“She asked me,” Nat defended himself, adding in a more cheerful tone: “Anyway, there isn’t anything gruesome about it. Nobody was seriously hurt, not even Mr. Haskell. They took him to the hospital to dress his burns, and the old fellow will probably be up and around as chipper as ever in a few days.”
But Dorothy shook her head.
“If they took him to the hospital he must be pretty seriously hurt,” she said, and Tavia gave an impatient flounce in the swing.
“Good gracious, Doro Doodlekins, there’s no use looking on the worst side of the thing!” she cried. “Let’s presume that Mr. Haskell is all right and that Joe will turn up, right side up with care, in a few days.”
But Dorothy was not listening to her. She turned her white face to Nat who was watching her anxiously.
“Nat,” she said slowly, “you don’t suppose Joe’s disappearance really has anything to do with the fire, do you? I mean,” she said quickly as she saw the frown of quick denial on Nat’s brow, “you don’t think that—by accident—he might have—you know he always is getting into all sorts of scrapes.”
“It is merely a coincidence, Dot,” repeated Nat, hoping that the words sounded more reassuring to his cousin than they did to him. He knew that they had not when Dorothy caught up his words, turning toward him with an angry light in her eyes.
“Then it is a very unfortunate coincidence,” she cried. “You know as well as I do, Nat, that when a thing like this happens and then some one runs away, his name is always connected——”
“Hush, Doro!” cautioned Tavia, for Dorothy had unconsciously raised her voice. “A stranger approaches on foot. Methinks he is a messenger lad.”
The “messenger lad” handed Dorothy a yellow envelope for which she signed tremulously.