She sprang toward the door and clasped the frightened child to her heart.  The three men gathered round them, staring dully.  The Hopper from behind the door waited for Muriel’s joy over Billie’s return to communicate itself to his father and the two grandfathers.

“Me’s dot two chick-ees for Kwismus,” announced Billie, wriggling in his mother’s arms.

Muriel, having satisfied herself that Billie was intact,—­that he even bore the marks of maternal care,—­was in the act of transferring him to his bewildered father, when, turning a tear-stained face toward the door, she saw The Hopper awkwardly twisting the derby which he had donned as proper for a morning call of ceremony.  She walked toward him with quick, eager step.

“You—­you came back!” she faltered, stifling a sob.

“Yes’m,” responded The Hopper, rubbing his hand across his nose.  His appearance roused Billie’s father to a sense of his parental responsibility.

“You brought the boy back!  You are the kidnaper!”

“Roger,” cried Muriel protestingly, “don’t speak like that!  I’m sure this gentleman can explain how he came to bring Billie.”

The quickness with which she regained her composure, the ease with which she adjusted herself to the unforeseen situation, pleased The Hopper greatly.  He had not misjudged Muriel; she was an admirable ally, an ideal confederate.  She gave him a quick little nod, as much as to say, “Go on, sir; we understand each other perfectly,”—­though, of course, she did not understand, nor was she enlightened until some time later, as to just how The Hopper became possessed of Billie.

[Illustration:  THE THREE MEN GATHERED ROUND THEM, STARING DULLY]

Billie’s father declared his purpose to invoke the law upon his son’s kidnapers no matter where they might be found.

“I reckon as mebbe ut wuz a kidnapin’ an’ I reckon as mebbe ut wuzn’t,” The Hopper began unhurriedly.  “I live over Shell Road way; poultry and eggs is my line; Happy Hill Farm.  Stevens’s the name—­Charles S. Stevens.  An’ I found Shaver—­’scuse me, but ut seemed sort o’ nat’ral name fer ’im?—­I found ‘im a settin’ up in th’ machine over there by my place, chipper’s ye please.  I takes ‘im into my house an’ Mary’—­that’s th’ missus—­she gives ’im supper and puts ‘im t’ sleep.  An’ we thinks mebbe somebody’d come along askin’ fer ‘im.  An’ then this mornin’ I calls th’ New Haven police, an’ they tole me about you folks, an’ me and Shaver comes right over.”

This was entirely plausible and his hearers, The Hopper noted with relief, accepted it at face value.

“How dear of you!” cried Muriel.  “Won’t you have this chair, Mr. Stevens!”

“Most remarkable!” exclaimed Wilton.  “Some scoundrelly tramp picked up the car and finding there was a baby inside left it at the roadside like the brute he was!”

Billie had addressed himself promptly to the Christmas tree, to his very own Christmas tree that was laden with gifts that had been assembled by the family for his delectation.  Efforts of Grandfather Wilton to extract from the child some account of the man who had run away with him were unavailing.  Billie was busy, very busy, indeed.  After much patient effort he stopped sorting the animals in a bright new Noah’s Ark to point his finger at The Hopper and remark:—­