“Be almost night before we get there,” the girl thought to herself.
As she closed her eyes she seemed to see gypsy camp fires gleaming in the fading light of day. About one of these fires a blonde girl was dancing. The girl was Petite Jeanne. A strange sort of vision, but not far wrong.
CHAPTER XXIII
THROUGH ONE LONG NIGHT
Gypsy camp fires were indeed dispelling dark shadows of a fading day in the heart of a forest glade when the truck bearing Merry’s “Golden Circle” arrived at the scene of the encampment. But no little French girl danced about any of them.
“They’re gone, those Frenchies,” said the greasy gypsy who came out of a tent in answer to their call. “Don’t know much about ’em. They’re not of our tribe. We’re Americans; been here for generations.”
“Did they have a girl with them?” Weston asked.
“Yellow-haired?”
“Yes.”
“She’s with ’em, all right.”
“Bound?”