"But I did want him!"
"I know. You meant all right," the woman assured her. "You're
real--there's your coachman runnin'. He saw the crowd gatherin',
prob'ly. Good-by, dear."
She slipped through the curious street children after the tall
figure that hurried on with his bundle, a block ahead. Gleggson
dashed up to the brougham.
"W'ere was you, Miss, for goodness' sake?" he gasped out, "h'I've
been h'all over after yer! Don't, don't tell Hunt on me, will you,
Miss? He'd fair kill the life out o' me! He's comin' now. 'e 'ad to
go, Miss, fer his little boy was took sick last night and callin'
for 'im. So 'e made up the errant. But it'll cost us both our place,
y' know, Miss!"
The man's voice shook. Hunt was very near them now, walking hard.
"I'd no business to leave, I know--_will_ you h'overlook it for
once, Miss, and keep mum?" the man pleaded.
"All right, Gleggson--all right," she said wearily, "I won't tell."
Confused, disappointed, and yet with a curious sense of joy in the
joy of the two even now rounding the corner, she leaned back in the
brougham.
"I'm afraid he'll go to Harvard, anyway," she sighed.
IV
WHERE THIEVES BREAK IN.
One glance at Caroline's shoulders, hunched with caution, the merest
profile, indeed, of her tense and noiseless advance up the narrow
gravel path, would have convinced the most casual observer that she
was bent upon arson, at the least.
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