“Bob,” said Doris next morning, “Miss Lestrange has got the influenza.”
“How do you know?” asked Bob.
“I’ve been to her room, and she’s lying in bed crying. Bob!”
“Well?”
“It’s not the influenza.”
“What are you driving at?” asked Bob.
“Promise not to tell, and you’ll be in it too,” said Doris.
“I promise—go ahead. What are you driving at?”
“She’s going away.”
“Where?”