Laurie was writing on the back of a piece of paper with his fountain-pen. "Look here, Mrs. Deane," he said eagerly, "why don't we write to this Goop ourselves, if she won't? Or why don't we telegraph him? That would be better, because folks always pay more attention to telegrams than they do to letters. Only"—Laurie's face clouded a trifle—"I wonder how much it costs to Sioux City."
"Why—why—," began Mrs. Deane a little breathlessly, "do you think it would be quite right? You see, Laurie, maybe I'd ought to consider what she told me as confidential. I'm not sure she would like it a bit, she's so sort of touch—proud."
"Well, you stay out of it, then," said Laurie resolutely. "I'll attend to it myself, and if there's any blame, why, I'll take it. But I certainly do think that some one ought to—ought to do something, Mrs. Deane. Don't you?"
"Well, I suppose they ought, Laurie, maybe. But perhaps it's taking a good deal on yourself—I mean—"
"She needn't know anything about it unless Goop comes across with an answer, and what she
