“She was safe to have on her little gold neck-chain and cross. They are very small, Jenkins—not worth much.”
Jenkins lifted his nose—not in disdain, it was a habit he had. “Not worth much to you, sir, who could buy such any day, but an uncommon bait to professional child-stealers. Were the cross a coral, or any stone of that sort?”
“It was a small gold cross, and the chain was thin. They could only be seen when her cloak was off. Oh, I forgot the cloak; it was white: llama, I think they call it. She was going to a child’s party.”
Some more questions and answers, most of which Jenkins took down. Handbills were to be printed and posted, and a reward offered on the morrow, if she was not previously found. Then we came away; there was nothing more to do at the station.
“Wouldn’t it have been better, Tod, had Jenkins gone out seeking her and telling of the loss abroad, instead of waiting to write all that down?”
“Johnny, if we don’t find her to night, I shall go mad,” was all he answered.
He went back down Alcester Street at a rushing pace—not a run but a quick walk.
“Where are you going now?” I asked.
“I’m going up hill and down dale until I find that gipsies’ encampment. You can go on home, Johnny, if you are tired.”