"I am going away from this place to-night," the girl exclaimed excitedly, "somewhere--I don't know where." "You think this man is here after you?" "I feel sure of it." "Would he know you?" "I can't tell. You know the case was tried in Washington, and the court-house is just across the street from the Detective Bureau. He may have been in the court-room. And, as Mr. Harcourt says, without doubt they acquire the habit of noticing faces.... No, I won't take any chances. There is too much at stake. I am going to get aboard the first boat that comes and go anywhere it takes me. I think I shall take the ferry for Mackinaw City; but I may go back to St. Ignace if that boat is in first." "The Mackinaw ferry will be in first," said Mrs. Pennybacker. "It will be here inside of a half hour." Then, after a moment's thought, "Margaret, why don't we all go down to We-que-ton-sing with you now?... Why, yes, we can get ready if you can. There is nothing to do but to pack our grips. We needn't give up our rooms. We'll tell Mr. Harcourt that it's a sudden inspiration. He can join us or not as he likes. I'll speak to them at once." When she did so, Mr. Harcourt remonstrated vigorously, having in mind the inland trip, but without avail. There was evidently something in the wind that he did not understand, and when Mrs. Pennybacker told him plainly that they would have to go whether he found it convenient to accompany them or not, he gave in. A half hour later found them all ensconced on the deck of the ferry, Margaret with her black veil drawn down over her face. She sat where she could watch the gangway, and she saw every passenger that got on. She did not feel easy till the plank was in. But the man was not there, she was very sure of that, and she drew a long breath as the boat pushed off. John Harcourt saw nothing but tragedy in the wreck of his plans. "To think of that beautiful inland trip going to the bow-wows like this!" he grumbled to Bess as they sat together in the hot, dusty car enroute for We-que-ton-sing. "I don't pretend to understand why we did it. I don't believe they know themselves." "You didn't have to come," said Bess. "Oh, well!" CHAPTER XVII WE-QUE-TON-SING In the somewhat frayed and ragged end of the mitten to which the State of Michigan has been likened is a modest bay indenting the left-hand edge, called Little Traverse, to distinguish it from another further down, where a greater rent has been raveled out.