By this time Tom was burning with curiosity, and longing for a chance to speak with Fred alone.
“Come along,” he cried, “let’s go over to the old place and look at it.”
Fred was not unwilling, and tired and hungry though they were, both boys rushed out of the hall across the Platz. The hotel people interchanged smiles and shrugs, the Ober-kellner went back to the dining-room, the Portier to his desk, the Director to his office and the guests to their rooms. “Americans!” one said to the other, quite as though that dismissed the subject.
In the few minutes which it took to cross the square, Fred gave his friend all the particulars of the story which in his excitement he had not before supplied, and for lack of which Tom had not been able until now to obtain a clear idea of what had happened. “Then your idea is,” he said soberly, when Fred had finished, “that those were the children who were lost?”
Fred nodded gravely. “I suppose they must have been,” he said.
“And that the man was the Pied Piper of Hameln?”
Fred nodded as before. By this time they were in front of the house and had discovered the inscription, which was written in queer old characters, once gilded, but now so weather beaten as to be scarcely legible.
“What in the world does it say?” asked Tom.
