"I know him," said Bobby. "That's all right, and Uncle Simon couldn't have fallen into better hands."
"Is, then, Monsieur Pattigrew your oncle?" asked the old lady.
"He is, Madame."
"Then you are thrice welcome here, monsieur," said she.
Cerise looked the words, and Bobby's eyes as they met hers returned thanks.
"Come," said Madame, "you shall see him and that he is safe."
She gently opened the door leading to the bedroom, and there, in a little bed, dainty and white—Cerise's little bed—lay Uncle Simon, flushed and smiling and snoring.
"Poor Monsieur Pattigrew!" murmured the old lady.
Then they withdrew.
It seemed that there was another bed to be got in the house for Cerise, and Mudd, taking charge of the patient, the ladies withdrew. It was agreed that no doctor was wanted. It was also agreed between Bobby and Mudd that the hotel was impossible after this.