“Stop, stop—you little fury,” he exclaimed. “Let go! I’ll have to hurt you, I see,” and bending back the child’s fingers in his powerful hands he dropped her on the floor gently, but as hastily as if she were a rat, and snatching at his hat hurried to the door.
He flung it open and rushed out, none too soon, however, for the child was at his heels. Across the veranda and out under the archway they dashed, and Stargarde, hastening to watch them, heard their hurrying footsteps echoing down the frosty street. Used to surprising scenes of all kinds she was not unduly alarmed, and thoughtfully smoothing out the check and murmuring, “Poor little Zeb,” she sat down to write a note of thanks.
After some time there was a cautious knock at the door, then a head was thrust slowly in, which, to her surprise, she saw belonged to Dr. Camperdown.
“Are you alone?” he said. “Has that—that little witch come back? If she has I won’t come in.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
Camperdown advanced into the room making a wry face. “I have been robbed.”
“Brian!”
“Yes; that small darling of yours has made off with my pocket-book.”
“Impossible, Brian!” exclaimed Stargarde clasping her hands.
“Not so,” he retorted coolly. “She has it. I was on my way to the police station, but changed my mind and thought I’d come here first.”