“What we’re going to do with her, I don’t know, do you?”
“She and the wedding couple have just crossed each other!”
“Looks like it. Look here, Mrs. Van, what am I going to do? If I don’t look her up, God knows what’ll happen to her over in Conejo, unless she has sense enough to go to the Morgans. If I do, she’s going to raise merry heck because I read that letter about the fellow jilting her. Now I thought maybe if you’d let on that you read it—a girl wouldn’t mind another woman’s knowing a thing like that as much as she would a man.”
Mrs. Van Zandt surveyed Scott pityingly.
“It always seems so queer to me that a man can have so much muscle and so little horse sense,” she said at length.
“But——”
“There ain’t any use my explaining; you wouldn’t get me,” she went on, impatiently. “But here’s something even you can understand. I’d look nice opening the boss’s mail, wouldn’t I? Now you’ve read the worst of it you might as well dip into it far enough to find out just when she’s coming. Somebody’ll have to drive over to Conejo for her as long as the machine’s busted.”
“I’ve read all I’m going to,” said Scott, doggedly. “You can do the finding out.”
Mrs. Van Zandt grunted, arranged a pair of eyeglasses which sat uneasily on a nose ill adapted to them, and glanced at the letter. She gave a sigh of relief.
“She says she’s going straight to the Morgans’ when she gets to Conejo. Bob’s told her about them. Prob’ly Morgan’ll run her over in his car. She ain’t very definite about time; don’t seem to know just how long she’ll be detained at the border.”