"Do you know, daddy, I honestly hope that the big city detective won't find out who I am," she said after a long period of reflection.
"Cause why?"
"Because, if he doesn't, you won't have any excuse for turning me out."
"I'll not only send you to bed, but I'll give you a tarnation good lickin' besides if you talk like—"
"But I'm twenty-one. You have no right," said she so brightly that he cracked his whip over the horse's back and blew his nose twice for full measure of gratitude.
"Well, I ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' I'm beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n I am," said he proudly.
"He isn't half as good!" she cried.
"I mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically.
"So do I," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.
There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had "gone off" since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away temporarily. Rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still, cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.