"What's the matter?" asked the young man in French. "What's the little boy crying for?" he went on, turning to Gladys.
But her answer astonished him not a little. She stared blankly up in his face without speaking for a moment. Then with a sort of stifled scream she rushed forward and caught his hands.
"Oh you're the nice gentleman we met—you are—don't say you're not. You're the English gentleman, aren't you? Oh, will you take care of us—we're all alone—we've run away."
Walter kept her poor little hands in his, but for half a moment he did not speak. I think there were tears in his eyes. He had so often thought of the little pair he had met on the Boulevards, that somehow he did not seem to feel surprised at this strange meeting.
"My little girl," he said kindly, "who are you? Where have you run away from? Not from your home? I remember meeting you; but you must tell me more—you must tell me everything before I can help you or take you where you want to go."
"No. 9 Avenue Gérard; that's where we were going," replied Gladys confusedly. "But they're out—the ladies are out."
"And we have to wait in the stre-eet," sobbed Roger.
Walter started.
"9 Avenue Gérard," he said; "how can that be? Whom do you know there?"