"Not—very," I stammered. My tongue was thick with hope and dread. "Just—my notes, you know, but I do need them. I couldn't carry the baby easily, so I pinned them on her skirt, thinking—thinking—"
The maid came in and dumped a little heap of white before me. I fell on my knees.
Oh, yes, I prayed all right, but I searched, too. And there it was.
What I said to that woman I don't know even now. I flew out through the hall and down the steps and—
And there Kitty Wilson corralled me.
"Say, where's that stick-pin?" she cried.
"Here!—here, you darling!" I said, pressing it into her hand. "And, Kitty, whenever you feel like swiping another purse—just don't do it. It doesn't pay. Just you come down to the Vaudeville and ask for Nance Olden some day, and I'll tell you why."
"Gee!" said Kitty, impressed. "Shall—shall I call ye a hansom, lady?"
Should she! The blessed inspiration of her!
I got into the wagon and we drove down street—to the Vaudeville.