"Oh, has she?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sorry."
"Well, you needn't be," Miss Allen assured her. "She didn't much care how you fared."
"But she only made a mistake," pleaded Dorothy.
"Perhaps," and Miss Allen shrugged her shoulders; "but she took the trouble to come to me and ask your address."
"My address!"
"Yes; wanted it awfully bad, too. I wouldn't take any customer's address off a tag; not for all the detectives in the house. But I happen to know some one else did."
"But what did she want my address for?" asked Dorothy as quietly as her voice could speak in spite of her agitation.
"Don't know," replied the clerk, indicating she might be able to guess; "but it might be handy some day. When she gets time to think it over, you know."
Dorothy was now almost as greatly mystified as she had been when the woman on the train spoke of Tavia. But Miss Allen went to wait on another customer, and when Dorothy had finally succeeded in selecting some trinkets she left the counter with Miss Allen's words ringing in her ears.
"Whatever does it all mean?" she asked herself. It was some time before she had her answer.