“Summer-house.”
“Think of that,” murmured the commodore, disgustedly. “Bird at hand, and we didn’t know it. Fool of a bird had to hop away and make us all this trouble!”
“I told you I thought you were burglars,” observed Bob patiently. He didn’t care how they abused him or what names they called him.
That disagreeable look on Dan’s face was replaced by a startled one. “Good gracious, man”—only that wasn’t the expression he used—“I hope you haven’t told any one you saw burglars prowling around? Nice for us if you did!” As he spoke he gazed anxiously toward the window, before which they had taken the precaution to draw a heavy drape after entering.
“No, I didn’t tell a soul.”
“But—I don’t understand why you didn’t when you thought—?”
“I ought to have spoken, I suppose,” said Bob with a melancholy smile. “But it didn’t seem very important and—I guess I forgot. These little jewel robberies are getting to be such commonplace occurrences!”
The commodore stared at him. Then he touched his forehead. “A lot of trouble you’ve made for us,” he said, speaking in that low tense voice, while Clarence and Dickie looked on in mad and reproachful fashion. “Bribed a servant to tell you to slip out! Told him to whisper that we were waiting in the garden and simply had to see you at once! Didn’t you hear him rap on your door?”
“No,” answered Bob sorrowfully.
“Heavens, man! believe you’d sleep through an earthquake and cyclone combined! Servant came back and told us he’d tapped on your door as loudly as he dared. Was afraid he’d arouse the whole house if he knocked louder. When you leave a ‘call’ at the hotels, how do they manage? Break down the door with an ax?”