“Lor’ bless yer, lovey!” said Mrs. Higgins, whose bonnet was bobbing on the nape of her neck, leaving the wisps of hair to straggle unrestrainedly in the honest grey eyes, as she knelt on the ground and tugged Leonie’s short skirts into place.  “Yer did give us a turn, dearie; yer might ’av ’ad yer ’and nipped orf by that there brute.  Come ’ere, Lil and ’Erb—­I’ll ’ave yer eaten by the camuls next!”

The bow-legged twins, with their spirit of adventure quashed, rolled back to mother, and stood wide-eyed as she ran her work-worn hand through the stranger’s luxuriant curls.

“Give us a kiss, lovey, an’ go an’ get some tea!”

For the second time that day Leonie moved to obey the same command, but this time there was no hesitation as she put her thin arms round the woman’s neck and kissed her sweetly once and again.

And the woman, who sensed something amiss in the quivering little body, held her firmly, patting her gently with the same hand which dealt out indiscriminately such resounding and often well-earned smacks among her own; and Leonie sighed and leant confidingly against the stout, badly corseted figure.

“How comfy,” she whispered shyly.  “How soft you are.  Auntie never holds me in her arms, and when Nannie does she’s always full of bits of things that stick out.”

And then with a little scream of delight she was away, speeding over the gravel in the wake of a lumbering great form wending its way in and out of the crowd.

“Cut along, Sir, or you’ll find her ’obnobbing with the gorilla next!  I’ve never seen such a child for downright mischievousness.”

Cuxson cut along as bidden and for all he was worth, pulling Leonie up in front of the ticket office for elephant rides, and after purchasing tickets sidetracked her to a tea-table.

* * * * * * * *

“Mind you bring Jingles when you come to stay!”

“Pwomise,” called back Leonie from her Nannie’s arms as she opened the door to them and lifted the tired happy child from the taxi.

But she didn’t because she never went.

CHAPTER VIII

  “And make my seated heart knock at my ribs
  Against the use of nature.  Present fears
  Are less than horrible imaginings.”—­Shakespeare.

Big Ben announced the approaching hour of midnight, throwing the sonorous notes to the soft spring wind which wafted them up to Harley Street.

Save for the light thrown by the dancing flames of a log fire, and the orange disc made on the desk by the light of a heavily shaded lamp, the room was dark; the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the wood fire and the faint rustle as Sir Jonathan turned a page.

“Notes” was written in letters of brass across the thick book heavily bound in leather, and of which the small key to the massive Bramah lock was kept in a pocket especially made in every waistcoat Sir Jonathan possessed.