The Man-Who-Makes-Faces shook his head.  “You don’t know him,” he answered, “because recently, when the bears were bothering him a lot in his Street, I made him a long face.”

The man in green was pausing where the candles clustered thickest.  Gwendolyn, still doubtful, went forward to greet him.

“How do you do, sir,” she began, curtseying.

His face was long, as the Man-Who-Makes-Faces had pointed out—­very long, and pale, and haggard.  Between his sunken temples burned his dark-rimmed eyes.  His nose was thin, and over it the skin was drawn so tightly that his nostrils were pinched.  His lips were pressed together, driving out the blood.  His cheeks were hollow, and shadowed bluely by a day-old beard.  He had on a hat.  Yet she was able (curiously enough!) to note that his hair was sparse over the top of his head, and streaked with gray.

Nevertheless there was no denying that she recognized him dimly.

Something knotted in her throat—­at seeing weariness, anxiety, even torture, in those deep-set eyes.  “I think I’ve met you before somewhere,” she faltered.  “Your—­your long face—­” The Bird was perched on the forefinger of one hand.  She proffered the other.

He did not even look at her.  “My hands are full,” he declared.  And again, “My hands are full.”

She glanced at them.  And saw that each was indeed full—­of paper money.  Moreover, the green of his coat was the green of new crisp bills.  While his buff-colored trousers were made of yellowish ones, carefully creased.

He was literally made of money.

Now she felt reasonably certain of his identity.  Yet she determined to make even more sure.  “Would you mind just turning around for a moment?” she inquired.

“But I’m busy to-day,” he protested, “I can’t be bothered with little girls.  I’ll see you when you’re eight years old.”  Nevertheless he faced about accommodatingly.

The moment he turned his back he displayed a detail of his dress that had not been visible before.  This detail, at first glance, appeared to be a smart leather piping.  On second glance it seemed a sort of shawl-strap contrivance by which the talking-machine was suspended.  But in the end she knew what it was—­a leather harness!—­an exceedingly handsome, silver-buckled, hand-sewed harness!

She went around him and raised a smiling face—­caught at a hand, too; and felt her own happy tears make cool streaks down her cheeks.  “I—­I don’t see you often,” she said, “bu-but I know you just the same.  You’re—­you’re my fath-er!”

At that, he glanced down at her—­stooped—­picked a candle—­and held it close to her face.

“Poor little girl!” he said.  “Poor little girl!”

“Poor little rich girl,” she prompted, noting that he had left out the word.

She heard a sob!

The next moment, Rustle!  Rustle!  Rustle! And at her feet the gay-topped candles were bent this way and that—­as Miss Royle, with an artful serpent-smile on her bandaged face, writhed her way swiftly between them!