Joey was in the corridor in a second, looking for Miss Craigie. Of course it was not wonderful that she did not see her at once; the station was so big and the people so many. But even when she had got out, accompanied by the small suit-case containing her night-things, and by her new umbrella, and had stood quite a long time waiting and tiptoeing by the door of the compartment while Mrs. Tresham claimed the luggage for them both, still there was no sign of anyone who looked like Mr. Craigie's sister.
A stout, elderly woman stood at a little distance among the fast-thinning crowd surveying her unblinkingly, but Joey was sure that could not be Miss Craigie. Just as Mrs. Tresham came back with the luggage and a porter, this personage moved forward and spoke to Joey with distinct caution. "I'm thinking you might be perhaps Miss Jocelyn Graham?"
"Yes, I am," Joey confessed, staring.
The stout woman became less cautious, and more communicative.
"As am own husband's cousin to Maggie M'Tulloch, and when she telled me of Miss Craigie being down, puir body, wi' the influenzy, and the young leddy not to gang near the hoose for fear o' carrying the infection to her braw new schule...."
"Oh, is Miss Craigie ill? I am sorry," Joey cried out.
"The temperature being one hundred and four, forbye some points up which I canna mind exactly, I'm douting she's for the pewmonia, and twa in the next hoose abune lying deed of the same," the stout woman mentioned, with a certain gloomy satisfaction that puzzled Joey. "And says I to Maggie M'Tulloch, 'I'll take the young leddy,' says I, 'and what o'wer chances she'll not tak' the infection awa' wi' her.'"
"Thank you; that's awfully kind," Joey said politely, though mournfully. She explained to Mrs. Tresham, who looked somewhat mystified by the flood of broad Scotch.
"You poor child, I should like to take you with me to my hotel for to-night, but I suppose I hardly could, as I am staying with a friend there. But I don't like this for you. Have you authority from Miss Craigie?" she asked suddenly, turning to Maggie M'Tulloch's "own cousin" as though she rather hoped for a negative answer.
But there was no escape. Maggie M'Tulloch's kinswoman dived promptly into a black knitted bag that she carried and produced a sheet of paper, scrawled in pencil: