“Uncle Peter,” said Ann, turning round again.

“Eh?”

“It’s funny you should have been talking about Ogden getting kidnapped.  This story of aunt Nesta’s is all about an angel-child—­I suppose it’s meant to be Ogden—­being stolen and hidden and all that.  It’s odd that she should write stories like this.  You wouldn’t expect it of her.”

“Your aunt,” said Mr. Pett, “lets her mind run on that sort of thing a good deal.  She tells me there was a time, not so long ago, when half the kidnappers in America were after him.  She sent him to school in England—­or, rather, her husband did.  They were separated then—­and, as far as I can follow the story, they all took the next boat and besieged the place.”

“It’s a pity somebody doesn’t smuggle him away now and keep him till he’s a better boy.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Pett wistfully.

Ann looked at him fixedly, but his eyes were once more on his paper.  She gave a little sigh, and turned to her work again.

“It’s quite demoralising, typing aunt Nesta’s stories,” she said.  “They put ideas into one’s head.”

Mr. Pett said nothing.  He was reading an article of medical interest in the magazine section, for he was a man who ploughed steadily through his Sunday paper, omitting nothing.  The typewriter began tapping again.

“Great Godfrey!”

Ann swung round, and gazed at her uncle in concern.  He was staring blankly at the paper.

“What’s the matter?”

The page on which Mr. Pett’s attention was concentrated was decorated with a fanciful picture in bold lines of a young man in evening dress pursuing a young woman similarly clad along what appeared to be a restaurant supper-table.  An enjoyable time was apparently being had by both.  Across the page this legend ran: 

Piccadilly Jim once more

The Recent Adventures of Young Mr. Crocker

of New York and London

It was not upon the title, however, nor upon the illustration that Mr. Pett’s fascinated eye rested.  What he was looking at was a small reproduction of a photograph which had been inserted in the body of the article.  It was the photograph of a woman in the early forties, rather formidably handsome, beneath which were printed the words: 

Mrs. Nesta Ford Pett

Well-Known Society Leader and Authoress

Ann had risen and was peering over his shoulder.  She frowned as she caught sight of the heading of the page.  Then her eye fell upon the photograph.

“Good gracious!  Why have they got aunt Nesta’s picture there?”

Mr. Pett breathed a deep and gloomy breath.

“They’ve found out she’s his aunt.  I was afraid they would.  I don’t know what she will say when she sees this.”

“Don’t let her see it.”

“She has the paper downstairs.  She’s probably reading it now.”

Ann was glancing through the article.