“But what is it anyhow?” Blue turned to the headlines—“Oh! kidnaped!—The crowd stole her!” The words died in a startled breath.
“Read it all!” prodded Doodles, as if his brother were not as hungry as he for every item of the article.
“‘Marshall Fleming’s youngest child ... Daphne, six years old ... beautiful suburban home ... playing on the grounds,’” muttered Blue along the paragraphs, “‘... missed her at three o’clock ... police ... detectives ... no clue ... mother nearly crazed with grief.’”
“Isn’t it dreadful?” sorrowed Doodles. “I could cry! Such a pretty little girl—and her poor mother!”
“If we’d only known it before!” lamented Blue. He flung off his cap with a gesture of disgust. Yesterday rescue would have been easy—but now!
Doodles picked up the paper and gazed regretfully at the picture.
“Le’ ’s see it again!” Blue put out his hand. “Maybe ’t isn’t she after all; but it does look like her. Why, this paper’s three weeks old! I should think the doctor’d ’a’ known her.”
“You didn’t,” smiled Doodles.
“I ain’t sure now,” laughed the other.
“I am,” Doodles declared. “Look at her chin, with that cunning little dimple! And her eyes—just exactly like ’em! That mite of a curl over there, and the funny little pucker in her forehead—I noticed ’em both while she was listening to Caruso.”