“My money!—­Rogues!  Cheats!—­” He broke down and put a hand to his head in momentary faintness.  “Where be I?” Then taking his hand away and catching sight of the blood on it, he yelled out “Murder!  Where’s my money?  Murder!  Thieves!”

“Hush ’ee, Mister Nanjivell.”  ’Beida dropped on her knees beside him.  “Hush ‘ee now, co!  Here, let me take the towel an’ bathe your poor head,” she coaxed him.  “You’ve had a fall, an’ cut yourself—­ that’s what happened.  An’ these men weren’t murderin’ ’ee, nor shan’t while I am here.  No, nor they han’t stole your money, neither—­though I won’t say they weren’t tryin’.”

He submitted, after a feeble convulsive struggle.  “Where’s my money?” he persisted.

“Your money’s all right.  Safe as if ’twas in the Bank—­safer, I reckon,” she added, with an unfriendly glance at Mr Pamphlett.

“What money is this you’re talking about?” asked that gentleman, stepping forward.  He had no children of his own:  and when he spoke to children (which was not often) his tone conveyed that he thought very little of them.  He used that tone now:  which was sheer blundering folly:  and he met his match.

“The money you were huntin’ for,” answered ’Beida, quick as thought.

“You mustn’t speak to me like that.  It’s naughty and—­er—­ unbecoming.”

“Why? Weren’t you lookin’ for it?” Her eyes sought Rat-it-all and questioned him.

Mr Pamphlett made haste before his ally could speak.  “The Policeman was acting in the execution of his duty.”  This was a fine phrase, and it took ’Beida aback, for she had not a notion what it meant.  But while she sought for a retort, Mr Pamphlett followed up his advantage, to crush her, and blundered again.  “You don’t understand that, eh?”

“Not rightly,” she admitted.

“Then don’t you see how foolish it is for little girls to mix themselves in grown-up people’s affairs?  A policeman has to do many things in what is called the execution of his duty, For instance,” continued Mr Pamphlett impressively, “sometimes he takes little girls when they’re naughty, and locks them up.”

“Fiddlestick!” said ’Beida with a sigh of relief.  “Now I know you’re gassin’. . . .  Just now you frightened me with your talk of executions, which is what they do to a man when he’s murdered some person:  and o’ course if Nicky—­if Mr Nanjivell had been doin’ anything o’ that sort—­which he hasn’, o’ course. . . .  But when you go on pretendin’ as Rat-it-all can lock me up, why then I see your game.  Tryin’ to frighten me, you are, because I’m small.”

“If you were a child of mine,” threatened Mr Pamphlett, very red in the gills, “do you know what I’d do to you?”