At the post-office she found, as she expected, a registered letter awaiting her. She signed the book nervously, and without opening the missive, raced back through the woods.
If only she could find out where Edna and Tavia were on the night of the fortune telling! And how had Tavia hurt her foot? Perhaps the fortune teller knew!
There she was—across the marsh. Jean would just run over and ask her. She glanced at her watch. Yes, she had fifteen minutes. Picking her steps through the damp woods Jean hurried to the woman who was sitting down, evidently nursing that dollar.
The old fortune teller glanced up, as she saw the girl coming.
“What now?” she asked indifferently.
“I want to ask you a question,” replied Jean nervously.
“I have not my ball,” demurred the woman.
“But it is not about myself,” said Jean. “I want to know can you tell me, how a girl—a brown-haired and brown-eyed girl—hurt her foot on the night that we—came to your place?”
This was news to Madam Shebad—news that she might turn into money!
“What are her initials?” she asked.