“I don't s'pose you'll be going to the Library again to-morrow night?” suggested Arthur presently.
“Why, I don't know—why?” But she knew “why,” and her knowledge gave her a tingle.
“Oh, I was just thinking that if you had to look up some references or something, maybe I might drop around again.”
“Maybe I WILL have to—I don't know just yet,” she murmured, confused with a sweet kind of confusion.
“Well, I'll just drop by, anyway,” he said. “Maybe you'll be there.”
“Yes, maybe.”
Another pause. Trying to think of something to say, she glanced again over her shoulder. Then she clutched at Arthur's arm.
“Look at that man back there—following us! He looks something like father!”
As she spoke she unconsciously quickened her pace; Arthur consciously quickened his. He knew—as all of the boys of “the crowd” knew—Mr. Merriam's stand on the matter of beaux.
“Oh!” cried Missy under her breath. She fancied that the tall figure had now accelerated his gait, also. “It IS father! I'll cut across this vacant lot and get in at the kitchen door—I can beat him home that way!”