“It is, and it isn’t. At least it isn’t that really, except in so far as that everything’s so tremendously connected.” Betty gave a sigh. “Gerry, I’ve something to tell you. I almost told you when you asked me last night; only I couldn’t. I was afraid you might—well—that you might laugh at me, you know. And that would ‘take the bloom off’ so, like Sybil said.” Betty stopped.
“I don’t know one bit what you mean; but I shan’t laugh,” said Gerry quickly.
For even if Betty’s story were to be a queer one, yet it couldn’t be exactly a laughable one, Gerry was sure from the look in her friend’s eyes. She listened without a word until the telling was through.
But by the time the story was done Gerry’s expression of face had changed from one of amazement to one of extreme incredulity. At its last word she stood still and said nothing at all.
“You don’t believe it?” burst out Betty.
“I don’t see how I could. Betty, how could any one? It seems so impossible.” Gerry’s eyes were thoughtful. “Just because you found that bit of patrol ribbon in the hedge which might possibly have come off the Cup!”
“It did. It did. I recognized the bow,” put in Betty.
“Well, even if it did, it needn’t mean that the witch had taken the Cup! Particularly when, after all, there isn’t one—a witch, I mean! How could there be? Guides don’t believe in such things!”
“I didn’t say exactly a witch!” put in Betty vehemently. “I said the magic that was there might have had something to do with the losing of the Cup! You never saw the cottage, and I did!”
“I know,” agreed Gerry. “And I must say I can’t think why you didn’t mention it before, if you thought——”