"You mean the Bird?"
Jane's front face broke into a pleased grin. "I mean the Bird," she bragged And balanced from foot to foot.
Gwendolyn, peeking round at her, of a sudden felt a fresh concern. The Bird!—the same Bird that had repeated tales against her father! And now he was tattling on her! She saw all her hopes of finding her parents, all her happy plans, in danger of being blighted.
"Oh, my goodness!" she said mournfully.
She was holding tight to the little old gentleman's coat-tails. Now he leaned down. "We must get rid of her," he declared. "You know what I said. She'll make us trouble!"
"Here! None of that!" It was Jane once more, the grin replaced by a dark look. "I'll have you know this child is in my charge." Again she tried to seize Gwendolyn.
The Man-Who-Makes-Faces stood his ground resolutely—and swung the curved knife up to check any advance.
"She doesn't need you," he declared "She's seven, and she's grown-up." And to Gwendolyn, "Tell her so! Don't be afraid! Tell her!"
Gwendolyn promptly opened her mouth. But try as she would, she could not speak. Her lips seemed dry. Her tongue refused to move. She could only swallow!
As if he understood her plight, the little old gentleman suddenly sprang aside to where was the sauce-box, snatched something out of it, ran to the other table and picked up an oblong leather case (a case exactly like the gold-mounted one in which Miss Royle kept her spectacles), put the something out of the sauce-box into the case, closed the case with a snap, and put it, with a swift motion, into Gwendolyn's hand.