"Don't tell me any more," she said, gently; "it must have been very terrible."
"It was," said Beverly, sadly. "Part of the wall of the hotel where they were staying fell in, and they were both instantly killed. We feared for a time that my mother would never recover from the shock."
"And was the maid killed, too?" Marjorie asked. She was longing to hear more, but did not like to ask too many questions.
"We never knew; you see, she was a stranger to us. My uncle advertised in all the California papers, in the hope of finding her, and perhaps learn more particulars, but no answer ever came. She was probably killed, poor thing."
"Your mother spoke of her little girl this afternoon," said Marjorie; "she said she would have been just about my age."
"Yes, she would have been fifteen this January. It is rather odd, but when I saw you that first morning in the park you somehow reminded me of Babs. She was such a jolly little girl. She was four years younger than I, but there were only we two, and we were always chums."
There was a look of such genuine sorrow on the boy's face that impulsive Marjorie held out her hand.
"I'm so sorry," she said and that was all, but Beverly understood, and he went back to his mother's apartment with a very kindly feeling for the little girl from Arizona.
Once in her own room Marjorie speedily forgot the Randolphs and their troubles in the delight of a letter from home. Undine's handwriting was rather immature for a girl of her age, but the letter itself was most interesting and satisfactory.
"November Fifteenth.