“Well, that’s just like Sid Wilcox,” and Cora shuddered.  It was a reaction of the unpleasant ride she had been forced to take with him.

“I hope, Miss Kimball, that you will soon be able to meet my sister,” said Paul after a little silence, during which the car had run along.  They were near the Beachwood Road, at the end of which, in a little grove of trees, was Cora’s home.

“Not on account of what you have done for me,” he went on, “but because I am sure you and she would be good friends.  Hazel is a fine girl, as I said before, and besides that—­” Paul stopped abruptly.

“Oh, I’m going to meet Hazel,” declared Cora warmly as Paul alighted from the car.  “I’ll invite her to my affair.  I am going to wake up folks around here.  Do you know, we all seem to be terribly depressed since that money was—­lost.”

“Yes, and I don’t wonder at it.  Twenty thousand dollars is a large sum.  I’d call it a fortune.  But, somehow, I feel sure that Mr. Foster will recover it.  I wish I could help unravel the mystery.  I would like to—­for more reasons than one.”

What could he mean by that?  His manner was very earnest.  Cora glanced at him gratefully.

“Good-by,” she said suddenly.

“Good-by,” echoed Paul, and he turned up the street.

CHAPTER XV

THREE GIRLS

Reflecting on her strange experience while in New City, seated late that same afternoon on the broad veranda of her handsome home, Cora had one gratifying thought.  No one whom she knew had seen her while Sid Wilcox was in possession of her car—­and of her.

Feeling this assurance she decided not to mention to any one at home the fact of his having stolen the ride.  She resolved to ask Paul to keep it a secret, and she knew he would.  As for Sid himself, if he did boast of it, few would credit his story, for he did not bear a very good reputation for truth, and he was constantly getting into scrapes.  Cora especially hoped Jack would not hear of the escapade.

Now Cora, who had been sitting in an easy chair, trying to read a book, decided to take the hammock for a change.  She did not feel like reading.

She wore a simple frock of white muslin, and her hair was let down in a most becoming fashion, in long, loose braids, all combining to make her particularly girlish-looking.

Cora was taking what she called her “loll.”  This particular form of rest, she always declared, was the only sort a healthy girl could reasonably enjoy.

“When you rest, why, just rest,” she used to say to Isabel Robinson, who, on account of her nervous temperament, had rather been overdone with “rest cure” ideas.  Isabel delighted in such terms as “relaxation” and “siesta,” while Cora reveled in her “loll.”

A box of “deadly chocolates”—­that is what Isabel would have called them—­were at Cora’s elbow, and she was just reaching for the tenth one, when Isabel herself, and her sister, sauntered along the path.