“She asked whether you were at home.”
“She did.”
“And whether the Tingsbys were all well.”
“And I told her that they were, at last accounts, and she abruptly informed me that she would see me later in the day, and broke off.”
“She had to telephone elsewhere,” said Mrs. Everest, with a smile, “and her time was limited. She communicated with Harry Busby, the newspaper reporter across the street, who also had a telephone in his apartment. ‘Are you watching for that blessed child, Mr. Busby?’ she asked. ‘I am watching,’ he returned, and then she kissed Bethany and led her downstairs.”
The Judge shook his head.
“Now, don’t you shake your head,” said Mrs. Everest, playfully, “until I finish. Good is coming out of all this. Mrs. Hume took Bethany in the parlor, she introduced her to the young woman, and Bethany trustfully put out her little hand. She was quite ready to go with a stranger, if Daddy Grandpa wished it.”
The Judge stretched out a finger and softly touched the sleepy head against his knee.
“Mrs. Hume accompanied them to the front door. ‘Take good care of the child,’ she said, anxiously, and she peered into the interior of the closed cab. ‘Who have you got with you?’ ‘My sister,’ replied the young woman. She came with me.’”
“You see, there were four accomplices, sir,” said Tom Everest, when his wife paused a minute and dabbed the perspiration from her face with a handkerchief.