“What place?” gasped Darcy.
“Boulder Brook, he calls it. It’s up on the edge of the mountains.”
The girl leaned back, closed her eyes, and began to count slowly: “One—two—three—four—”
“I say,” broke in the partner of her plot. “Let a chap in on this. What’s wrong?”
“You said it just now: ‘These things do not happen to people.’ You were right. They don’t. Anyhow, they ought not to be allowed to. Five—six—seven—Oh, there’s no use counting ten on this.” She opened her great, gray-blue eyes wide upon him. “So’m I,” she announced.
“So’m you what?”
“Going to Boulder Brook.”
Barely in time did he check the natural rejoinder, “So are your friends, the bridal couples,” for he bethought himself that, if she knew, she would doubtless escape from the train at the first station and this astounding and priceless adventure would be abruptly terminated. Instead he said:
“May I take you over with me? I’m having a car at Laconia.”
“Mr. Harmon is having me met at Weirs. Weirs is miles nearer.”