“No, I don’t suppose they would,” answered Clara. “But then Mr. Frisbie wouldn’t leave Mrs. Frisbie and the little baby alone. And then suppose the burglars were not sensible—”
“They must be,” said Mrs. Graham, with decision, “or they wouldn’t have broken into the Marmadukes’ house.”
“Oh, mamma,” suggested Clara, “couldn’t we telegraph to somebody to come out to us? We might have a messenger-boy sent out, or two or three, if you wanted.”
“I’ve got a boy, miss,” said George, the coachman. “’E might take care o’ ye, mem, over night.”
But when she found that George’s boy was only nine years old, Mrs. Graham shook her head.
“He’s too young. And I do not want messenger-boys. They would be so slow, and they wear great rubber trousers and always have their hands in their pockets.” This was said very slowly and thoughtfully.
“We might telegraph to some friend in the city, mamma,” suggested Clara. “He could come out on the ten o’clock train, and get here before eleven. I don’t suppose the burglars would come before eleven.”
“Oh, no. They never come before eleven o’clock,” said Mrs. Graham, as decidedly as though she had served an apprenticeship with a burglar and knew all the rules governing his entrance into the best houses. The idea of telegraphing to a friend evidently pleased her. “We might telegraph to—to—”
“We might telegraph to Dr. Pennington,” suggested Clara, with just the suspicion of a blush. “He would be sure to come.”
Her mother did not notice the blush, and was evidently considering the question of telegraphing. Just then the carriage turned in at the Grahams’ gate.