“Yes, madam; and they have taken my purse and gold watch too, besides two suits of clothes. There, go on down. We’ll join you soon. I want to think what’s to be done.”
The stairs creaked as Mrs Champernowne descended, and just then something caught Rodd’s eye—something bright and shiny, against the leaves of a big old gazetteer lying upon the side-table.
Rodd uttered an ejaculation.
“Oh!” he exclaimed.
“Something more gone?” cried the Doctor.
“No, uncle; there’s your watch. And here’s your gold pencil-case too,” continued the boy, as he raised the corner of the book. “Why, they have been turning the watch-ribbon into a marker, and somebody has been writing here on the fly-leaf.”
“Thank goodness!” grunted Uncle Paul. “That’s something saved out of the fire. Never mind the writing. But they have taken our clothes.”
“It’s in French, I think, uncle, but I can’t quite make it out.”
“French!” cried Uncle Paul fiercely. “Why, of course! How stupid! I might have known. We have been attacked in the night by a gang of old Napoleon’s scum. That man’s bound to be the curse of my life. Don’t stand staring there, boy. Can’t you see?”
“No, uncle,” said the boy sturdily. “What nonsense! Napoleon couldn’t have invaded England in the night to come and steal our clothes.”