“Kidnappers don’t often take four at a time,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling. “I fancy they’re all right, wherever they are.”
It was at this moment the doorbell rang.
It did not occur to Miss Larkin that the children might be outside, and seating herself primly, she waited while Sarah admitted the guest, whoever it might be.
So Sarah opened the front door, and at sight of the four untidy-looking children, and the nondescript group behind them, she gave an uncontrollable shriek, and fell back, half-dazed, as what seemed like an endless procession of people marched in.
King and Marjorie, as ringleaders, went straight up to Miss Larkin.
“We brought these people home with us,” explained Marjorie, simply. “They are the Simpsons. Their house burned down, and their father is in the hospital, and they have no home to cover their heads, and so we brought them here. Father and Mother always look out for them and——”
But Marjorie quailed at last before the flush of anger on Miss Larkin’s face, and the look of frozen horror on the countenance of the strange lady, who, she knew, must be Mrs. Mortimer.
Suddenly she realized her own shocking appearance, and the dreadful spectacle of the crowd behind her.
But Kingdon rose to the occasion.
“And so, Miss Larkin,” he went on, slipping his comforting hand into Midget’s, “as Mopsy and I have to take Father and Mother’s place while they’re away, we invited Mrs. Simpson and her children to come here for a few days, until they get another home.”