"Oh, that!" said Betty, sinking back relievedly. "Anybody could have done that."
"Perhaps anybody could," retorted Mollie practically. "But you notice nobody else did, don't you, Betty Nelson?"
"Well, I know, but that didn't have anything to do with capturing him," argued Betty, determined not to take any more than her share of the credit—and not that, if she could help it. "If Sergeant Mullins hadn't happened along just at that moment, he'd have gotten away from us the way he did those other times."
"Yes, but who delayed him, I'd like to know," Mollie flung back triumphantly, "and gave the Sergeant time to come along and finish up the work?"
"All right," laughed Betty. "I'll admit that much, since you insist. But what earthly difference does it make, anyway, as long as it's done?" she cried. "Just think," her voice trembled a little, "how happy those two must be in there! I—I—oh, I can't believe it yet."
"Well, but that's still troubling me," said Grace, so apropos of nothing at all that they just stared at her.
"Goodness, don't look at me like that," she cried irritably, getting up and walking round the room. "You know I always did hate mysteries."
"We should be very much obliged," said Mollie, with forced politeness, "if you would tell us what you're raving about."
"Goodness, don't you even see there is a mystery?" she cried, facing them impatiently. "How in the world could Sergeant Mullins ever be Mrs. Sanderson's son?"
"You'd better ask 'em," chuckled Mollie. "They both seemed so tolerably sure of it that we've taken it for granted. What's the deep, dark mystery?"