Part 21 (1/2)

”Nonsense,” said Peter, ”people's hearts aren't under their sashes.”

”I don't care--mine is,” said Phyllis.

”If you're going to talk like a poetry-book,” said Peter, ”my heart's in my mouth.”

”My heart's in my boots--if you come to that,” said Roberta; ”but do come on--he'll think we're idiots.”

”He won't be far wrong,” said Peter, gloomily. And they went forward to meet the old gentleman.

”Hullo,” he said, shaking hands with them all in turn. ”This is a very great pleasure.”

”It WAS good of you to get out,” Bobbie said, perspiring and polite.

He took her arm and drew her into the waiting room where she and the others had played the advertis.e.m.e.nt game the day they found the Russian.

Phyllis and Peter followed. ”Well?” said the old gentleman, giving Bobbie's arm a kind little shake before he let it go. ”Well? What is it?”

”Oh, please!” said Bobbie.

”Yes?” said the old gentleman.

”What I mean to say--” said Bobbie.

”Well?” said the old gentleman.

”It's all very nice and kind,” said she.

”But?” he said.

”I wish I might say something,” she said.

”Say it,” said he.

”Well, then,” said Bobbie--and out came the story of the Russian who had written the beautiful book about poor people, and had been sent to prison and to Siberia for just that.

”And what we want more than anything in the world is to find his wife and children for him,” said Bobbie, ”but we don't know how. But you must be most horribly clever, or you wouldn't be a Direction of the Railway.

And if YOU knew how--and would? We'd rather have that than anything else in the world. We'd go without the watches, even, if you could sell them and find his wife with the money.”

And the others said so, too, though not with so much enthusiasm.

”Hum,” said the old gentleman, pulling down the white waistcoat that had the big gilt b.u.t.tons on it, ”what did you say the name was--Fryingpansky?”

”No, no,” said Bobbie earnestly. ”I'll write it down for you. It doesn't really look at all like that except when you say it. Have you a bit of pencil and the back of an envelope?” she asked.

The old gentleman got out a gold pencil-case and a beautiful, sweet-smelling, green Russian leather note-book and opened it at a new page.

”Here,” he said, ”write here.”

She wrote down ”Szezcpansky,” and said:--