Dorothy knew the Griswold to be a rest resort, a sort of sanitarium where fashionable people went to recuperate from home or social duties.  This Miss Brooks did not appear to be in the circumstances of those who frequented the Griswold, the girl thought.

“I’ll tell her,” she said simply.

“She is just a friend?” ventured Miss Brooks questioningly.

“A very dear friend,” replied Dorothy warmly, at the same moment making up her mind that the stranger would not learn from her any more concerning Tavia or her character.

“I thought so,” went on her companion.  “Well, she is evidently impetuous; that is why I feel I may help her.  Ordinarily I would not interfere—­it is really a trifle risky for me, but she seems so young; and—­well, I’ll take my chances this time.”

Dorothy was completely mystified.  She could not guess at any business or circumstances which might occasion such remarks.  But somehow she felt that the woman spoke with knowledge of something about Tavia.  What that something might be Dorothy was absolutely at a loss to conjecture.

“I know I surprise you,” said Miss Brooks, divining her thoughts, “but some girls do strange things.  Miss Travers is evidently one of them.”

Dorothy’s cheeks flamed at this remark.  Why should she speak so of Tavia?

“I have known Miss Travers since she was a child,” flashed Dorothy, “and I have never thought her—­strange.”

Scarcely had the words been uttered than all Tavia’s pranks and follies seemed to come up before Dorothy’s memory like some horrid, mocking specters.

Surely Tavia had always done “strange things,” and very likely only Dorothy’s powerful influence had kept her from risking greater dangers.

But Dorothy could not listen to anything against her nearest and dearest friend.  No stranger had a right to condemn her.

The train was slacking up as it steamed into the big, arched station.  Here Miss Brooks would go her way, while Dorothy would be left to think over the unexpected happenings of the brief railroad journey.

There seemed to Dorothy something almost patronizing in the stranger’s manner as she bade her good-by.  Perhaps she did pity her—­but why?  What was wrong, or what might happen on this day’s shopping venture?

“I really do believe I’m getting queer myself,” mused the girl, trying vainly to shake off her fears and suspicions.  “Well, so many queer things do manage to happen in a single holiday vacation I don’t wonder that I catch the germ; it must be infectious.”

Dorothy’s little fur toque fitted gracefully on her beautiful blonde head.  Her cheeks matched the poinsettia, or Christmas flower, and her eyes were as blue as the sapphires in the jewel shops.

With some slight agitation she entered Boardman’s.  It was in this store that the ring incident had occurred, and the thought of her experience was not exactly pleasant to the sensitive girl.