"I'll send it to you."
The landlady began to whine. "Ain't that just my rotten luck! Another room empty!—you know you oughta give me a week's notice."
"Oh, I'll pay you for it," answered Clare, bitterly.
"Well, I don't want to gouge you, dearie. And I don't know what I'll do when you're gone. I've just learned to love you.—And with summer comin' on, goodness knows how I'm goin' to rent that back-parlor. It's hard to run a respectable house and keep it full. Now as I say, if I was careless, I——"
But what Miss St. Clair might have been moved to do under such conditions was not forthcoming, for now steps were heard, climbing to the front door. Next, a man's voice spoke. Then the bell rang.
"Wait! Wait!" As she warned Tottie, Clare crossed to the bay-window at a run.
"Maybe here's a new roomer," suggested the hopeful landlady.
But Clare had pressed aside the heavy curtain framing the window until she could command the stoop. Two men were waiting there. "Oh!" she breathed, almost reeling back upon Tottie. "Oh, don't let 'em in! Don't! I can't see anybody! Say I'm gone! Oh, please, Tottie! I'm gone for good." She was beside Barbara again, and was almost lifting the child from the floor by an arm. Then she reached for the bird-cage.
"Friends of yours?" questioned Tottie. She also peeked out.
"No! No!"—and to Barbara, "Come! Don't you speak! Don't open your mouth! Not a word!" Taking the child with her, she fled into her own room, closing the door.