He corroborated the story.  He did not know Marjorie’s name, but he described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her identity.

But he could tell them no more.  She had bought her ticket and taken the train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do.

“Did she look as if she had been crying?” asked King, almost crying himself.

“Why, yes, now you speak of it, her face did look so.  Her eyes was red, and she looked sorter sad.  But she didn’t say nothin’, ’cept to ask for a ticket to New York.”

“Return ticket?” put in Mr. Bryant.

“No, sir; a single ticket.  Just one way.”

The conductor couldn’t be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long one, and his home far away.

“I can’t understand it,” said King, as they walked homeward; “and I can’t believe it.  If Midget went to New York alone, she had lost her mind,—­that’s all.”

But when they reached home, they found the Maynards quite hopeful.  It had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, Marjorie had decided to visit Grandma Maynard, and had started off there alone.

“I’m trying to get them on the long-distance,” Mr. Maynard announced, quite cheerily, as they entered.

“Let me take it,” said Cousin Jack.  “If she isn’t there, we don’t want to alarm them, either.”

“That’s so!” said Mr. Maynard.  “All right, Jack, take it.  Bless you, old fellow, for your help.”

But when connection had been made, and Cousin Jack found himself in communication with Grandma Maynard, he didn’t know what to say.  He caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said: 

“How do you do, Mrs. Maynard?  You don’t know me, but I’m Jack Bryant, a guest at Ed Maynard’s house in Seacote.  Now, won’t you tell me when Marjorie’s birthday comes?”

“Ah, I’ve heard of you, Mr. Bryant,” said Grandma Maynard, pleasantly.  “I suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party.  Well, her birthday is next week,—­the fifteenth of July.”

“Oh, thank you.  She is getting a big girl, isn’t she?  When,—­when did you see her last?”

Cousin Jack’s voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening, didn’t notice it.

“About two months ago.  They were here in May.  I love Marjorie, and I wish I could see her again, but there’s little hope of it.  She wrote to me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer.”

“Yes, that is their plan,” said Cousin Jack.

He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.

But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie’s safety, because of anything he had said.

“She isn’t there,” he said, quietly; “but I still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look.”

But what a direction!  Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to find Grandma Maynard’s house, and not getting there!  Where had she been all night?  Where was she now?