—was he—is he——”
“Arden, my pet,” began Terry, flipping a damp time-table, “we fear for your reason, we, your devoted friends. That agent looks no more like the picture of Harry Pangborn than you do!”
“No?” gasped Arden. “I thought he was the very image of the poster picture.”
“Sorry, Arden,” Sim continued. “But you’ll have to do better than this to claim the reward. That’s that, and as I’m dripping with dampness, I’m going back where it’s light and dry and warm and where I can eat.”
“Yes, let’s go back!” agreed Terry, feeling a little sorry for Arden.
Arden looked sadly at her chums. “And I was almost sure,” she murmured. “Don’t you think there’s a small, a tiny resemblance?”