The Hopper sat pigeon-toed, beset by countless conflicting emotions.  His ingenuity was taxed to its utmost by the demands of this complex situation.  But for his returning suspicion that Muriel was leading up to something; that she was detaining him for some purpose not yet apparent, he would have told her of her husband’s note and confessed that the adored Billie was at that moment enjoying the reluctant hospitality of Happy Hill Farm.  He resolved to continue his policy of silence as to the young heir’s whereabouts until Muriel had shown her hand.  She had not wholly abandoned the thought of telephoning to her father-in-law’s, he found, from her next remark.

“You think it’s all right, don’t you?  It’s strange Roger didn’t leave me a note of some kind.  Our cook left a week ago and there was no one here when he left.”

“I reckon as how yer kid’s all right, miss,” he answered consolingly.

Her voluble confidences had enthralled him, and her reference of this matter to his judgment was enormously flattering.  On the rough edges of society where he had spent most of his life, fellow craftsmen had frequently solicited his advice, chiefly as to the disposition of their ill-gotten gains or regarding safe harbors of refuge, but to be taken into counsel by the only gentlewoman he had ever met roused his self-respect, touched a chivalry that never before had been wakened in The Hopper’s soul.  She was so like a child in her guilelessness, and so brave amid her perplexities!

“Oh, I know Roger will take beautiful care of Billie.  And now,” she smiled radiantly, “you’re probably wondering what I’ve been driving at all this time.  Maybe”—­she added softly—­“maybe it’s providential, your turning up here in this way!”

She uttered this happily, with a little note of triumph and another of her smiles that seemed to illuminate the universe.  The Hopper had been called many names in his varied career, but never before had he been invested with the attributes of an agent of Providence.

“They’s things wot is an’ they’s things wot ain’t, miss; I reckon I ain’t as bad as some.  I mean to be on the square, miss.”

“I believe that,” she said.  “I’ve always heard there’s honor among thieves, and”—­she lowered her voice to a whisper—­“it’s possible I might become one myself!”

The Hopper’s eyes opened wide and he crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously in his agitation.

“If—­if”—­she began slowly, bending forward with a grave, earnest look in her eyes and clasping her fingers tightly—­“if we could only get hold of father’s Lang-Yao jar and that plum-blossom vase Mr. Talbot has—­if we could only do that!”

The Hopper swallowed hard.  This fearless, pretty young woman was calmly suggesting that he commit two felonies, little knowing that his score for the day already aggregated three—­purse-snatching, the theft of an automobile from her own door, and what might very readily be construed as the kidnaping of her own child!