Had they caught him? Ever since the beginning of the adventure Peter had wondered interminably how it would end. He hadn’t been able to see any ending. It had seemed to him that, if nothing was found out, Uncle Waffles might go on hiding in the loft forever and he might go on pilfering for him.

Peter had watched his uncle carefully; he knew much more about him now. He knew that he was a great disreputable child, much younger than himself, who would always be dependent on somebody. He came to realize that through all those years of large talking his uncle had never been a man—never would be now; that he was just a large self-conscious boy, boastful, affectionate and unreliable, whose sins were not wickedness but naughtiness. The odd strain of maternity in Peter, which prompted him always to shelter things weaker than himself, made him love his uncle the more for this knowledge. And now he was distracted, like a bantam hen which has hatched out a swan and lost it.

He set to work searching in the coach-house, under the tandem tricycle, in the harness-room. He went out into the yard, following the footprints. They led through the door into the garden, under the pear trees, across a flower-bed to a neighbor’s wall and there terminated abruptly. What could have happened?

The night about him was spectacular and glistening as a picture on a Christmas card. Everything in sight was draped in exaggerated purity. Like cotton-wool, sprinkled with powdered glass, snow lay along the arms of trees and sparkled in festoons on withered creepers. The march of those countless London feet, that invisible hurrying army, always weary, yet never halting, came to him muffled as though it moved across a heavy carpet. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” said the golden windows, mounting in a barricade of houses against the stars. “Be quiet. Be quiet,” whispered the shrouded trees, as their burdened branches creaked and lowered. But he could not be quiet. Cold as it was, sweat broke out on his forehead. What had happened?

A crunching sound—a mere rumor, seeming infinitely distant! A head appeared above the wall, right over him. A man lumbered across and fell with a gentle thud almost at his feet.

“Oh, how could you? How could you do that?”

The voice which answered was thick and truculent. It made no pretence at being secret. “And why shouldn’t I? That’s what I ask. I was tired of sticking up there. It’s no joke, I can tell you.”

“Shish! Where’ve you been?”

“Found a way out four gardens down—the wall’s lower. No danger of breaking one’s legs—not like the way you brought me.”

Peter was a little staggered by this hostile manner; it was as though he were being charged with having done something wilfully unfair and cruel. “But to-morrow they’ll see that somebody’s been there. They’ll follow your tracks from garden to garden and then———”

“I don’t care. Let ‘em. You’d never do anything I ask you. You wouldn’t let me see Jehane and Glory. They’re my flesh and blood; and who are you? You wouldn’t give me any baccy. You gave me nothing. Buried me alive, that’s what you did for me. So I just slipped off by myself.”

It was like an angry child talking. Ocky pulled a bottle from his pocket, drew the cork with his teeth and tilted the neck against his mouth. “Must have my medicine. Ah!”

Peter watched him. He was thinking fast, remembering past queernesses of temper. “You’ve done this before?”

“Of course. And not ashamed of it either. I’ll do it again as soon as I get thirsty. It’s cold up there.” He jerked his thumb toward the loft. “Has it ever struck you?”

Peter disregarded the question. “You did it with my money—the money that was to help you.”

“And isn’t it helping me?” Another long draught. “Ah! That’s better!—You gave it me to take care of—I’m taking care of it. See? You ought to know by now that I’m not to be trusted.”

Peter saw that nothing was to be gained by arguing. He helped his uncle to scramble into the loft. “We’ll be lucky if you’re not caught by morning.”

“Think so? What’s the odds? Couldn’t be worse off. Now shut up scolding; you’re as bad as Jehane. Let’s be social. Did I ever tell you that story about the chap whose wife had black hair?”

“Yes, you did. I know now that you’d been drinking every time you told it.”

“Hic! Really! Awright, you needn’t get huffy. It’s a good story.”

Peter had at last hit on a plan. “Will you promise to stop here to-night, if I promise to find you a better place to-morrow?”

“Now you’re talking. Reg’lar ha’penny marvel, that’s what you are. Before I promise I must hear more. Where is it?” He spoke with the hauteur of a townsman engaging seaside lodgings. He was Ocky Waffles Esquire, capitalist, who wasn’t to be beaten at a bargain.

“Well, it’ll probably be in a family.”

“Depends on the family.”

“Then promise me you won’t go out again to-night.”

“Shan’t be able when I’ve polished off this bottle.”

Peter appreciated the unblushing honesty of that prophecy. Before he went he said, “It’s my fault. I ought to have thought how lonely it was for you.”

Uncle Waffles tried to get up, but found that he maintained his dignity better in a sitting posture. “Don’t take it to heart, sonny. Forgive and forget—that’s my motto.” He reached up his hand to Peter with a fine air of Christian charity. Peter just touched it with the tips of his fingers.

That night, knowing that her mistress was out, Grace had done a thing which was forbidden. There was a passage running by the side of the house, ending in a door which gave access to the Terrace. During the day it was kept on the latch for the use of the children, the dustman, the gardener and all persons of secondary importance. It saved continual answering of the front-door and prevented muddy boots from tramping through the hall. At night it was locked and the key was hung up outside the diningroom, where anyone would be heard who tried to get it. Grace had borrowed the key and admitted her policeman. She very rarely got the chance, and always had to do it in secret. Barrington was firm regarding kitchen company. “I won’t have strange men lolling in my house without my knowledge. That’s how burglaries happen. The servants can meet their friends on their nights out. I may seem harsh, but it’s none of my business to supply ‘em with opportunities for getting married.”

So Grace had to do her love-making on one evening a week, walking the pavements with the object of her passion. Now and then she contrived stolen interviews after nightfall, standing on the steps which led up from the area and talking across the railings. Cookie sympathized with her and helped her. “It’s a burnin’ shime,” she said, “cagin’ us h’up like h’animals. H’it’s a wonder ter me as we h’ever get married. The master thinks that, ‘cause we’re servants, we ain’t got no pashuns.”

This evening when Grace had stopped her lover on his beat, Cookie had suggested that they should borrow the key and let him into the kitchen by the side-passage. That was why Peter heard a man’s voice when he crept stealthily into the basement. The sound was so unexpected that he paused to listen without any intention of eavesdropping.

“It started Christmas mornin’, didn’t it, Grice?” It was Cookie speaking. “The door was h’on the latch, the milk was watered, the sorsage-rolls and me cushion was gone. We blimed the cat at first. H’I was that h’angry, I threw a broom at ‘er. Not but wot I might ‘a known as no cat could water milk if I’d ‘a stopped ter thought. And then Master Peter, ‘im that’s so ginerous, ‘e forgets to give anyone ‘is Christmas presents. H’it beats creation, so it does. And h’ever since then, though I h’ain’t said much abart it, ‘cause I didn’t want ter git ‘is pa h’angry, h’ever since then h’its been goin’ h’on. One day h’it’s h’eggs missin’. ‘Nother day h’it’s beef—little nibbles like h’all round. And yer may taik my word for h’it, the little master’s h’at the bottom h’of it. What d’yer sye abart that, Mr. Somp? Yer ‘andle crimes, don’t yer? Wot’s yer sudgestion?”

Mr. Somp was the name of Grace’s policeman. Mr. Somp thought. “Kid’s got a h’appetite, ain’t ‘e?” he procrastinated. “I ‘ad a h’appetite once.—But h’I wouldn’t ‘a believed it h’of ‘im.”

Grace giggled. She had evidently felt the pressure of a burly arm. “Not so frisky, cop. You ‘old too ‘ard. I ain’t a drunk and disorderly.” Then, taking up the thread of the conversation, “A fine policeman you are! ‘Ow could a little boy h’eat Cookie’s cushion?”

Mr. Somp growled. Peter could imagine how he threw out his hands as he said with all the weight of the noncommittal law, “Ah, there yer are!”

“Come h’orf it, dearie. Yer don’t know nothing.” Grace tittered.

“H’if that’s so, h’I’d best be goin’.”

Cookie laughed. “Ain’t ‘e the boy for losin’ ‘is ‘air? And me cookin’ ‘im a h’om’let? Yer’ll ‘ave a ‘andful ter manage, Grice, when yer marry. ‘Is temper’s nawsty.”

Mr. Somp must have changed his mind at the mention of the omelet, for he postponed his departure.

In the dining-room Peter found Glory alone.

“Where’s Aunt Jehane?”

“Mother’s got a headache. She’s gone to lie down.” Peter took his place on the hearth-rug, his legs apart, his back to the fire, in unconscious imitation of his father. Glory bowed her head, hiding her face, and went on with her darning. Peter watched her. How slight she was! How lonely she looked in the great arm-chair. Then it struck him that she was always working, and that Aunt Jehane very frequently had headaches.

“Don’t you ever want to play, Glory?”

“Oh, yes, I want.”

“Why d’you say it like that? Just I want.”

“Where’s the good of wanting?”

The head bowed lower. The firelight shone in her hair. Her face was more than ever hidden from him.

“But you’re such a little girl—a whole year younger than I am. When I want to play I do it.”

“Do you?”

It was always like that when Peter took notice of Glory—short questions and short answers which led no further.

Peter leant over her and stayed her hands. “I don’t like to see you work so hard.”

“It’s sweet to hear you say so, Peter.” He felt something splash and run down his fingers. “I love to hear you say that. But you see, there’s no one to care for us now. I’ve got to do it. I always shall have to do it, more and more.”

“Not when I’m a man.”

“When you’re a man, Peter? What then?”

“When I’m a man no one shall be sorry. I’ll make people ashamed of prisons and of letting other people be poor. No one shall go hungry. No one shall go unhappy. I’ll build happy houses everywhere. And, oh Glory, I’ll take all the little children with no shoes on their feet out into the country to where the grass is soft.”

She looked up at him with her grave gray eyes—eyes so much older than her years. “When you’re a man, Peter, you’ll be splendid.”

“But I didn’t say it to make you say that. I said it because I wanted you to know that there’s a day coming when—when instead of making you cry, dear Glory, I’ll make you laugh.”

“Just me, Peter, all by myself?”

She tilted back her head, gazing up at him, so that her hair rippled back across her shoulders and her throat stretched white and long, like a mermaid’s looking up through water, Peter thought.

“Just me only, Peter?”

He couldn’t understand why she should always want him to do things for her only. She wasn’t selfish like Riska. He was puzzled.

“Why I’ll make you laugh and Kay laugh and everybody, because you know, Glory, we all ought to be happy.”

Her face fell. The eager gladness was dying out of it, so he added hurriedly, “And most especially I want to help Uncle Waffles.”

Was he going to have told her? Probably he did not know himself. There was a sound of running feet in the hall; Grace burst in on them breathlessly. “Oh, mum, can I ‘ave a word with you? There’s a light in the winder of the—— Where’s yer ma, Miss Glory? Quick, tell me.”

“She’s gone to lie down with Moggs. Her head—— But what’s happened?”

Grace was gone. As she climbed the house they heard her calling. Out in the hall they found the policeman standing, with his baton in his hand; he was trying to appear very brave, as though saying, “Fear nothing. I am the law. I will protect you.”

Peter took one swift glance at Glory. Did she understand? He almost fancied——

“Keep them here as long as you can,” he whispered; “I’m going out.”

The last sight he had was of Aunt Jehane coming down the stairs. She was in her night-gown with a counterpane flung round her. Moggs was in her arms, crying against her shoulder. Eustace was clinging stupidly to her nightgown. Aunt Jehane’s ‘mat’ was off. Her forehead looked surprised and her scant hair straggled away from it. Grace was explaining vociferously.

“I’ve called in the policeman, mum. Luckily ‘e was passin’.”

“But what’s he wasting time for?” Aunt Jehane asked tartly. “If you didn’t imagine the light, they’re still there in the loft and he can catch them.”

Mr. Somp spoke up for himself. “H’I was waitin’ your h’orders.”

Peter flew down the path. The window was in darkness. Directly he entered the stables he knew what had happened, for the air was heavy with the smell of tobacco.

“Uncle! Uncle!”

“Here, sonny.”

“Quick. Come down. Grace saw you strike a match in the dark and a policeman’s coming to catch you.”

Peter had to go up after him, for Ocky’s wits were clouded. He shook him, saying, “Make haste. Can’t you understand? Surely you don’t want to be caught.”

The fear, in Peter’s voice pierced through the fog of alcohol and reached Ocky’s intellect. “But what’s to be done?”

“There’s an empty tank in the yard—you know it? If you can get in there before they come, they mayn’t find you.”

Ocky woke to life. Stumbling and hurrying he dropped down through the trap-door. As they ran across the yard, they heard the grumbling of voices approaching. Ocky climbed on the tank, keeping low so as not to be seen from the garden, and vanished.

“Whatever you do, don’t make a sound,” Peter warned him.

Uncle Waffles replied disgustedly, “It isn’t empty. The water’s up to me ankles.”

Peter had hoped to get out of the stable before the search began; it would look suspicious if they should find him. It was too late for that. The voices were near enough for him to hear what was being said.

“Nothin’ ‘ere, me gal. You must ‘ave h’imagined it.”

“I didn’t imagine it, neither. And don’t call me ‘me gal’ as though h’I was nothin’ to yer.”

“I calls you ‘me gal’ in me h’official capacity.”

“I don’t care abart yer capacity, h’official or defficial, I won’t ‘ave it.”

“My, but yer crusty, Grice!”

“H’I am crusty and h’I tell yer for wot. Yer doubt my word—throw h’aspersions on it. I did see a light, I tell yer.”

“Well, it ain’t there now. The chap’s gone.”

“Ow d’you know ‘e’s gone without lookin’?”

“By a kind o’ h’inkstink one dewelopes by bein’ in the police force.”

“D’you know wot I’m thinkin’?—Yer funky.”

“Funky, h’am I? H’awright—h’it’s h’all over between us. Never tell me h’again that you loves me.”

They had been talking in loud voices from the start—quite loud enough to warn any burglar. Now that they had quarreled their voices cut the still night air in anger. Not a word was lost.

Suddenly they paused. “Wot’s that?” Grace asked the question in a sharp whisper.

“Footsteps or I’m no cop.”

Peter heard the click of Mr. Somp’s lantern; it must have struck against his buttons as he bent to examine. “Footsteps. Someone’s been a-climbin’ this ‘ere wall.”

“Well, ain’t yer goin’ ter do nothin’?”

“You stand there, Grice, while I go for’ard. The chap may fire h’on us. Good-bye, Grice. H’if anythin’ should ‘appen, remember I died a-doin’ o’ me dooty.”

“Yer shan’t. I’ll come with yer. If ‘e shoots we’ll die together.”

“Grice, h’I commands yer in the nime o’ the law ter stay where yer h’are.”

But when the door into the yard opened cautiously,

Grace was clinging to her lover’s arm. They both looked frightened and ready to withdraw. Slowly, slowly the bull’s-eye swept the surface of the snow.

“More footsteps!”

The ray of light followed along the tracks till it fell on Peter.

“Well, I’ll be blessed. Of h’all the—— I’ll be blowed if ‘e aren’t!”

Peter laughed. “It looked so lovely I couldn’t stop indoors.”

“Yer’ve given us a nice scare, young master.”

“I didn’t mean to. And when I heard that Grace thought it was a burglar, I thought it would be such a lark to let you find me—just Peter.”

“That boy’s dotty,” said Grace’s policeman; “a little bit h’orf.”

“Yer come ter bed h’at once,” said Grace severely. “I’ll tell yer pa. See if I don’t.”

She caught him roughly by the arm. Then Peter did something mean—he hated himself while he did it. “If you do, I’ll tell that you had Mr. Somp in the kitchen. Father’ll say you’re not to be trusted.”

“Ah!” said Grace’s policeman. “There’s somethin’ in that.”

“Ain’t he artful?” said Grace.

“Well,” asked Peter, “will you keep quiet if I do? Is it a bargain?”

“We didn’t find nothink,” said Grace’s policeman. “We was mistooken.”

“It must ‘a been the snow reflected in the winder,” said Grace. “Cur’ous, ‘ow the snow deceives yer!—But oh, Master Peter, I never thought this h’of yer. I reelly didn’t.”

“Until to-night I never thought it of myself,” said Peter a little sadly.

“Ah!” sighed Grace’s policeman. But to himself he thought, “More in this than meets the h’eye. I’ll be danged if there aren’t.”