With characteristic modesty, Marjorie put aside the congratulations of her friends, and the feeling of inward triumph that her victory had brought her, to fasten her thoughts upon the contest of the following day. For, after all, as she said again and again, the tennis championship belonged rather to Griffith Hunter than to herself.
“I suppose if he had played with Alice, or Frieda, or me,” teased Lily, as the girls were getting ready for bed, “that he would have won just the same?”
“No doubt. Oh, Lil, suppose it should rain to-morrow!”
“Oh, it wouldn’t dare do it again! My, but wasn’t it lucky that it did on Wednesday!”
“It certainly was.”
“Marj,” said Lily, “did Jack tell your parents to put a detective to work searching for that old man?”
“No,” replied Marjorie, quietly. “I told him not to tell them anything about it, for—I caught the man myself!”
“You!” cried Lily. “But how—?”
“Sh! I don’t want anybody to hear. But since you’re going to spend the night with me, I’ll tell you the whole story now, just as I have figured it out. But don’t tell a soul—I never even said anything about it to Frieda. I’m going to tell Jack when we get home and he promised to say nothing about it till then.”
“Why, is it a secret?”