“What do you mean?” he said at last. “Found my little Mariette? But she’s dead—dead!”
“No,” said Danny, “she’s alive, and in a yellow caravan, longing and longing for her daddy. I was just rescuing her, like King Arthur’s knights rescuing a maiden in distress, when Black Bill took me prisoner and very nearly made an end of me.”
As they walked back together through the wood, Danny told the Tramp the whole story of the finding of Mariette. He longed to inquire about the capture of Black Bill, and all the other strange happenings, but he could see that the Tramp could think of nothing but his little girl.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FINDING OF MARIETTE
Inspector Grey’s car once more hummed along the dusty road, but this time it contained, besides the two constables, Danny and the Mysterious Tramp.
The gipsy camp was still at Bradmead, but the swings were all folded up, the big tent was down, there was no monotonous music from the merry-go-round. The whole camp was under arrest. Black Bill’s sons and all the men-folk had been taken into custody. Six stalwart policemen were on guard, keeping an eye on the women and children.
Going up to the yellow caravan, Inspector Grey beat a sharp rat-tat on the door. A hideous old woman put out her head and said: “Whaat-cher waant?” But when she saw the police she became polite and whiny-piny. Inspector Grey ordered her to get out of the caravan. She wouldn’t at first, and said: “It wasn’t no place fit for a nice gentleman like him to go in.” So the stalwart policeman chivalrously handed her out and the Inspector entered.
Presently he reappeared at the top of the steps, holding by the hand a pale little girl in a tattered brown dress and a shock of uncombed golden hair.
A cry of joy broke from the Tramp.
“Mariette!”