tinguished such a girl from herself; but she thought now, "She's one who knows and who's always known what's been kept from me." And she thought if she searched all the city, she could not find a better companion than this girl for her exploration.
An hour and a half later, entering her father's home in Evanston with receipt in her pocket for one week's rent in advance for half of Room 12, signed by J. A. Cordeen—receipt for the other half of Room 12 reposing in the pocket of the skin-tight, black, knitted dress of Clara Seeley, wiping cold cream from her face before an admiring group at a drug-store window—Marjorie Hale inquired for her mother and learned that she had gone out; her father, of course, was in. He was having a remarkably good day and had been dressed for an hour; he was not resting, for Martin had heard him telephoning a minute or so ago.
Marjorie could ask for no better opportunity; so she went to her room only to leave her hat and gloves and to straighten herself a little before knocking at her father's door.
