"All right, sweetheart. I'm coming, Aunt Tiny."
When Willie entered a few moments later in search of his co-laborer, Delight was alone. He glanced questioningly about the room,—at the girl's flushed cheeks, the half-made cake, the snowy floor.
"Bob—Mr. Morton spilled some flour," the young woman explained, evading his eye.
The little old man made no response. He studied the burning face, the drooping lashes; he also looked meditatively at some footprints on the floor. They may not have been as startling in their significance as were the famous marks Crusoe discovered in the sand, but they were quite as illuminating.
A trail of small ones led about the room and beside them, as if echoing to their light tread, was a series of larger ones. The inventor's gaze pursued them curiously to a spot before the stove where they became very much confused and afterward branched apart, the larger set trailing off toward the stairs, and the smaller moving back into the pantry.
The detective stroked his chin for an interval.
"U—m!" observed he thoughtfully.