He even laughed, and tossed his head in a valiant imitation of Billy
herself; but his voice shook.
"Know him!--I should say I did!" he cried. "Why, I am William Henshaw,
myself."
"You!--Uncle William! Why, where's your pink?"
The man's face was already so red it could not get any redder--but it
tried to do so.
"Why, er--I--it--er--if you'll just come into the waiting-room a minute,
my dear," he stuttered miserably, "I--I'll explain--about that. I shall
have to leave you--for a minute," he plunged on frenziedly, as he led
the way to a seat; "A--matter of business that I must attend to. I'll
be--right back. Wait here, please!" And he almost pushed the girl into a
seat and hurried away.
At a safe distance William Henshaw turned and looked back. His knees
were shaking, and his fingers had grown cold at their tips. He could see
her plainly, as she bent over the basket in her lap. He could see even
the pretty curve of her cheek, and of her slender throat when she lifted
her head.
And that was Billy--a GIRL!
People near him at that moment saw a flushed-faced, nervous-appearing
man throw up his hands with a despairing gesture, roll his eyes
heavenward, and then plunge into the nearest telephone booth.
In due time William Henshaw had his brother Bertram at the other end of
the wire.
"Bertram!" he called shakily.
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