“Whoever told you that—­” began Mr. Hucks.

“Nobody told me.  I said that I gathered it.  The girl never gave you away for a moment.  We will agree, if you prefer it, that I put two and two together.  But look here:  you can be open with me or not, as you please; I’m going to be open with you.  And first let me say that the boy is pretty certainly the son of a neighbour of mine, and heir to considerable estates.”

Mr. Hucks whistled softly to himself.

“As for the girl who helped him to escape, she’s probably just what she says—­a show-child who, happening to be laid up lame in hospital, chanced on this scent, and has held to it—­to make an addition of my own—­with the pluck of a terrier.”

Mr. Hucks nodded, but would not commit himself.

“Where are they now?” he asked.  “In your keepin’?”

“That’s just the trouble.”  Miss Sally unfolded a scrap of pinkish-coloured paper.  “I left them in good keeping with an honest farmer and his wife—­tenants of mine; I had a telegram sent to the boy’s father, who is abroad; and I posted up here by night mail to satisfy myself by a few inquiries.”

“You’ve seen Glasson, then?” Mr. Hucks interrupted.

“I have; but not in any way you suspect.  I haven’t called, for instance, at the Orphanage—­though I intend to.  Glasson’s not at home.  He was down in my neighbourhood yesterday afternoon, nosing around for information.”

“Then he knows the children are thereabouts?”

“No, he does not.  But has been pushing researches.  He has learnt who is the boy’s probable father, and where he lives—­at a place called Meriton.  He came to Meriton to get the father’s foreign address, and when the butler refused it, he called on me.”

“I see.”  Mr. Hucks nodded.  “And you refused it too?”

“I did better.  I gave it to him—­”

“Eh?”

“—­at the same time taking care that the father—­his name is Chandon, by the way, and he’s a baronet—­should get a wire from me to come home by the first train he can catch.  By this means, you see, I not only get Glasson out of the neighbourhood, where he might have run against the children, or picked up news of them, but I send him all the way to the South of France expressly to find his bird flown.  It’s cruel, I grant you; but I’ve no tenderness for blackmailers—­especially when they keep Orphanages.”

“You’re right there.  You’ve no call to waste any pity on Glasson.  But the question is, Will he come?  The father, I mean.”

“Certainly, since I tell him,” Miss Sally answered with composure.

“And him a bart—­a bloomin’ bart—­what the Tichborne chap used to call a bart of the B.K.!”

Mr. Hucks stared at his visitor with rounded eyes, drew a long breath, puffed out his cheeks and emitted it, and wound up by removing his hat and laying it on the ledge of the desk.

“Well,” said he, “you’ve done it clever.  You’ve done it so mighty clever that I don’t see why you come to me to help. I can’t order barts about.”