"Why not?" Anthony asked crisply.
"You told me to dispose of them last night, sir. I've thrown them out!"
Anthony caught his breath.
"Where have you thrown them?"
"Out with the other refuse of the day, sir—on the dumbwaiter."
"Then—well, never mind. That is all, Wilkins," said Anthony Fry, his voice thickening somewhat.
The invaluable one retired, with a last disapproving glance at the frowsy David, and Anthony's forehead wrinkled. David, the while, sat hunched on the bed and seemed altogether unaffected by the disaster.
"Well, you'll have to make the best of some of my wardrobe, I fear," the master of the apartment smiled.
"Yours?" Mary cried.
"They will be a trifle large, but you'll have to hitch them up in spots and in in other spots and make the best of it," Anthony pursued firmly. "It's too bad, of course, but it is unavoidable. Those togs of yours were decidedly shabby and I had meant, while supposing you to be a boy, that to-day we'd have some shopping done for you. Just a moment, please."