“Wait! We’ll be home in a minute!”
“Was there someone who pretended to be our brother?”
“Minnie said he was.... I ... it will be cleared up in a minute or two now. Nothing to worry over.”
But he was absolutely panting, wiping his streaming face as if in the thick of some tremendous exertion.
They went on down the quiet old street, to Mr. Petersen’s beloved home. It did not look at all as it had in the old days, when Frances used to go there for books; the curtains were dirty, blankets were hanging out of an upstairs window, and a baby’s toys littered the porch.
“Is there a baby?” Frances asked.
“Two,” he answered. “One of—his, and one of mine.”
She smothered a bitter sigh, and went with him through the gate, up the walk and into the house. The sitting-room was empty, and very dirty; no one in the dining-room, where the breakfast dishes still stood.
“They’re in the garden, I dare say,” said Mr. Petersen.
They hurried through the vile kitchen and down the back steps.