That night they crossed the border line and slept in comfortable beds in a fine hotel in Omaha, Nebraska.
“Billie,” said Nancy, with the covers drawn well about her head, so as to shut out the memory of that revengeful individual who had cursed them in such round terms, “Billie.”
“Yes,” replied her friend sleepily.
“Did that peddler’s face remind you of anyone?”
“I can’t say it did,” she answered, almost slipping off into the region of dreams.
“Not Miss Hawkes, who was so fond of dates?” asked Nancy.
“There was a faint likeness,” answered Billie, making an effort to pull herself out of the deep pit into which she was fast sinking, and falling back again helplessly, like a prisoner shackled with too many chains to escape.
“Do you suppose she could have had Indian blood?” asked Nancy.
But there was no reply. Billie was sleeping deeply.