After that when any one glanced at her they turned to look again, for such a face as Marion Marlowe’s was not often seen in the big city.
At last the crowd dwindled to only the employees of the station, and a messenger in a red cap stepped up and accosted her civilly:
“Excuse me, miss, but can I be of service to you?” he asked, politely. “You know it’s our business to look after passengers.”
“Thank you,” said Marion, sweetly. “I am waiting for my uncle. I wrote him that I was coming, and I fully expected him to meet me.”
“Ought to be here if he’s coming,” said the man, good-naturedly; “you’ve been waiting nearly an hour. You must be getting pretty weary.”
“I am, and hungry, too,” said Marion, smiling; “but you see I am a country girl, and I don’t know my way. I would certainly get lost if I were to attempt to find him.”
As she spoke she did not notice that a well-dressed man had suddenly drawn near and was listening intently to her remarks without appearing to do so.
“What’s his address?” asked the messenger, in a business-like way.
Marion took a slip of paper from her reticule, and handed it to him.
“Frederic Stanton, The Norwood,” the man read aloud. “That’s a good ways from here. You’d better take a cab.”