On Monday Helen Denby and her daughter went to Dalton. At Helen's urgent insistence the doctor refrained from accompanying them.
"I don't want you to be seen with us," Helen had protested.
"But why not?" he had argued rebelliously. "I thought I was a friend of your family for years."
"I know; but I—I just feel that I'd rather not have you with us. I prefer to go alone, please," she had begged. And perforce he had let her have her own way.
It was on a beautiful day in late September that Helen Denby and her daughter arrived at the Dalton station. Helen, fearful either that her features would be recognized, or that she would betray by word or look her knowledge of the place, and so bring an amazed question to Betty's lips, had drawn a heavy veil over her face. Betty, cheerily interested in everything she saw, kept up a running fire of comment.
"And so this is Dalton! What a funny little station—and for so big a place, too! It seemed to be big, as we came into it. Is Dalton a large town, mother?"
"Why, rather large. It used to be—that is, it must be a good deal over fifteen thousand now, I suppose," murmured the mother, speaking very unconcernedly.
"Then you've been here before?"
Helen, realizing that already she had made one mistake, suddenly became convinced that safety—and certainly tranquillity of mind—lay in telling the truth—to a certain extent.
"Oh, yes, I was here years ago. But the place is much changed, I fancy," she answered lightly. "Come, dear, we'll take a taxi. But first I want a paper. I want to look at the advertisements for a maid, and—"