“I don’t mind. I’m not liable to sleep much to-night, so there’s little use in going to bed.”
“Wait for me a moment,” she said.
Phil waited. She soon returned with a bulky newspaper packet partly concealed beneath her cloak.
Together they strolled down the street toward the town. It was after ten o’clock, and on Sunday evening Riverdale was like a deserted village.
“We’re getting to be regular night owls, aren’t we?” asked Phœbe, with a nervous tremor in her voice.
“Yes, indeed. But why are we prowling around town to-night? Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to walk in the lanes?”
“We’re going to the bank,” said the girl.
Phil stopped short to look at her, but the overhanging branches of a tree hid her face. With a sigh he walked on, deciding to let her have her way. But he could think of no good reason for this absurd whim.
When they reached the bank Phœbe said:
“We will go in, Phil. Unlock the door.”