“You are dogging me!” she exclaimed indignantly.

“I am keeping you in sight, according to orders.”

“You are a detective!” she asked, a little disarmed by his frankness.

“John O’Gorman by name, Miss.  At home I have a little girl much like you, but I doubt if my Josie—­even though I have trained her—­would prove more shrewd than you have done under such trying circumstances.  Even in the train you recognized my profession—­and I am thought to be rather clever at disguising my motives.”

“Yes?”

“And you know quite well that because you have come to Dorfield to join your grandfather, whom you call Colonel Weatherby, I have followed you in an attempt to discover, through you, the man for whom our government has searched many years.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“Therefore you are determined not to go to your destination and you are at your wits’ end to know what to do.  Let me advise you, for the sake of my own little Josie.”

The abrupt proposal bewildered her.

“You are my enemy!”

“Don’t think that, Miss,” he said gently.  “I am an officer of the law, engaged in doing my duty.  I am not your enemy and bear you no ill-will.”

“You are trying to arrest my grandfather.”

“In the course of duty.  But he is quite safe from me for to-night, while you are almost exhausted through your efforts to protect him.  Go into the hotel across the way and register and get some supper and a room.  To-morrow you will be able to think more clearly and may then make up your mind what to do.”

She hesitated.  The voice seemed earnest and sincere, the eyes considerate and pitying, and the advice appealed to her as good; but—­

“Just for to-night, put yourself in my care,” he said.  “I’m ashamed to have annoyed you to such an extent and to have interfered with your plans; but I could not help it.  You have succeeded in balking the detective, but the man admires you for it.  I noticed, the last time you took out your purse in the dining-car, that your money is nearly gone.  If you will permit me to lend you enough for your hotel expenses—­”

“No.”

“Well, it may not be necessary.  Your friends will supply you with money whenever our little—­comedy, shall we say?—­is played to the end.  In the meantime I’ll speak to the landlord.  Now, Miss Burrows, run across to the hotel and register.”

She gazed at him uncertainly a moment and the little man smiled reassuringly.  Somehow, she felt inclined to trust him.

“Thank you,” she said and took her suit case into the hotel office.

The clerk looked at her rather curiously as she registered, but assigned her a room and told her that dinner was still being served.  She followed the bellboy to her room, where she brushed her gown, bathed her hands and face and rearranged her hair.  Then she went to the dining room and, although the journey and worry had left her sick and nervous, she ate some dinner and felt stronger and better after it.