“Miss Smith!” he said.
Bess sat up straight. Was it possible? The way her father and Miss Smith were looking at each other!
“I didn’t mean—” Angelina began, somewhat confused, and then: “But it’s true!” she said. “You really are—both of you—but there’s Alan!”
The front door opened, and just at that moment there came from upstairs the most pathetic, tired little voice. It was the cuckoo clock.
“Midnight!” cried Alan. “Look here! Merry Christmas, you people!”
The words might have been a charm, striking every one speechless. They could only look at him, as he stood in the doorway, a bandage around his head, his collar a wet and dirty rag, his face white with fatigue and pain, and a wide grin on it.
“Oh, Alan!” cried his sister. “My dear, dear boy! Your new set of plans—for that yacht—they’re burned up!”
It seemed to Bess that he winced a little, but it was almost imperceptible.
“Then we may starve yet,” he said; “but, anyhow, we’re all right for the present. Look at this!”
He held out a package that he was carrying. Bess took it from him, and opened it gingerly.