But most brilliant of all were those forming the monster letters of words. These words Gwendolyn did not pronounce. For Miss Royle, whenever she chanced to look out and see them, said "Shameful!" or "What a disgrace!" or "Abominable!" And Gwendolyn guessed that the words were wicked.
As she knelt, peering out, sounds from city and river came up to her. There was the distant roll of street-cars, the warning; honk! honk! of an automobile, the scream of a tug; and lesser sounds—feet upon the sidewalk under the window, low laughter from the dim, tree-shaded walk.
She wondered about her father.
Suddenly there rose to her window a long-drawn cry. She recognized it—the high-keyed, monotonous cry of a man who often hurried past with a bundle of newspapers under his arm. Now it startled her. It filled her with foreboding.
"Uxtra! Uxtra! A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"
Street! What street? Gwendolyn strained her ears to catch the words. What if it were the street where her fath—
"Uxtra! Uxtra!" cried the voice again. It was nearer, yet the words were no clearer. "A-a-all about the lubble-lubble-lubble in ump Street!"
He passed. His cry died in the distance. Gwendolyn let the window-shade go back into place very gently. To prepare properly for her trip downstairs meant running the risk of discovery. She tiptoed noiselessly to the school-room door. There she listened. Thomas's deep voice was still rumbling on. Punctuating it regularly was a sniffle. And the key-hole showed a spot of glinting red—Jane's hair.
Gwendolyn left the school-room door for the one opening on the hall.
In the hall were shaded lights. Light streamed up the bronze shaft. Gwendolyn put her face against the scrolls and peered down. The cage was far below. And all was still.