“And where was the return receipt card from?” she inquired, a trifle breathless from her exertions.
“From the same place.” La Montagne fumbled in an inside pocket. “But view,” he said, holding up a much battered return registered mail card. Marian took the card and studied the postmark, its date, and Evelyn’s clear and distinct signature in puzzled silence, then handed back the card.
“I can only tell you,” she stated slowly, “that Evelyn spent the entire summer in a convent out West; she has not been at Burnham Lodge for a year.”
The Frenchman stared at her. “What is it you say?” he exclaimed in deep astonishment, and Marian repeated her statement. “But it is not possible!” he ejaculated. “Not possible!”
“Yes it is,” Marian’s face expressed indomitable determination. “And I can’t have Evelyn’s happiness jeopardized by——” She stopped to wave her hand to Dr. Hayden, Dan Maynard, and James Palmer, who whirled by in an automobile. La Montagne, who had raised his hand in salute as the other men lifted their hats, whirled back to Marian, his face alight.
“Evelyn has not lost her affection; she is still true,” he began incoherently. “Ah, you have brought me news the most good—let us hurry to Evelyn.”
“Wait just a moment,” and Marian laid a detaining hand on the impetuous Frenchman’s arm. “We must sift this out a bit first. How were you received at Burnham Lodge and by whom?”
“Most cordially by both Mr. and Mrs. Burnham.”
“Was that the first time you had met them?”
“No, oh, no; we have met before in Paris, and I saw Mrs. Burnham when in New York visiting my American cousins. It was in my cousin’s house that I met Evelyn.”