“What was that, Jean?” inquired Bracondale quickly.
“Oh, nothing. A man came along begging—rather a well-dressed man he seemed to be. And because I refused to give him anything he commenced to abuse me. But I soon sent him away.”
“The child says you were afraid.”
“Afraid!” she laughed, with a strange, hysterical little laugh. “If I had been I should have called for help. He was only some loafer or other who, finding me alone, thought he could get a franc, I suppose.” And then, after a pause, she added, “I had a similar experience one day last year. The police really ought to keep the sands clear of such persons.”
“What was he like? I’ll tell the chief of police about it.”
“Well, really, I didn’t take very much notice,” she replied. “I was reading, and looking up suddenly found him standing before me. I had no idea that Enid saw him. He asked me for money in a very rough manner. And naturally I declined, and told him that if he did not clear off I would shout for help. So—well, after a few more abusive words, he slunk away.”
“He might have stolen your brooch,” Bracondale remarked.
“He might, certainly,” she said. “Not until after he had gone did I realise how helpless I had been.”
“Yes, mother,” exclaimed the little girl, “but you were frightened, weren’t you? I thought he was going to hit you, for you put up your hands, and he clenched his fists and put his face right into yours. Oh! it did frighten me!”