"Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? Age don't matter."
Gwendolyn did not flinch.
"You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't true. Poor little girls and boys, nobody steals. You can see 'em runnin' around loose everywheres. But it's different when a little girl's papa is made of money."
"So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch." Whereat he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano.
Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of money,"—she lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father, pronouncing it as if it were two words. "I know he isn't. When I was at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his sleeves. And his arms were strong; and red, like Jane's."
Thomas sniggered.
But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that got to do," she demanded, "with the wicked men that keep watch of this house?"
Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively.
"Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I thought that'd catch you! Now just let me ask you another question: Why are there bars on the basement windows?"
Gwendolyn's lips parted to reply. But no words came.