Barbara sighed, fearing she was doing almost as mean a thing as Marie, and was very doubtful as to what her mother and Aunt Anne would say when they heard of the adventure.
"I shall go to the look-out station and blow away these mysteries," she said to herself, when the photography lesson was over; and the very sight and smell of the sea made her feel better. The steamer from Dinard had just unloaded its passengers, and was steaming hurriedly back again with a fresh load, when among those who had landed she noticed one that seemed not altogether strange to her. She drew nearer, and was sure of it, and the visitor turning round at the same moment, the recognition was mutual. It was the "American Pretender."
"I was just going to ask where Mademoiselle Loiré lived," he said gaily, "with the intent of calling upon you. How obliging of you to be here when the steamboat arrived."
Barbara laughed.
"I often come here to look across at dear St. Malo, and get the breeze from the sea," she explained. "Besides, I like watching the ferries, they are so fussy—and the people in them too, sometimes. But how did you get here?"
"Not having met any more rash and runaway damsels whom I had to escort back to Dol, I succeeded in reaching St. Malo, and it is not unusual for visitors to go to Dinard and St. Servan from there. But, apart from that," he went on, "I found out something so interesting that I thought I must call and tell you—being in the neighbourhood."
"That was awfully nice of you," said Barbara gratefully, "and I'm so curious to hear. Please begin at once. You have plenty time to tell me before we reach the house, and mademoiselle must excuse me talking just a little English."
"I think the occasion justifies it," he agreed, smiling; then added apologetically, "I hope you won't mind it being a little personal. I told you I had come to Europe with my uncle, didn't I? My father left me to his care when I was quite a little chap, and he has been immensely good to me. We are great friends, and always share things—when we can. He could not share this walking tour because he had business in Paris, but I write him long screeds to keep him up in my movements. In answer to the letter about our Dol adventure, my uncle wrote back to say that he had known an English lady long ago called Miss Anne Britton, and he wondered if this were any relation—the name was rather uncommon."
The American paused, and looked at his companion.
"Please go on," she cried, "it is so very exciting, and surely it must have been Aunt Anne."