'Fie! Aunt Ann--with all these guards and half the world looking on?

Then I had better go, Mr. Masters.'

'If you will.'

'Have you any advice or instructions to give me?'

'I think you will know how to proceed. Only it might be well to let her talk, if she will.'

'Certainly.'

'And, Miss Jenrys, let me beg of you, do not go away from this immediate vicinity, and do not walk upon the streets with this person if it can be avoided. Above all, do not make a further appointment with her.'

'I will be discreet. Good-bye for a short time, Aunt Ann.' She dropped the newly-returned bag into her aunt's lap and went away, as lithe and careless-seeming as the veriest pleasure-seeker.

She looked up and down at the windows of the South Dakota House and then walked deliberately in.

CHAPTER XII.

'MORE DANGEROUS THAN HATE.'

When we had watched her vanish within the walls of the opposite building, Miss Ross--for 'Aunt Ann' was a spinster--deliberately arose and took the place beside me.

'We can talk better so,' she said placidly, 'and I want to talk with thee.' And she began to roll up her knitting with care.

As we sat there I was almost hidden from view from the streets, because of the thick vine tendrils that fell like a curtain between me and the pa.s.sers-by, while it did not prevent my looking through the green drapery at my pleasure. But Aunt Ann had placed herself where she was plainly visible to all who pa.s.sed.

'Now,' she began, having put away her knitting, 'I ask thee honestly, sir, does thee think my niece in real danger of any sort? I cannot understand this strangeness.'

'Truly, Miss Ross,' I answered, 'I know no more than you have heard; but I could do no less than warn the young lady, knowing what I did.'

She bent toward me and scrutinized my face closely, keenly.

'Thy face is a good face,' she said then, 'and I like thy voice; but, young man, I am only a woman, and I have no right to do rashly. My niece trusts thee, but she is but a girl, with all her self-reliance.

Forgive an old woman's caution, and--tell me what is thy reason for the interest thee takes in my niece? Cannot thee give me some credential, some voucher for thy good faith, before I say to thee what I wish to say?'

Again I found myself forced to a sudden decision. In my experience as a detective I had found myself in many strange situations, but never before had I felt that I must speak the truth, or not at all, in a position like this. I answered, with scarce a moment's hesitation:

'You are right and wise, madam, and I am sure that I can confide to you the truth concerning my business at the Fair--only asking, because others are concerned with myself, that you regard my information as confidential.'

'Surely,' she said quietly. 'Thee may trust a Friend. We are not given to overmuch speaking. Of course thee has my promise.'

'Then I may tell you that my business here is to watch for and guard against just such people as this person, this brunette, seems to be. I am a member of the Secret Service Bureau.'

We were alone in the little arbour, and I showed her first my badge, sewn inside my coat, and then my photographic pa.s.s.

'I thank thee; and may I ask now does my niece know this?'

'I should have found extreme difficulty in gaining her ear or her confidence otherwise,' I answered.

'Ah! I felt sure--I know the child so well--that somehow she had found a reason for her faith in you. There is no prouder or more womanly girl living than my niece, June Jenrys; and now tell me frankly, what does thee fear or antic.i.p.ate for her?'

'If I knew your niece, Miss Ross, her friends, her foes, her history, I might venture an opinion. As it is, cannot you help me?'

She pondered a little, then:

'Tell me again,' she said, 'all about the bag and this woman.'

Now, I wanted to learn one or two things from this interview, and I realized that our time was short, so I rehea.r.s.ed the story again, and quite fully, but as briefly as possible. When I had finished, the clear-headed Quakeress was thoughtful again, then she said:

'I don't like this, not in the least; and I feel that thee has been right. I fear my girl is, in some way, in danger. Will you advise me?'

she asked, with sudden energy.

'To the best of my ability, willingly.' And then I risked a first repulse. 'If I might ask you to tell me something of your niece--her position--your plans----'

'Of course. My niece there is an orphan and an heiress.'

'Oh!' She gave me a quick glance and went on.

'Her home has been in New York City, with an aunt, formerly her guardian. June is now of age and her own mistress. Of late she has been with me in my little home, less than one hundred miles from this city. She came of her own accord, and was most welcome, and we came here together a little more than a week ago, June declaring that she meant to stay all summer, and I nothing loth.' She stopped and smiled.

'This is all very barren,' she said. 'I think thee will have to question me.'

'Then I think we must be brief. First, are you stopping near the grounds?'

'Very near; on Washington Avenue, little more than two blocks away;'

and she mentioned the number.

'Is it a boarding-house, a--pardon me, what I wish to know is if you have made any acquaintances there; if anyone has learned, for instance, that you are ladies of independent fortune, meaning to make a long stay, and consequently likely to have with you more or less money.'

'Ah! I was sure thee could get on. We are in a private house, found for us by the Public Comfort Bureau, and we have taken their only suite; there are no others.'

'And the family?'

Just the two, man and wife, and a servant. It's a cottage, but very cosy.'

'Has your niece an enemy?'

'An enemy? Oh, I trust not! I do trust not! I can't think so. Still, June is a society girl; I know little of that side of her life.'

'Then do you know if she has a friend who is, or may be, a fortune-hunter, one whom you distrust?'

I saw the quick colour flush her sweet face and leave it pale again, and again for a moment she seemed to hesitate.

'I don't quite like to say it,' she began then; 'but since we have been here I have seen a person who, I think, would be a suitor for my niece if she would permit it. I am not versed in the world's ways, but I have seldom found myself deceived in my judgment of man or woman, though I ought not to boast it. But of this man I think three things.

He is madly in love with my niece, and his sort of love is not the true sort. It is not lasting, and it is more dangerous than hate. He is a foreigner, with the soft, insincere ways that I cannot like nor trust. He has a strong will and a cruel eye, and--he likes me not at all. Mind thee, I do not accuse him--only he is the one person we have met here and spoken with except thyself; and----' She broke off and shook her head.