The moment he entered the kitchen he heard the clash of voices in angry dispute in the living-room.  Even Shaver was startled by the violence of the conversation in progress within, and clutched tightly a fold of The Hopper’s trousers.

“I tell you it’s John Wilton who has stolen Billie!” a man cried tempestuously.  “Anybody who would enter a neighbor’s house in the dead of night and try to rob him—­rob him, yes, and murder him in the most brutal fashion—­would not scruple to steal his own grandchild!”

“Me’s gwanpa,” whispered Shaver, gripping The Hopper’s hand, “an’ ’im’s mad.”

That Mr. Talbot was very angry indeed was established beyond cavil.  However, Mr. Wilton was apparently quite capable of taking care of himself in the dispute.

“You talk about my stealing when you robbed me of my Lang-Yao—­bribed my servants to plunder my safe!  I want you to understand once for all, Roger Talbot, that if that jar isn’t returned within one hour,—­within one hour, sir,—­I shall turn you over to the police!”

“Liar!” bellowed Talbot, who possessed a voice of great resonance.  “You can’t mitigate your foul crime by charging me with another!  I never saw your jar; I never wanted it!  I wouldn’t have the thing on my place!”

Muriel’s voice, full of tears, was lifted in expostulation.

“How can you talk of your silly vases when Billie’s lost!  Billie’s been stolen—­and you two men can think of nothing but pot-ter-ree!”

Shaver lifted a startled face to The Hopper.

“Mamma’s cwyin’; gwanpa’s hurted mamma!”

The strategic moment had arrived when Shaver must be thrust forward as an interruption to the exchange of disagreeable epithets by his grandfathers.

“You trot right in there t’ yer ma, Shaver.  Ole Hop ain’t goin’ t’ let ’em hurt ye!”

He led the child through the dining room to the living-room door and pushed him gently on the scene of strife.  Talbot, senior, was pacing the floor with angry strides, declaiming upon his wrongs,—­indeed, his theme might have been the misery of the whole human race from the vigor of his lamentations.  His son was keeping step with him, vainly attempting to persuade him to sit down.  Wilton, with a patch over his right eye, was trying to disengage himself from his daughter’s arms with the obvious intention of doing violence to his neighbor.

“I’m sure papa never meant to hurt you; it was all a dreadful mistake,” she moaned.

“He had an accomplice,” Talbot thundered, “and while he was trying to kill me there in my own house the plum-blossom vase was carried off; and if Roger hadn’t pushed him out of the window after his hireling—­I’d—­I’d—­”

A shriek from Muriel happily prevented the completion of a sentence that gave every promise of intensifying the prevailing hard feeling.

“Look!” Muriel cried.  “It’s Billie come back!  Oh, Billie!”