“But, Oliver, I am so frightened! Think of those poor girls in the hands of those awful gypsies—or somebody just as bad, or worse! It’s dreadful! I can’t bear to think of it!” and Mrs. Wadsworth’s tears began to flow afresh.
In a corner of the library sat old Caspar Potts, white-haired and with eyes that were no longer bright. The professor’s head was shaking from side to side.
“I wish Davy were here,” he quavered. “I’m sure that boy could do something.”
“He has telegraphed that he is on the way, along with Roger Morr,” said Mr. Wadsworth.
“Good! Good! He’ll do something—I know he will! Davy is a great boy!” and the old professor nodded his head vigorously. Ever since he had taken our hero from the poorhouse years before, Dave had been the very apple of his eye.
Oliver Wadsworth walked to a writing-table, and from one of the compartments drew a much-rumpled sheet of paper, which had come to him in a dirty envelope several days before. The envelope had been post-marked, “Halwick,” the name of a town about thirty miles away.
“What are you going to do about that demand for money?” questioned Mrs. Wadsworth, as she watched her husband peruse the note—something he had done a great number of times.
“I don’t know,” he answered helplessly. “We have been given at least ten days in which to raise it, so there is no great hurry about deciding the question.”
“Is Mr. Porter in favor of meeting the demand?”
“He is like myself, he doesn’t know what to do. He and Dunston Porter are both of the opinion that this demand for fifty thousand dollars may be just the forerunner of other demands. They may want every cent all of us are worth before they give the two girls up,” added the jewelry manufacturer.