“Who is he, then?” she said softly, clasping her hands tightly together.
The woman shrugged her shoulders and glanced quickly around the room.
“Never mind who he is,” she said, almost roughly. “He is not your uncle, and he is not married. Now tell me, who is your uncle, and how did you come here?”
Marion replied with eager promptness:
“My uncle is Frederic Stanton, and he lives at ‘The Norwood.’ I wrote him at that address and he answered my letter. He married my mother’s sister, and he is very rich, so rich that he has never recognized any of his wife’s relatives in the country. When Dollie was abducted my father disowned her and I was obliged to write to uncle, then I came to him,” she finished simply.
“There are a dozen apartment houses in the city by that name,” said the woman thoughtfully. “He probably lives at the biggest one, uptown on Fifth avenue.”
“I don’t know,” said Marion anxiously. “I only knew ‘The Norwood.’ You see I did not even think that there might be two of them.”
“Well, he should have thought and told you,” said the woman, “or the cabman should have as soon as you told him.”
Marion gave a quick exclamation, which was as quickly smothered. She had thought of something that might explain it.
“There was a man watching me in the station while I was waiting,” she said slowly. “He heard uncle’s name and the address, I am sure, and afterward I saw him give the cabman some money and a scrap of paper. Do you suppose it is possible——”