“But, seriously, Tavia, I particularly want to speak to you,” began Dorothy, putting away numerous small packages and then dropping into her favorite seat—­the window-bench in her own room.

“Go ahead and speak, then,” answered Tavia.  “I hope what you have to say has nothing to do with work.”

“Now, dearie, listen,” commanded Dorothy.  “Who do you think was on the train with me this morning?”

“The conductor?”

“Likely,” replied Dorothy; “but he did not occupy the entire ten coaches, although he managed to circulate through them rather successfully.  But I did not refer to him.  I sat in the same seat with—­our little woman in black!”

“Our little woman in black!  Please do not include me in that class.  Did she want your purse?”

“Now, really, Tavia, I am almost convinced that we have greatly wronged that woman—­she was just as nice as she could be—­”

“Oh, of course, she was—­nice.  That’s what the laws are for, keeping people nice.  They don’t have much trouble to make that clear to you, Doro, dear.”

“Well, of course, you are entitled to your own opinion, but I do wish you would listen.  She sent you a message.”

“Sent me a message!  It was to you she owed the apology.  She has her cases mixed.”

“Tavia, she gave me this card to hand you with the request that you call upon her on Thursday morning.”

Tavia glanced at the card.  Then she read the inscription aloud.

“Of all the—­nerve!” she exclaimed, seemingly at a total loss to grasp any other word.  “To ask me to call on a handwriting expert!  Does she think I want her services?”

“I was, and am still, just as puzzled as you are, Tavia; but she seemed so serious.  Said you were young, and that perhaps she could help you—­”

Tavia seemed to catch her breath.  The next moment she had recovered herself.  “I might call—­just for fun.  Then, again—­I might not,” she said indifferently.

“So many queer things contrived to happen,” continued Dorothy, noting the slight agitation her chum betrayed.  “The clerk at the jewelry counter—­Miss Allen, the pleasant girl—­told me the woman detective, Miss Dearing, had been discharged.”

“Nothing queer about that,” exclaimed Tavia.  “The wonder is they ever employed such a person in that capacity.  Why, I fancy she would arrest a baby to fix her case.  Too ambitious, I guess.”

“Perhaps,” acquiesced Dorothy.  “But Miss Allen said she asked for my address.  Now, what could she want that for?”

“To apologize, likely.  Surely she owes you some sort of apology.”

“She was merely mistaken,” corrected Dorothy, “and did what she considered her duty.”

“The sweetness of forgiving,” soliloquized Tavia.

“Simply a matter of justice,” added Dorothy.  “But it does seem strange to me.  However, we will have to await developments.  Meantime, we must get ready for Christmas.”