“Goodness me!”
“We had the most extraordinary time—I fastened her in the cabin by main force. I don’t understand it at all. She said she knew I was coming to meet you, and seemed very much wrought up about it. Hold on! She didn’t mention your name, but she said she knew who it was I had my appointment with.”
“How could she guess?”
“We happened to be standing together when your little friend, Jimmy Jones, brought your note. She said this afternoon that she recognized the style of the envelope.”
Betty’s guitar slipped from her lap to the floor. “Bob White, Bob White!” she exclaimed. “What’s her name?”
“Didn’t I say? She’s a Miss Yarnell—Miss Madge Yarnell, from Baltimore. Do you know anything about her?”
The girl stooped to rescue the guitar. Her warm cheek touched his as he, too, groped for it, and both recoiled a little consciously—Fessenden in amusement at his own confusion.
“Do you know about Miss Yarnell?” he repeated.
“I’ve heard her name. A girl—the woman who gave me that song—knows who she is. Isn’t she the girl who tore down the flag?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Can you imagine why she pursued me so? Do you suppose she really recognized your writing paper? And even if she did, what is it to her?”