Stacey laughed. “Glad to be of some use,” he replied easily. “Where is Mrs. Langdon?”
“Back here out of the heat—just a few steps,” said the other, and led the way, limping.
The crowd had grown larger during Stacey’s absence. There were half a dozen small motor cars, too, on the lawn, and the lights of others standing in the road, a hundred yards distant, were visible.
Mrs. Langdon uttered an exclamation at Stacey’s appearance. But he gave her no chance to thank him.
“Helen,” he called, “is this Mitzi?” and held out the burnt blackened doll.
The child seized it, with a scream of joy. “Mitzi! Mitzi!” she cried.
Mrs. Langdon stared helplessly. “Do you mean to say that you risked your life to save—that doll, Mr. Carroll?” she demanded, half laughing, half crying.
“Oh, no, there wasn’t any danger—except of choking,” Stacey replied.
However, it occurred to him suddenly that to run risks blithely for a doll was just what he had done, and that this was somehow—he didn’t know—connected with the odd change of heart he was feeling.
“Oh,” he exclaimed suddenly, “and my friend saved a horse! Where’s he gone?”