“Show me the children first, if you please.”

He walked before her down the unsavoury passage.  He was unacquainted with the interior, and knew only that the way through the kitchens, by which he had come, led to the kitchen garden and missed the children’s quarters.  Avoiding this, and opening a door at random—­a door on his right—­he stepped into the bare drawing-room.  Miss Sally followed, and Mrs. Huggins at her heels, protesting.  Mr. Hucks brought up the rear.  Finding himself in an apartment which apparently led nowhither, Sam would have turned and shepherded the party back into the corridor; but Miss Sally strode past him, attempted to fling up the window-sash, but in vain, and looking over it, beheld what Tilda had beheld—­the gravelled yard, the children walking listlessly to and fro, the groups passing and repassing with scarce a lift of the eyes, the boys walking with the boys and the girls with the girls.

“But it is horrible—­horrible!” cried Miss Sally.  “Mr. Hucks, lend me your stick, if you please.  This window won’t open.”

He passed his stick to her, supposing that she meant in some way to prise the window open.  But she took it and deliberately smashed a pane—­two panes—­all the six panes with their coloured transparencies of the Prodigal Son.  And the worst was, that the children in the yard, as the glass broke and fell, scarcely betrayed surprise.  One or two glanced furtively towards the window.  It seemed that they dared do no more.

“Save us!” exclaimed Miss Sally.  “They’re starving; that’s what’s the matter!”

“They are not, ma’am!” still protested Mrs. Huggins.

“Tut, woman, don’t talk to me.  I’ve bred cattle, and I know.  Fetch me a list of the pious persons that have lent their names to this swindle.  You, Mr. Hucks, take me upstairs; I’ll explore this den from garret to basement, though it cost my stomach all that by the smell I judge it will.  And you, Sam Bossom—­here’s a five-pound note:  take it to the nearest pastry-cook’s and buy up the stock.  Fetch it here in cabs; hire every cab you meet on the way; and when you’ve brought ’em, tell ’em to wait!”

An hour later a procession of fifteen cabs drove up to the Grand Central Hotel, Bursfield, to the frank dismay of hall-porters and manager; a dismay which Miss Sally accepted with the lordliest indifference.

“You see that they’re stowed,” she advised Mr. Hucks shortly, as they helped the dazed children to alight.  “And if there’s any difficulty, send the manager to me.  He’ll find me in the telegraph office.”  She consulted a prospectus of the Holy Innocents, extorted from Mrs. Huggins.  “I shall be there for an hour at least.  There are two dozen patrons on this list—­besides a score of executive committee, and I’m going—­bless you, Mr. Hucks—­to give those philanthropists the dry grins.”

“A telegram for you, ma’am,” said the hall-porter, advancing with a nervous eye on the children congregated, and still congregating, in the hall.