"I know just as little about it as you do," said Dorothy quietly, "but I think eight girls are too many to keep a secret and—it's Frances' letter. She must decide."
"I think Dorothy is right," agreed Frances. "I believe that we would
better wait before telling the others. If it's some dreadful blunder that
I have made, perhaps I could correct it if only we three knew of it.
Though I don't know whether that would be quite honest," she added sadly.
Beatrice put her arm around Frances' waist and led her to the door.
"You old dear," she said, "you're so proud of your beloved 'Argus.' I believe you worry over every word that goes into it."
"And over every s that is upside-down and isn't detected by my eagle eye," laughed Dorothy, locking the door and carefully hiding the key in the place where half the college knew it was kept.
It was seven o'clock—no use going home to dinner. Dorothy decided to get an early start with Ward's "Poets," and to dine later in the evening on ship's biscuit and a glass of milk. The library was very quiet. She read busily, concentrating her attention upon the pages before her, oblivious of her surroundings, forgetful even of the mysterious letter and the theory, which, despite her declaration to Beatrice Egerton, she had formed concerning it.
Presently some one tiptoed up behind her and clasped two hands tightly across her eyes.
"Who is it?" whispered a laughing voice.
"I don't know," answered Dorothy a trifle irritably.
"Did you give it to her?" demanded the voice imperturbably.