Mr. Brimberly beckoned with portentous finger.

“Little girl, come ’ere!” he repeated.  “Come up ’ere and come immediate!”

The small crutch tapped laboriously up the steps, and she stood before Mr. Brimberly’s imposing figure mute, breathless, and trembling a little.

“Little girl,” he demanded, threatening of whisker, “’oo are you and—­what?”

“Please, I’m Hazel.”

“Oh, indeed,” nodded Mr. Brimberly, pulling at his waistcoat. “’Azel ’oo, ’Azel what—­and say ‘sir’ next time, if you please.”

“Hazel Bowker, sir,” and she dropped him a little curtsey, spoiled somewhat by agitation and her crutch.

“Bowker—­Bowker?” mused Mr. Brimberly.  “I’ve ’eard the name—­I don’t like the name, but I’ve ’eard it.”

“My daddy works here, sir,” said Hazel timidly.

“Bowker—­Bowker!” repeated Mr. Brimberly.  “Ah, to be sure—­one of the hunder gardeners as I put on three or four weeks ago.”

“Yes, please, sir.”

“Little girl, what are you a-doin’ in that garden?  Why are you wandering in the vicinity of this mansion?”

“Please, I’m looking for Hermy.”

“’Ermy?” repeated Mr. Brimberly, “’Ermy?  Wot kind of creater may that be?  Is it a dog?  Is it a cat?  Wot is it?”

“It’s only my Princess Nobody, sir!”

“Oh, a friend of yours—­ha!  Persons of that class do not pervade these regions!  And wot do I be’old grasped in your ’and?”

Hazel looked down at the rose she held and trembled anew.

“Little girl—­wot is it?” demanded the inexorable voice.

“A rose, sir.”

“Was it—­your rose?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Don’t you know as it’s a wicked hact to take what ain’t yours?  Don’t you know as it’s thieving and robbery, and that thieving and robbery leads to prison bars and shackle-chains?”

“Oh, sir, I—­I didn’t mean—­” the little voice was choked with sobs.

“Well, let this be a warning to you to thieve no more, or next time I shall ’ave to become angry.  Now—­go ’ence!”

Dropping the rose the child turned and hobbled away as fast as her crutch would allow, and Mr. Brimberly, having watched her out of sight, emptied his glass and took up his cigar, but, finding it had gone out, flung it away.  Then he sighed and, sinking back among his cushions, closed his eyes, and was soon snoring blissfully.

But by and by Mr. Brimberly began to dream, a very evil dream wherein it seemed that for many desperate deeds and crime abominable he was chained and shackled in a dock, and the judge, donning the black cap, sentenced him to be shorn of those adornments, his whiskers.  In his dream it seemed that there and then the executioner advanced to his fell work—­a bony hand grasped his right whisker, the deadly razor flashed, and Mr. Brimberly awoke gurgling—­awoke to catch a glimpse of a hand so hastily withdrawn that it seemed to vanish into thin air.