The master of the house rolled his eyes and breathed heavily.
"Is—is anything stolen?" asked Polly Dawson faintly.
"Stolen? Yes!" cried Mr. Witherbee so fiercely that his smallest guest shrank from him.
The company sat silent, wide-eyed.
"They've stolen the burglar-alarm!"
"Stephen!"
"Don't Stephen me! I tell you they've stolen it!"
"Upon my soul!" said Mr. Morton, putting down his tea.
"But who—how—when?"
The questions descended upon Mr. Witherbee in a volley.