“She’s avaricious, is she?” said Eve, thoughtfully.
But Bobby Hargrew’s mind was fixed upon another phase of the subject. She took Margit’s hand and asked, softly:
“What was your mother’s name, dear?”
“Why—Madam Salgo.”
“But her first name—her intimate name? What did your father call her? Do you not remember?”
Margit waited a moment and then nodded. “I understand,” she said. “It was ‘Annake.’”
“Anne?”
“Ah, yes—in your harsh English tongue,” returned Margit. “But why do you ask?”
Bobby was not willing to tell her that—then.
“At any rate, Margit,” Eve told her, soothingly, “you will stay here with us just as long as you like.” The girl had narrated her flight from Centerport when she saw the Gypsies in that town and knew they would hunt her down. “And we girls will help you find your friends.”