“It is worse than that,” answered Nita, with such grave import in her voice that Nathalie stared at her with big eyes as she cried, “Oh, Nita! do hurry and tell me. Have those girls—”
“Yes, those girls, your friends—”
“Please don’t call them my friends,” pleaded poor Nathalie tremulously, “for they are anything but friends.”
“So it seems,” nodded Nita dryly, “for they have told—well, just about every one in the house—that they suspect that Mr. de Brie is the thief who has been robbing the hotel. You know he has been giving them private lessons. Nelda declares that she believes Philip took her watch,—it was lying on the table when she left the room to answer a ’phone call from the office. Justine was out riding with the Count. When Nelda returned the watch was gone. Five other girls came to me this morning and told me that they were not going to take any more lessons.
“These girls have circulated all over the house,” continued Nita gloomily, “that Philip is an impostor; that you picked him up without knowing anything about him and that he is not a British soldier at all. O dear! how hateful people can act! And the clerk of the hotel—Well, he informed me this morning that the Profile House had sent word that they did not care to have Philip speak to their guests, as people were tired of hearing about the war.”
“Nita, this is terrible! Oh, I know Philip is not an impostor,” protested Nathalie with a dismayed face. “Why, Nita, he showed me a letter written to him by a soldier at the front, and he called him Lieutenant de Brie. And where could he have gotten his uniform if he is an impostor? Oh, I just believe those horrid, hateful girls have made the whole thing up.” Nathalie stopped, suddenly remembering that she was not speaking kindly, and not living up to her motto. She gave a long sigh, and then asked, “But, Nita, have you heard anything more about the detective coming up from the city?”
“Yes. Oh! there he is now, coming down the walk,” cried Nita, lowering her voice. Then she added, with a laugh, “Talk of the angels and you’ll hear the flutter of their wings.”
“Well, he doesn’t look much like an angel,” answered Nathalie, her eyes lighting humorously, as she watched a stout, red-faced man with a sandy moustache coming down the path towards them.
As the gentleman under discussion approached the girls he lifted his hat courteously, as he said, “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me how I can reach the top of Garnet? I understand that there are several trails up the mountain, but could you tell me which one would be the best one to ascend?”
The girls made no reply for a moment, assailed by the miserable fear that the man was going up the mountain to trail Philip. Then Nathalie, with an effort, turned and pointed down the road, explaining in a few words that one of the trails started in near the Grand View road.