“We must hurry, now, Nancy,” said Billie. “Your extravagance might make us late to our appointment.”
It was something to be going to London Bridge, but it was something more to have a reason for going, a mysterious reason. When the girls became part of the surging mass of people which flows over the historic bridge morning and afternoon, they felt a thrill of excitement. Streams of human beings and vehicles poured onto the bridge from every direction.
“I don’t feel like a person, Nancy,” observed Billie. “I feel like a drop of water in a rushing river. It will be hard to stop going, now we have started; hard to leap out. I never saw so many people in all my life, all intent on getting across, and just think, there used to be houses on the bridge before it was rebuilt. John Bunyan, who wrote ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ had lodgings here. Can you imagine it when it had shops on each side like a real street?”
But Nancy was not listening to her friend. She was watching the great human tide, flowing along so steadily and quietly.
“This is the place,” she said suddenly, pointing to a sort of bow at one side of the granite structure where there were seats. “This must be it because it’s the first one of these places, and that’s what the note said, wasn’t it?”
“There she is,” cried Billie; “either we’re late or she’s ahead of time.”
Marie-Jeanne, who had been waiting with a book on one of the seats, rose and came toward them. The girls shook hands with her, and Billie slipped an arm around her waist and smiled into her eyes. She had always felt a deep sympathy for poor Marie-Jeanne.
“We have brought you the capes and the money we owe you, Marie-Jeanne. I am sorry you couldn’t come to see us and spend the day. We wanted to have you to luncheon.”
“It would have been very nice, but I was afraid. I am afraid now. No one must know that I have been talking with you and Nancy.”
“But why?” cried Nancy. “My dear Marie-Jeanne, we haven’t any secrets.”