Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights.  “You’re just startin’,” she repeated.  “Where?”

“To find her father and mother,” answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly.

At that Jane shook her huge pompadour.  “Father and mother!” she cried.  “Indeed, you won’t!  Not while I’m a-takin’ care of her.”  And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn—­by a slender wrist.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other.  And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled.  For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.

“Slap her hands!  Slap her hands!” he shouted excitedly.  “It’ll start circulation.”

Both slapped—­so hard that her hands stung.  And with the result he sought.  For instantly all three began going in circles, around and around, faster and faster and faster.

It was Jane who first let go.  She was puffing hard, and the perspiration was standing out upon her forehead.  “I’m going to call the Policeman,” she threatened shrilly.

“Oh!  Oh!  Please don’t!” Gwendolyn’s cry was as shrill.  “I don’t want him to get me!”

“Call the Policeman then,” retorted the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  And to Gwendolyn, soothingly, “Hush!  Hush, child!”

Jane danced away—­sidewise, as if to keep watch as she went.  “Help!  Help!” she shouted.  “Police!  Police!! Poli-i-i-ice!!!”

Gwendolyn was terribly frightened.  But she could not run.  One wrist was still in the grasp of the little old gentleman.  With wildly throbbing heart she watched the road.

“Is he coming?” called the little old gentleman.  He, too, was looking up the curving road.

A whistle sounded.  It was long-drawn, piercing.

And now Gwendolyn heard movements all about her in the forest—­the soft pad, pad of running paws, the hushing sound of wings—­as if small live things were fleeing before the sharp call.

Jane hastened back, galloping a polka.  “Turn a stone!  Turn a stone!” she cried, rumbling her eyes.

Gwendolyn clung to the little old gentleman.  “Oh, don’t let her!” she plead.  “What if—­”

“We must.”

“Will a pebble-size do?” yelled Jane, excitedly.

“Yes!  Yes!” answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces.  “You’ve seen stones in rings, haven’t you?  Aren’t they pebble-size?”

The nurse stooped, picked up a small stone, and sent it spinning from the end of a thumb.

Faint with fear, Gwendolyn thrust a trembling hand into the patch-pocket and took hold of the lip-case.  Then leaning against the little old gentleman, her yellow head half-concealed by the dusty flap of his torn coat, she waited.

CHAPTER X