“I’m coming, too! I’m coming, too!” squealed Amy, running across the walk after her.
“Do be quiet,” begged her chum. “And for once let me do the talking.”
“Oui, oui, Mademoiselle! As I haven’t the least idea what the topic of the conversation will be, I can easily promise that,” whispered Amy.
A high-collared man with eyeglasses and an ingratiating smile arose from behind a flat-topped desk facing the door and rubbed his hands as he addressed the two girls. 157
“What can I do for you, young ladies?”
“Why, why––Oh, I want to ask you—” Jessie stammered. “Do you know who owns the farm over there by the track? The Gandy place?”
“The old Gandy stock farm, Miss?” asked the real estate man with a distinct lowering of tone. “It is not in the market. The Gandy place never has been in the market.”
“I just wish to know who owns it,” repeated Jessie, while Amy stared.
“The Gandys still own it. At least old man Gandy’s daughter is in possession I believe. Horse people, all of them. This woman––”
“Please tell me her name?”