“My name is Marjorie, not Margaret!” snapped the girl. “So you see you’re mistaken after all, and you might as well let us go! You’ll never get anything but a jail sentence out of my father!”
“Give me a chance to find that out; then, if I’m mistaken, I give you my word, I’ll let you both go.”
“Well, then go phone now!” challenged Frieda. Though she had said nothing thus far, it was not because she was not greatly incensed. Had there been any hope of escape, she would have leaped at the old man, for she was exceptionally strong. But she realized that it was useless to attempt such a thing.
“Yes, go!” commanded Marjorie; and she gave the man her telephone number. “Just see what my father says!”
“I am going over to Besley now. We ain’t rich enough to have a telephone here. So make yourselfs comfortable, while I’m gone. Reckon I’ll lock the missis in, too, in case you all get too rambunctious for her!”
With these words he unbolted the door and went out, locking it on the outside behind him. Frieda’s mind instantly flew to the windows, but they were completely covered by a heavy wire screening which was fastened to the window frame on the outside.
“I’m sorry, girls,” said the woman, her voice softening with pity, “but he really won’t hurt you. He only wants the money. You don’t know how it feels to be poor all yer life and then see a chance to make a tidy sum, and not put all yer powers into gettin’ it. It’ll only be a matter of a day or two, and then you can join yer party again if you ain’t the one we’re lookin fer. And if you are, think how glad yer pap will be to see you again. Now—want to come upstairs?”
The girls followed the woman half-heartedly up the crooked stair-case to the second floor, all the while watching for chances to escape. But they saw none.
The bedroom into which she led them was neat and clean, and the bed linen spotless. Marjorie silently thanked her for that, and sat down upon the chair beside the window. Here there was no wire screening—only netting, and the sash was wide open. The lovely air from the orchard floated in reminding them what a beautiful day it was outside. Marjorie secretly wished that Ruth were her fellow-sufferer, as originally planned; for somehow she felt that Ruth, with her cleverness, could rise superior to almost any contingency.
“Well, Frieda, I guess we’re in for it!” she remarked as the door was closed, and the retreating footsteps of the woman could be heard going down stairs again. “And I suppose there’s no use getting excited over it. But it certainly is hard luck!”