Billie heard no more. She had reached No. 400, and old John James would be detained a moment. As she tapped on the door, she drew the letter out of her dress. Instantly the door opened, and Evelyn, beautiful and pale, and very unhappy, stood before her.
“Take this quickly,” whispered Billie. “Hide it somewhere. It’s from Mr. Moore.”
“Danny!” exclaimed Evelyn, hiding the letter under the pillow.
“Yes.”
“But he’s married.”
“He’s not anything of the sort. I should think you’d feel ashamed to treat him so badly.”
Billie was standing with her back to the door, and suddenly Evelyn threw both arms around her neck and gave her a good squeeze.
“You were the girl at the inn,” she whispered. “And you bring me such wonderful news. I thought—they said—they showed me a clipping”—her voice changed—“think of not having seen you since Fontainebleau. You’re the dearest, sweetest——”
Instinctively Billie felt that the father was standing at the door.
“Good old friends?” she heard him say, in his deep, hollow voice.