“Well?” asked the manager suddenly as he wheeled around in his chair, wiping his glasses carefully but not seeming to look at Dorothy.
She caught her breath with a gasp. The moment had come. Her heart was beating painfully.
“I—I came to—to ask if you—if you have on your books the name of a young lady—Miss Octavia Travers?” she managed to stammer out. “A young lady with the ‘Lady Rossmore’s Secret’ company, I believe.”
“Travers,” repeated the manager thoughtfully, “Travers? Seems to me I have. Is she your sister?”
“Not exactly, but I have always regarded her as such—we have been very close friends all our lives.”
“Not a very long time at that,” remarked the manager with a smile. “But what is it you want to know about her?”
“To get her address.”
“Let me see, I’ll look it up—but if she is such a close friend of yours why didn’t she send you her address? She knew where she was going to be,” and he spoke pointedly.
Tears welled into Dorothy’s eyes, and she felt that she could not trust herself to speak. The manager looked critically at her. Then he laid aside the book he had picked up to consult.
“Run away?” he asked.