“Oh, that’s it, is it? I didn’t know. I have a lot of silly girls always asking about traveling companies after they’ve left here, and I thought you might be one of them. Now you’re talking. Yes, of course, certainly. If you’ve got to find anybody connected with that company you’d better be quick about it, for I should think there wouldn’t be much left of ’em by this time. I heard they had quite a time of it getting their trunks away from here. Held up for board, you know. But of course they’re used to that sort of thing.”
Dorothy took hold of the brass rail in front of her as she turned away from the window. She felt as if she could hardly stand any more of the man’s veiled insinuations. But it might not be true—surely it could not be true—it was only his cruel, teasing way. Tavia could not be in such distress.
“How can I get there?” Dorothy repeated.
“If you want to get to Rockdale,” the ticket seller answered after a pause, “you can take the train at twelve forty-five.”
“Thank you,” murmured Dorothy, turning dizzily toward the street to make her way to the station she had so recently left. How she managed to reach the place she never knew. The great buildings along the way seemed about to topple over on her head. Her temples were throbbing and her eyes shot out streaks of flashing light. Her knees trembled under her. If only she had time to get something to eat! But she must not miss that train. It might be the last one that day.
Through the crowd of waiting persons she made her way to the ticket office and purchased the slip of cardboard that entitled her to a ride. She learned that the train was late and that she would have to wait ten minutes. Grateful for that respite Dorothy turned to the little lunch counter to get a sandwich, and some coffee. But, before she had reached the end of the big depot where refreshments were sold, she suddenly stopped—some one had grabbed her skirt.
Turning quickly Dorothy beheld a crouching, cringing figure, almost crawling so as to hide herself in the crowd.
“Girl!” cried Dorothy, trying to shake off the grasp on her skirt. “Let me go! What do you want?”
“Don’t you know me?” whispered the miserable creature. “Look again—don’t you know—Urania, the Gypsy girl?”
Then beneath the rags and the appearance of age that seemed, in so short a time to have hidden the identity of this young girl, Dorothy did recognize Urania. How wretched—how forlorn she was; and even in danger of arrest if she was seen begging in the depot.