"Wings?" suggested Tim.
Judy hesitated. "You remember—at breakfast, wasn't it?—ages and ages ago—all had wings—those things—"
She broke off and pointed significantly at the figure of Uncle Felix who was standing with his head cocked up at an awkward angle, staring into the sky. Shading his eyes with one hand, he was apparently examining the topmost branches of the tall horse-chestnuts.
"He couldn't have got up a tree, could he, or into a bird's nest?" said the girl. She offered the suggestion timidly, yet her brother did not laugh at her. There was this strange feeling that the hider might be anywhere—simply anywhere. This was no ordinary game.
"There's such a lot," Tim answered vaguely.
She looked at him with intense admiration. The wonder of this marvellous game was in their hearts. The moment when they would find him was simply too extraordinary to think about.
Judy moved a step closer in the darkness. "Can he get small, then—like that?" she whispered.
But the question was too much for Tim.
"Anyhow he gets about, doesn't he?" was the reply, the vagueness of uncertain knowledge covering the disappointment. "There are simply millions of trees and nests and—and rabbit-holes all over the place."
They were silent for a moment. Then Judy asked, still more timidly: