Gretchen looked awestruck, then she smiled. “Mother says I’m the closest-mouthed girl she ever saw, miss. They could cut me in pieces before I ever let out any secret of Dorothy Dixon’s. I’d never tell—not me! You can trust me, Miss Jordan.”
“I’m sure I can, Gretchen. And I’m going to.” Dorothy slipped her hand into the V-neck of her pajamas. “Remember this?”
“Why—it’s—it’s my Iron Cross—that I gave Dorothy Dixon. How in the world—?”
“I am Dorothy Dixon.” Dorothy broke into laughter at the bewildered expression on the girl’s face.
“But—but I don’t understand!” Gretchen stammered as though her tongue was half-paralyzed. “I knew the resemblance was wonderful—but—they said you were Miss Janet Jordan—and—”
“You sit down on the end of the bed,” said Dorothy, “I’ll go on with my breakfast before it gets cold, and explain at the same time. We won’t be disturbed, will we?”
“Oh, no, miss.”
“How about your work, Gretchen? Will you be wanted downstairs?”
“Mr. Tunbridge told me to unpack your trunk, miss—Miss Dixon—and to make myself generally useful.”
“Fine,” smiled Dorothy, pouring out a cup of coffee. “But keep on calling me Miss Jordan—otherwise you’ll be making slips in the name in front of other people and that would be fatal.”