Once on the train, and out among strangers, Dorothy felt as if all eyes were upon Urania. Was her disguise really good? Might some one know her from the published descriptions, that had appeared in the newspaper from North Birchland?

“Now, you must not talk aloud,” she whispered to Urania. “Someone might suspect, and listen to our conversation.”

Of course, Miette was all excited over her own affair. Would she really see Marie? she asked Dorothy, and when did Dorothy think her aunt would take them to New York?

Dorothy found it difficult to take care of the two girls. She was so anxious about Urania she could scarcely keep up with Miette’s questions. Urania in turn settled down rather awkwardly in her new outfit. She wanted to remove the big stiff hat, but Dorothy said she should not. Then she insisted on taking off the thin silk gloves, and Dorothy warned her to keep her hands well down in her lap, as they were very brown, and rather “suspicious” looking.

A woman opposite attempted to get into conversation with Urania, but Dorothy felt obliged to take the gypsy down the aisle for a drink of water, in order to have a chance to tell her she positively must not talk to strangers.

They had to change cars at another junction. Dorothy wanted to go out of the train both first and last, but with human limitations she was obliged to be content with leading the way for her two charges.

A wait of fifteen minutes in the little way station added to Dorothy’s discomfort. Urania must not talk to the station agent—why did every one speak to her? Was she too attractive?

The task Dorothy had undertaken now seemed more and more difficult. If she only could get on the train for North Birchland safely! But there would be one more change, at Beechville. There was a strange man waiting in the station. He got on the train at Glenville, and seemed interested in the three girls. Perhaps Dorothy only imagined it, but he certainly was watching them.

He took a seat in the North Birchland car directly opposite Dorothy and Urania (Miette occupied a separate seat), Dorothy was plainly nervous, and she handed Urania a book and whispered to her to pretend to be reading it.

The man finally spoke to Dorothy.

“Aren’t you Miss Dale?” he inquired, “Major Dale’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dorothy promptly, feeling a relief since her dear father’s name had been mentioned.

“And these other girls?” he asked pointedly.

“Friends of mine from the Glenwood Boarding School.”

“You were friends with that gypsy girl,” he said, fixing his eyes on Urania, “You know she got away—I know your folks out at the Cedars,” he went on, seeing the surprise on Dorothy’s face, “and I thought you might be able to tell me something about the girl—I’d first-rate like to find her.”

Urania turned around and almost gasped! Her eyes showed plainly her confusion, and in spite of Dorothy’s tugging at her skirt, she was in imminent danger of making her identity known. This frightened Dorothy, and, of course, the man saw at once that both girls were agitated.

Whether he had been suspicious, or whether Urania’s sudden change of attitude led to his conclusions, it was now apparent that he did suspect the identity of the girl with the big white hat turned down so closely over her brown hair.

Dorothy tried to speak, but she only succeeded in smiling faintly, and her effort to take the situation as a joke was an utter failure.

The man left his seat and stood directly in front of them.

“You don’t happen to know the runaway gypsy girl?” he asked Urania.

“N-o,” she stammered, while the blood in her cheeks burned through Dorothy’s clever make-up.

“H’m!” he asked again, pressing nearer the frightened girl.

Dorothy was stunned—bewildered! Surely he must know. She could not say that this was Tavia Travers, in fact, to tell the untruth did not occur to her—he would be able to see through that if he had penetrated the disguise.

The train was whistling for a stop at Beechville. Here they must change cars—oh, if only he would get off there and go away, then, perhaps, some one would help her!

Miette, quick to discern the change in Dorothy, looked on, trembling with fear. Perhaps the man had been sent out by her aunt—perhaps he would take her, too, as well as Urania! She had suffered so many strange experiences, that now she dreaded and feared everything!

“We all change cars here,” coolly said the man. “I guess I had better take you little girls in hand—you need not be afraid. I’m a regular officer, and I will take good care of you.”

“Oh!” screamed Urania, “I will not go! I won’t be arrested!”

“Hush!” exclaimed Dorothy, “You are not going to be arrested, but you must be quiet or they may think we—think something is wrong. Sir,” she said, looking up at the big man with the slouch hat, “I will not go with you unless I know who you are.”

“That’s easy settled,” he replied, pulling back his coat and displaying a badge, “I’m head constable of North Birchland.”

“And what do you want of us?” asked Dorothy, bravely.

“Don’t know as I want anything with you,” he replied, “But I am after that gypsy girl, and I have an idea this is the girl I am looking for,” touching Urania on the shoulder.

“But I cannot let her go with you unless I go along, too,” spoke up Dorothy, now prepared to stand by Urania in this new difficulty. “Then you may come along, too,” he said, good-naturedly enough. “Here we are. This is the Beeches—and you know the Borough lock-up is out here.”

“Lock-up!” almost shrieked Miette.

An elderly gentleman a few seats back noticed the girls’ plight. He stepped forward and spoke to the constable:

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” replied the constable, resenting the interference.

“But these young girls—what do you want of them?”

“We change cars here,” spoke the constable, ignoring the man’s question, as the train came to a stop.

“So do I, then,” declared the man, looking kindly at Dorothy, and following the party out of the car.

Miette clung to Dorothy’s skirt—the constable had taken Urania by the arm. She struggled to get away, and no doubt would have given the officer a lively chase could she have freed herself from his hold.

“I must telegraph my aunt,” declared Dorothy, as they reached the platform. “Office is closed,” said the constable, looking into the ticket office that was really deserted.

“Oh, what shall I do?” wailed Dorothy, now dreadfully alarmed at their plight.

“Don’t you worry, little girl. I’ll see that nothing happens to you,” said the gentleman who had left the train with them.

“I can’t see the necessity,” interfered the constable. “I’m a regular officer of the law, and I guess I’m about able to take care of a little thing like this.”

“No doubt,” replied the other, “but even an officer of the law may—overstep his authority. Have you a warrant for any one of these little girls?”

Dorothy looked her thanks, but the constable did not give her a chance to speak.

“Perhaps that will satisfy you,” said the officer, handing the man a paper.

The gentleman glanced at it—then looked at Urania.

“I can’t see how this description fits?” the man said, with a sharp look, first at Urania and then at the constable.

“But I can,” declared the officer. “See that scar?” pointing to a long, deep ridge on Urania’s cheek. Certainly the mark agreed with the mark mentioned in the description.

“Let me go!” cried Urania, making a desperate effort to free herself.

“Now! Now!” spoke the officer. “Just you go easy, little girl. Nobody’s goin’ to hurt you. But you must not make too much trouble.”

“Can’t we go?” pleaded Miette, thoroughly frightened and plainly anxious to get away from the scene.

“I will not leave Urania,” declared Dorothy, firmly, “and you could not find your way to North Birchland alone. I am sure Aunt Winnie will come as soon as she receives my telegram—the office must surely open before train time.”

“I don’t fancy old Baldwin’s much good on sending messages over the ticker,” said the officer, with an uncomfortable smile, “and Miss Blackburn’s off somewhere—wasn’t here last night.”

“Do they not employ a regular operator?” asked the strange gentleman.

“Not at this junction,” replied the constable, “don’t have many messages here.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Dorothy, “Isn’t that awful? What shall we do?”

“I said before, young lady, you can do as you please, but I’m wasting good time standing here talking. I’ll just be movin’ along. Come along, Urania.”

But Urania would not move. She put her two feet down so firmly against the planks of the platform that even the strong constable saw he would have to drag her, if he insisted on her going along.

Miette began to cry. Dorothy stepped aside and spoke to the gentleman who had so kindly offered to help her. The thought that she had not sent word to the Cedars that she was coming—that she was not expected—just flashed across her mind.

What if Mrs. White should not be at home? But the major—and yet, in her last letter to Glenwood Mrs. White told that Major Dale was gone away on a business trip, about some property that had to be settled up.

What a predicament? But this was no time to speculate on possible troubles—there were plenty of certainties to worry about.

Urania still defied the officer. And Miette was over on a bench crying.

“Couldn’t you—let these girls go—on my bond?” asked the gentleman, crossing to the officer’s side. “I will be responsible—” “I have said before those two can go—but there ain’t a bond strong enough in the county to stand for this one—she’s too slippery.”

“Then we must all go together,” declared Dorothy. “I will stay with—my friend.”

“Just’s you say,” replied the officer, “But I’m going to make a start. See here, young lady”—this to Urania—“if you want fair play, no new troubles, you had better step along here, and lively, too.”

“Yes,” said Dorothy to the gypsy girl, “we had better go. I’ll go with you.”