“Wait till Mother comes,” Phyllis was saying; “she does speak French beautifully. You'd just love to hear her.”
“I'm sure he hasn't done anything like you're sent to prison for,” said Peter.
“Looks like without visible means to me,” said the Station Master. “Well, I don't mind giving him the benefit of the doubt till your Mamma comes. I SHOULD like to know what nation's got the credit of HIM, that I should.”
Then Peter had an idea. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and showed that it was half full of foreign stamps.
“Look here,” he said, “let's show him these—”
Bobbie looked and saw that the stranger had dried his eyes with her handkerchief. So she said: “All right.”
They showed him an Italian stamp, and pointed from him to it and back again, and made signs of question with their eyebrows. He shook his head. Then they showed him a Norwegian stamp—the common blue kind it was—and again he signed No. Then they showed him a Spanish one, and at that he took the envelope from Peter's hand and searched among the stamps with a hand that trembled. The hand that he reached out at last, with a gesture as of one answering a question, contained a RUSSIAN stamp.
“He's Russian,” cried Peter, “or else he's like 'the man who was'—in Kipling, you know.”
The train from Maidbridge was signalled.
“I'll stay with him till you bring Mother in,” said Bobbie.