Bobby did so, but the girl shook her head. “Not enough letters,” she declared.
“Why—there are sixteen letters to Miss Carrington’s name,” said Bobby, wonderingly. “How many are there to the name you are hunting for?”
“Two more,” said Margit, promptly.
“Eighteen?”
“Yes. Now, don’t you tell anybody what I say. That’s a good girl,” urged the other.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” asked Bobby, in wonder.
“I’m afraid of everybody,” muttered the girl.
“You’ve—you’ve run away from somebody?” ventured Bobby, fearing to startle the fugitive by telling her just how much she did know.
“Never you mind about me. Thank you for what you’ve told me. I—I guess the worst of it’s over now, and I’ll go,” said Margit, and she tugged at the knob of the outer door.
The rain was still falling fast; but the thunder only muttered in the distance and the electric display had entirely passed.