"Oh! Oh! Please don't!" Gwendolyn's cry was as shrill. "I don't want him to get me!"
"Call the Policeman then," retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. And to Gwendolyn, soothingly, "Hush! Hush, child!"
Jane danced away—sidewise, as if to keep watch as she went. "Help! Help!" she shouted. "Police! Police!! Poli-i-i-ice!!!"
Gwendolyn was terribly frightened. But she could not run. One wrist was still in the grasp of the little old gentleman. With wildly throbbing heart she watched the road.
"Is he coming?" called the little old gentleman. He, too, was looking up the curving road.
A whistle sounded. It was long-drawn, piercing.
And now Gwendolyn heard movements all about her in the forest—the soft pad, pad of running paws, the hushing sound of wings—as if small live things were fleeing before the sharp call.
Jane hastened back, galloping a polka. "Turn a stone! Turn a stone!" she cried, rumbling her eyes.
Gwendolyn clung to the little old gentleman. "Oh, don't let her!" she plead. "What if—"
"We must."