"Thank you, Miss Thackeray. If you will see that she has her coffee, I'll—I'll wait for you here in the hall and try to explain. I can't tell you everything at present,—not without her consent,—but what I do tell will be sufficient to make you think you are listening to a chapter out of a dime novel."
He had already taken Putnam Jones into his confidence. He saw no other way out of the new and somewhat extraordinary situation.
His uneasiness increased to consternation when he discovered that Sprouse had not yet put in an appearance. What had become of the man? He could not help feeling, however, that somehow the little agent would suddenly pop out of the chimney in his room, or sneak in through a crack under the door,—and laugh at his fears.
His lovely companion, falling asleep, blocked all hope of a council of war, so to speak. Miss Thackeray refused to allow her to be disturbed. She listened with sparkling eyes to Barnes's curtailed account of the exploit of the night before. He failed to mention Mr. Sprouse. It was not an oversight.
"Sort of white slavery game, eh?" she said, with bated breath. "Good gracious, Mr. Barnes, if this story ever gets into the newspapers you'll be the grandest little hero in—"
"But it must never get into the newspapers," he cried.
"It ought to," she proclaimed stoutly. "When a gang of white slavers kidnap a girl like that and—"
"I'm not saying it was that," he protested, uncomfortably.
"Well, I guess I'll talk to her about that part of the story," said Miss Thackeray sagely. "And as you say, mum's the word. We don't want them to get onto the fact that she's here. That's the idea, isn't it?"
"Absolutely."