“No; Mr. Dear and Miss Dear have both gone to Maskelyne and Devant’s,” said the very little servant, with a husky note in her voice that suggested she wished she was there too. “They have free seats,” she added, quite unnecessarily, “for putting the bill in the window.”
“Then there’s no one at home but you?” said Priscilla’s father.
“Only the bakers,” said the very little servant, “but they’re busy at the back.”
“May I go into the shop for a minute?” said Priscilla’s father.
“WILL YOU TELL ME WHAT MR. DEAR IS LIKE?”
“No, you mayn’t,” said the very little servant very decidedly, half closing the door as she spoke, and Priscilla’s father saw at once that it would be quite useless to try and get her to believe that he was not a thief.
“All right,” he said; “don’t be frightened. But will you tell me what Mr. Dear is like, because I am going to Maskelyne and Devant’s to try and find him.”
The very little servant, keeping the door nearly shut and speaking through the crack, was willing to sketch her master and mistress. Mr. Dear, she said, had white whiskers on each cheek and a pair of perfectly round spectacles. (“Like an owl,” Priscilla thought.) And Miss Dear was wearing a hat with about half a pint of cherries on it, she should think. And they would be in the balcony.
So off went Priscilla and her father to Maskelyne and Devant’s, and they had no difficulty in distinguishing Mr. and Miss Dear, but as the performance was going on, it was some time before there was an interval in which they could be approached. Priscilla did not mind that at all, for the most wonderful things were happening on the stage, where people were appearing and disappearing at the word of command, and, no matter how carefully you watched them, the conjuror always turned out to be somebody else. And there was a Japanese juggler who climbed up a pole that was balanced on another Japanese juggler’s shoulder.