“You do not know her last name?”
“Well,—you see—she hasn’t any,” Billie stammered. “She—her father has forgotten who he was.”
“So?” ejaculated the stranger. “And they live?”
“They live on Indian Head Mountain in a little cabin.”
“Will you pardon me if again I seem inquisitive? The young lady—you say she lives in what you call a cabeen and yet she seems not to be poor—that is, in appearance, I mean.”
Billie flushed again. It did seem very much like gossiping to answer all these questions, but this stranger was commanding,—rather elegant in his manner.
“The young lady has friends, perhaps? People who have helped her?”
“Yes, that is it,” said Billie.
“Another question and I shall not trouble you further. Where is this—er—cabeen?”
“It is on a ledge over ‘Table Top’ on ‘Indian Head Mountain,’” answered Billie promptly, having good reason to remember that location. “Take the road to the right at the end of this street and it takes you straight there. It’s called ‘Indian Head Road.’”