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alarming machine of hers.” He smiled fondly. “Chlo—MissMayhew said that she loved nursing but that winning the vote for women was more important right now.”
    Violet had managed to get control of her tears. “Chloe's been a suffragist ever since she was in high school,” she said. “Even then she worked on petitions and things.”
    “Well, it's a very worthwhile cause,” said Mr. Martin.
    Violet looked at him, surprised. “You think so?”
    “Of course. Denying equal suffrage to women is a terrible injustice.”
    Violet was astonished. She had heard people say this before—Chloe chief among them—but she'd never heard a man say it. She hadn't really thought a man could want votes for women. Father certainly didn't. And none of the men from the bank that he invited for dinner, Mr. Russell and Mr. Rice and Mr. All-the-rest-of-them, did. As for Stephen—she hadn't really known Stephen that well; he'd been away since she was little, first at Cornell University and then at the War. For the last three years he hadn't voiced any opinions, even though Father had made Mother dress him up so he could take him to the polls to vote on Election Day just the same.
    “My father says woman suffrage is a damn-fool crazy idea,” Violet blurted, then clapped her hand to her mouth. “I beg your pardon.”
    Mr. Martin smiled. “Every great advance in human society started out as a damn-fool crazy idea.”
    “Er, yes,” said Violet, feeling the conversation was getting off track.
    Myrtle apparently thought so too, because she said, “Do you have an address for Miss Mayhew in Washington, sir?”
    “An address? Now wait a minute.…” Mr. Martin put his book down. “Are you in New York with your parents, Miss Mayhew? And what about you, Miss Davies? Where have you sprung from, and don't they miss you there?”
    Violet and Myrtle glanced at each other, alarmed. Mr. Martin had been speaking so normally that Violet, at least, had forgotten that he was an adult and likely to be interested in these sorts of details. She was trying to think of an evasive answer to this while still not looking at Mr. Martin's missing fingers or his scar when Myrtle said, “She just wants an address to write to, I think, Mr. Martin.”
    Mr. Martin still looked suspicious, so Violet hastily agreed. “Yes, just to write to. My father and mother don't … That is, they and Chloe had an argument.…”
    Mr. Martin frowned. “And you, Miss Davies?”
    The door opened inward halfway and a woman's voice called, “Theo! Come help me get these boys out of the chimney.”
    “Excuse me,” said Mr. Martin, standing up again. “I'll just be a minute. Please wait right here.”
    As soon as he had left the room, Violet said, “We'd better go,” at exactly the same moment that Myrtle whispered, “Let's get out of here.”
    Violet smiled in spite of her anxiety. She and Flossie used to say the same thing at the same time too. Shelooked out into the hallway. There was no sign of Mr. Martin or anyone else. They rushed out the front door, careful not to slam it behind them.
    When they were out in the street again, Myrtle said, “That Mr. Martin was going to trot me over to the institute, and then put you on the first train back to Pennsylvania. What are you gonna do now? Should we go to Washington to find your sister?”
    Violet had been thinking just that, though she had no idea how to get there. “Don't you have to go back to your training institute?”
    “I told you. I try not to spend too much time there.”
    “But don't they want you there?” Violet still wasn't sure exactly what a girls' training institute was, but if it was anything like a school, they would.
    “Yes,” said Myrtle unconcernedly. “Do you have enough money for the train to D.C.?”
    “I don't think so,” said Violet. “How far is it?”
    “A long way,” said Myrtle. “More than two hundred miles.”
    Violet didn't have to do the math. At two cents a mile, she did not have