"I'm not here--as far as my people may know. I'm at the Catskills with my
cousins--except to my cousins themselves. To them I've come back home for a
week's conference with my dressmaker. Our house isn't entirely closed up,
you know. Aunt Rachel likes the hot weather of Philadelphia all summer
through, and she's still here. When I arrived here this morning, I told her
the dressmaker story. She retires at eight and she thinks I'm in bed too.
But I'm here, and nobody suspects it but you and Mary, the servant at
home, who knows where I've come, and who's to stay up for me till I return
to-night. That's all of it, and now, as you're a friend of mine, you
mustn't tell any one, will you?"
"But I know nothing to tell," said the bewildered doctor. "What does all
this subterfuge, this mystery mean?"
Amy Winnett considered silently for a moment, while Doctor Haslam mentally
admired the slim, well-rounded figure, the graceful poise of the little
head with its mass of brown hair beneath a sailor hat of the style that
"came in" with this summer.
"I may as well tell you all," she answered, presently.
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