“I—I’m not superstitious,” she blurted out. “I’m trying to be sensible about it, but do you think it’s sensible just to wait?”
“There isn’t anything else to do unless we notify the police, and then, if she had just been to a movie, wouldn’t she have the laugh on us?”
“But, Pauline, she isn’t thoughtless.”
“I could tell that,” Dale put in seriously. “She’s a mighty fine little girl. I know how you feel, Judy. I’ll stand by. Didn’t Irene and I wait up that night for you—and nothing had happened except that you took a walk?”
Dale was comforting. It was nice to have him there, especially when Judy knew that he was as interested as she in Irene’s safe return. But Judy could not help thinking of Farringdon and the enthusiasm with which the boys there would help her if they only knew.
Pauline thought of Farringdon too.
“Maybe Irene didn’t like it here in New York and went home,” she suggested.
“But the house is empty,” Judy objected. “There really isn’t any home in Farringdon for her to go back to. She doesn’t even know where they are going to live when her father is well again. He’s in a sanitarium now, and I hate to notify him if there’s any other way. It really would be better to notify the police.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dale agreed. “If she isn’t home by midnight we might try it. Things do happen—and especially to pretty girls,” he added gravely.
It was five minutes to twelve when footsteps were finally heard outside the door. Dale started to his feet, and Judy rushed toward the door, then halted with a cry of disappointment as she recognized the now familiar, “Hit’s Oliver, Miss.”