“You must admit, sir,” said Dr. Glasson, addressing Mr. Gavel, “that circumstances are beginning to look too strong for you.”

“Oh, to—­with circumstances!” retorted Mr. Gavel.  “Mortimer’s in this, for a fiver.  I don’t see how—­I don’t make head or tail of it; but the tail you’ve got hold of belongs to the wrong dog.  Kidnapping, is it?  A couple of children you want?  Suspect me, do you?  Well, suspect away. I don’t mind.  I’ve got my hosses; and when we’re loaded up you can climb on board the wagon, if you like, and we’ll pay a call on Mortimer.  I bet he’s your man; and the harder you pinch Mortimer to make him squeal, the better you’ll please me.”

“Arthur Miles,” demanded Tilda in a harsh whisper, “what’re yer doin’ ’ere?”

“Listening,” answered the boy simply.

“I ‘opes yer likes it! . . .  We’re in a tight corner, Arthur Miles, an’ nothing for it but bolt while they’re talkin’.”

“We might hide here in the dark—­but, of course, you know best.”

“O’ course I do,” Tilda agreed. “’Ide ‘ere?  An’ who’s to warn the Mortimers?”

She stooped and again caught ’Dolph under her arm.  Then she straightened herself up and stood listening to the voices, clearly audible from the entrance of the store below.

“Tip-toe, mind!  There’s on’y a board between us—­and quiet, for your life!”

They stole to the steps and paused for a moment, peering into the gloom.  Here too their enemies’ voices were audible, but around the corner of the store, the coast was clear.  They crept down the steps and gained the road.  In the highway Tilda drew breath.

“Things look pretty bad,” she said; “but things ain’t altogether so bad as they look.  Where we’re goin’ we’ll find Bill; an’ Bill’s a tower o’ strength.”

“But we don’t even know the way,” objected Arthur Miles.

“No, but ’Dolph does.  ’Ere, ’Dolph”—­she set down the dog—­“you got to lead us where the others went; an’ at the end of it there’s a little surprise for yer.  ’Ear?”

’Dolph heard, shook himself, wagged his tail, and padded forward into the gathering darkness; ran a little way and halted, until they overtook him.  He understood.

“If they catch up with us we must nip into a gateway,” panted Tilda.

But as yet there was no sound of wheels on the road behind.  They passed the Hollys’ cottage and stable, and braved the undiscovered country.  The road twisted between tall hedgerows, black in the shadow of elms.  No rain had fallen for many days, and the powdered dust lay so thick underfoot, that twice or thrice Tilda halted—­still holding the boy’s hand—­in doubt if they had wandered off upon turf.  But always, as they hesitated thus, ’Dolph came trotting back to reassure them.

In this manner, trotting and pausing, they had covered a bare three-quarters of a mile when there smote on their ears a throbbing of the air—­a thud-thud which Arthur Miles took for the beat of a factory engine, so like it was to the echoes that had floated daily, and all day long, across the Orphanage wall; but Tilda, after hearkening a moment, announced it to be the bass of Gavel’s steam organ.  The hoot of a whistle presently confirmed her guess.