“Hurt?”
“Well, of course I’m not sure, but I fear she is. She must have told someone to send it. I’ve got to go. How much is a ticket?”
“Eighty-five cents. The train’s due now. There she comes,” he added, as a distant whistle sounded.
Freda had barely time to get her ticket and hurry aboard.
“Don’t worry,” the agent called out to her. “There hasn’t been any accident, or I’d have heard of it.”
But Freda did worry. All the way in the train she was a prey to nervous fears, and when the Junction was finally reached she was hardly able to keep up.
But there was no sign of an accident, and her mother was not there when she alighted—the only passenger to get off.
Wickford Junction was hardly more than a flag station, and there was an agent there only part of the time. He was not there now, but in the dingy waiting room, where Freda went to make inquiries, she found a shabbily dressed woman.
“Are you Freda Lewis?” the latter asked, starting forward.
“Yes, I am. But how did you know? Where is my mother? Did you send me a message? Oh, tell me quickly, please!”