“I don’ remember the peacocks very plain,” he said at last.
“Hush!” said the old man, taking out his magnifying glass. He crept up to a tree-trunk. He gazed at it in a rapt silence.
“Most interesting,” he said. “I much regret having left my notebook at home.”
“An’, of course,” said William, “anyone might dream about stachues.”
They found that the encampment had gone. There was no mistake about it. There were the smouldering remains of the fire and the marks of the wheels of the caravan. But the encampment had disappeared. They went to the end of the wood, but there were no signs of it along any of the three roads that met there. The little old gentleman was distraught.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” he said. “How unfortunate! Do you know where they were going next?”
“No,” said William, truthfully.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! What shall we do?”
“Let’s go back to your house,” said William trustingly. “I should think it’s about dinner time.”
“Well,” said Sophia grimly, “you’ve kidnapped a child from a gipsy encampment, and I hope you’re prepared to take the consequences.”