“How do you mean, bound?” The gypsy stared. “Gypsies don’t tie their folks up.”
“But she was kidnaped,” Merry broke in.
“Listen, young lady!” The man came close. His air was defiant, almost threatening. “Gypsies don’t kidnap girls. Why should they? Got enough of their own.”
At that moment three dirty children crowded around him. The look on his face softened as he patted their tousled heads.
“That girl kidnaped!” He laughed hoarsely. “She’s one of ’em. Talks their French lingo. Talks gypsy talk, too, better’n me. Danced all day, didn’t she, youngsters?” Again he patted the dark hair of the shy children.
“Beautiful, so beautiful dancer!” the oldest girl murmured.
“See!” he exulted. “I tell the truth. Children don’t lie.”
“But where have they gone?” Merry’s mind was in a whirl. Petite Jeanne staying in such a place of her own free will? Petite Jeanne, who was so much needed elsewhere, dancing all day beside a gypsy tent? The thing seemed impossible. Yet here were the guileless little children to confirm the statement.
“Wait! I will show you.” The man disappeared within the tent. He was back in half a minute. In his hand he held a soiled road map. On this, with some skill, he traced a route that ended in a village called Pine Grove, many miles away.
“Beyond this place,” he concluded, “is a great pine grove. Some man planted it there many years ago. You cannot miss it. There is only one like this in the state. This is where they will camp. There are others of their kind camping there. They are gone three hours ago in a motor van. See! There are the wheel tracks. You may follow, but you will not overtake them; not in that.” He pointed at their truck with a smile. “Gypsies have always been blacksmiths. Now many are motor mechanics. They trade for cars, fix ’em up. Always it is for a better car. By and by they have a very fine one. So it is with these.”