The pictures he spoke of were on the front page, and Dick was staring at one of them with his eyes and mouth open, and his sharp face almost pale with excitement.

“What’s to pay, Dick?” said the young man.  “What has paralyzed you?”

Dick really did look as if something tremendous had happened.  He pointed to the picture, under which was written: 

“Mother of Claimant (Lady Fauntleroy).”

It was the picture of a handsome woman, with large eyes and heavy braids of black hair wound around her head.

“Her!” said Dick.  “My, I know her better ’n I know you!”

The young man began to laugh.

“Where did you meet her, Dick?” he said.  “At Newport?  Or when you ran over to Paris the last time?”

Dick actually forgot to grin.  He began to gather his brushes and things together, as if he had something to do which would put an end to his business for the present.

“Never mind,” he said.  “I know her!  An I’ve struck work for this mornin’.”

And in less than five minutes from that time he was tearing through the streets on his way to Mr. Hobbs and the corner store.

Mr. Hobbs could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses when he looked across the counter and saw Dick rush in with the paper in his hand.  The boy was out of breath with running; so much out of breath, in fact, that he could scarcely speak as he threw the paper down on the counter.

“Hello!” exclaimed Mr. Hobbs.  “Hello!  What you got there?”

“Look at it!” panted Dick.  “Look at that woman in the picture!  That’s what you look at!  She aint no ’ristocrat, she aint!” with withering scorn.  “She’s no lord’s wife.  You may eat me, if it aint Minna—­Minna!  I’d know her anywheres, an’ so ’d Ben.  Jest ax him.”

Mr. Hobbs dropped into his seat.

“I knowed it was a put-up job,” he said.  “I knowed it; and they done it on account o’ him bein’ a ’Merican!”

“Done it!” cried Dick, with disgust.  “She done it, that’s who done it.  She was allers up to her tricks; an’ I’ll tell yer wot come to me, the minnit I saw her pictur.  There was one o’ them papers we saw had a letter in it that said somethin’ ‘bout her boy, an’ it said he had a scar on his chin.  Put them two together—­her ‘n’ that there scar!  Why, that there boy o’ hers aint no more a lord than I am!  It’s Ben’s boy,—­the little chap she hit when she let fly that plate at me.”

Professor Dick Tipton had always been a sharp boy, and earning his living in the streets of a big city had made him still sharper.  He had learned to keep his eyes open and his wits about him, and it must be confessed he enjoyed immensely the excitement and impatience of that moment.  If little Lord Fauntleroy could only have looked into the store that morning, he would certainly have been interested, even if all the discussion and plans had been intended to decide the fate of some other boy than himself.