"I must sew the ribbons on Aunt Winnie's bag," went on Dorothy pleasantly after a pause. "Don't you think it pretty?" and she displayed a small bag made of white oiled silk and fitted up with all the little pockets needed in traveling. One for the wet sponge, another for the toothbrush, then a place for soap; in fact, a place for everything necessary in the emergency of traveling.
"It is dear," agreed Tavia, looking the prospective gift over carefully. "I don't see how you have patience to do such fine work."
"Oh, that is not fine," replied Dorothy. "See my lace pieces. They are what I call fine."
"Oh, they are simply beyond my understanding altogether. Like geometry, you know. But I forgot to ask Nat something. I wonder if he has gone up to his room yet?" and Tavia rose to ascertain.
"It's nearly ten," Dorothy told her, "and he usually retires before ten o'clock."
"Well, I'll just run down to the library and find out. I may forget it by morning."
Dorothy could not help thinking that so urgent a matter as one which required that attention would scarcely be so easily forgotten, but when Tavia left the room she put her little gifts away and soon forgot all about Tavia's sudden determination to seek Nat. Dorothy had so many other more interesting things to dwell upon.
"But I do hope she will not sit up late," came the thought, when some time after Tavia's exit Dorothy remembered that no sound had since indicated that her chum had come toward the room. "Aunt Winnie does not like these little late conferences."
Then she turned off her light and continued to listen for Tavia's footstep.
Meanwhile, Tavia was talking very seriously to Nat. She had told him about Dorothy's message from the strange woman, and he had suggested that the handwriting expert might in some way be connected with the Chicago firm to which Tavia had written, and through which she had made her financial—mistake.