And among them was the little fairhaired Lily, content and quite at home as she seemed always to be. You might have thought that she knew she had nobody, and no place of her own in this world, and that she had philosophically made up her mind to be happy wherever fate might place her.
She was sitting on the floor, much in the way of the barber’s wife, who pursued her household duties among the four little children in the room with the deft unconcern of a highly skilled dancer among eggshells. The woman could speak no English, but she smiled at Ross with placid amiability. She could not understand why three different men should have brought this child here at different times; but, after all, she didn’t particularly care. A passing incident, this was, in her busy life.
As for the barber himself, he had his own ideas. He saw something suspicious in the affair; a kidnaping, perhaps; but he preferred to know nothing. It was his tradition to be wary of troubling the police.
He took the money Ross gave him, and he smiled. Nobody had told him anything. He knew nothing.
The barber’s wife got the little girl ready, and Ross picked her up in his arms. She turned her head, to look back at the children, and her little woolen cap brushed across his eyes; he had to stop in the doorway of the shop, to shift her on to one arm, so that he could see. And then, what he did see was Donnelly.
“Well! Well!” said Donnelly, in a tone of hearty welcome.
“Well!” said Ross. “I’m in a hurry to get back, now. Tomorrow—”
“Of course you are!” said Donnelly. “I’m not going to keep you a minute. I’ve got something here I’d like the little girl to identify.”
Ross’s arm tightened about the child.
“No!” he protested. “No! She’s got nothing to do with—this.”