In the kitchen Eliza poured out a frantic appeal to Cook.
“She's got Miss 'Cilia locked up—the little red-'eaded cat! An' Master Wilfred gorn to fetch the Master! Oh, come on, Cookie darlin', an' we'll let 'er out.”
Cook shook her head slowly.
“Not good enough,” she said. “I got a pretty good place. I ain't goin' to risk it by 'avin' a rough-an'-tumble with the daughter of the 'ouse on the hattic stairs. You better leave well alone, Liza. You done your bit, 'elpin' 'er git them trunks orf yes'day.”
“Wot's the good of 'avin the trunks off if she can't go, too?” demanded Eliza.
“Oh, she'll git another chance. Don't worry your 'ead so much over other people's business. If the Master comes 'ome an' finds us scruffin' 'is daughter, 'e'll 'and us both over to the police for assault—an' then you'll 'ave cause for worry. Now you git along like a good gel—I got to mike pastry.” Cook turned away decisively.
Wilfred had come home and had raced up the stairs.
“Did you get him?” Avice cried.
“No—he was out. So I left a message that he was to come home at once, 'cause something was wrong.”
“That'll bring him,” said Avice with satisfaction. “Now, look here, Wilf—I believe Bob may come. You go and be near the front door, to block Eliza, if he does. Answer any ring.”