"Will you?" eagerly asked Benjamin Crane, "will you speak yourself, Peter?"
"Yes, father," came a reply, and everybody started.
Surely that was Peter's own voice! Not loud, almost a whisper, but with the unmistakable cadence and tone of Peter, himself.
"That's Peter!" cried Julie, excitedly, "oh, father, is it?"
"Hush, dear," her father said, himself greatly agitated. "One must be very calm and quiet on these occasions. Peter Boots, will you talk with us?"
"Gladly, Dad," came the voice again,—seeming to emanate from behind Detective Western's chair,—as indeed it did.
"Then tell us of yourself, my boy."
Mrs. Crane said no word, but sat, her hand in that of her husband, full of faith in the genuineness of it all, and ready to listen and believe.
"I am very happy here, father," Peter's voice declared,—and Zizi bit her lip to keep from smiling at the hackneyed phrase uttered by mortal tongue!
"You sound so real, Peter," Julie said, bluntly. "Is it always like this?"