“Have you ever seen their pictures?” asked Florence.
“No, never.”
“Then how shall we know whether you are right?”
“We can’t know—till we get to California.”
“Oh, I simply can’t wait all that time,” said Marjorie, impatiently. “Let’s make a vow that if they pass us once more, we’ll lay a trap for them to discover their identity.”
“All right. But how?”
“We’ll think of something later. Somebody will probably get an inspiration.”
“But do wait, girls, and be sure,” urged Mrs. Remington. “After all, the chances are small—”
“Only that my aunt knows our exact route—and—well—she seems to be that sort of person.”
Late that afternoon when their speedometers registered the required hundred miles, and the girls had stopped at an attractive spot for their camp, the bright red car with its two young occupants passed by them twice. But on neither occasion did the young men make any attempt to establish an acquaintanceship.