Boodles made noises which were intended to express ridicule, and then said miserably: "Saying good-bye."

Weevil knelt upon the carpet and began to unlace the first boot he could find, groaning and grunting again like a professional mourner.

"Did it hurt, Boodle-oodle?" he asked tenderly.

"Horrid," she sighed.

"It made you cry?"

"Ees."

"That was the Brute, darling. I've warned you of him so often. He doesn't let any of us escape. He shows me rabbits in traps, and he makes you cry. I believe you are crying now."

"Not much, daddy. Only a few little tears that were late for the big weep," said Boodles, burrowing her face into a cool cushion.

"I want you to laugh. You don't laugh so much now," he complained, drawing the boot off carefully, and then feeling inside to make sure that the foot had not come away too.

"One day you said I laughed too much, and I wasn't to do it any more,"

said a doleful voice.

"Ah, but there was a reason for that," said the old man cunningly. "I thought the Brute would be angry if he saw you laughing so much. That was before I took him by the throat and flung him out of the house. He hasn't been here since--not to worry you anyhow," he chuckled.

"You must explain that, please, and a lot of other things besides," she said hurriedly, sitting up and trying to locate the exact position of his head.

Old Weevil laughed in a silly sort of way. "It's a little personal matter between the Brute and me," he chuckled.

"But I come in. I'm the respondent, or whatever you call it. Now I must hear all about it," she said.

"You're not old enough. I shan't tell you anything until you are twenty-one."

"Yes, you will. I'm not a baby now. I am eighteen, and I feel more--nearly eighty-one to-night. I've got one boot on still, and if you won't answer I'll kick."

The old man jumped playfully upon the threatening foot like a kitten upon a ball of wool.

"Daddy-man, I'm serious. I'm not laughing a bit. I believe there is another cry coming on, and that will make you groan and grunt dreadful.

Is it true you are my grandfather?"

The question was out with a rush, and murmuring: "There, I've done it,"

Boodles put her face back into the cushion, breathing as quickly as any agitated maid who has just received an unexpected offer of marriage.

Whatever Weevil was doing she could not think. He appeared to be scrabbling about the floor, playing with her foot. Both of them were glad it was so dark.

"Who told you that?" he said.

"Aubrey. You told his father. Why haven't you ever told me?"

"Boodle-oodle," he quavered, "let me take your other boot off."

"The boot can wait. Don't be unkind, daddy," she pleaded. "I've been worried dreadful to-day. Why did you tell Mr. Bellamie you are my grandfather, if you're not?"

"I am," cried old Weevil. "Of course I am. I have been your grandfather for a long time, ever since you were born, but I wasn't going to tell you until you were twenty-one."

"Why not? Why ever shouldn't I know? Are you ashamed of me?"

At that the old man began to throw himself about and make horrible faces in the dark.

"I expect you are," Boodles went on. "Mr. Bellamie is ashamed of me. He says I'm not well-born, and I have no name. Aubrey told me this afternoon."

"The liar," cried old Weevil. Then he began to cackle in his own grotesque way. He couldn't help being amused at the idea that he should be calling Mr. Bellamie a liar. "How did he know? How did he find that out?" he muttered. "n.o.body could have told him. He must have guessed it."

"You are my grandfather," Boodles murmured. "Now you must tell me all about my father and mother. I've got to let Mr. Bellamie know," she went on innocently.

"I told him. I told him the whole story," cried Weevil. "He sat in this room for an hour, and I gave him the whole history. What a forgetful man he must be. I will write it out and send it him."

"Tell me," said Boodles. "How could you say that you picked me up on your doorstep, and never knew where I had come from?"

"It's a long story, my darling. I don't fancy I can remember it now."

The old man wondered where he had put that precious piece of paper.

"Don't squeeze my foot so. Who was my mother? Do you really know who my mother was?"

"t.i.ta, we called her that for short, Katherine, Mary--no, that's you.

I've got it all written down somewhere. I must tell her the same story.

Shall I light the lamp and find it?"

"You must remember. Are you my mother's father?" she asked impatiently.

"Wait a moment, Boodle-oodle. These sudden questions confuse me so. Mr.

Bellamie would know. I told him. Yes, it was your mother. Miss Lascelles was her name, and I married her in Switzerland. We stayed at that hotel where Gubbings wrote his history of the world, and we fell out of a boat on Lake Geneva, and she was never heard of again."

"Where was I?" cried Boodles, knowing that impatience would only perplex him more.

"You were not born, darling. It was a long time after that when you were born, and your father was Canon Lascelles of Hendon."

"Dear old man, don't be so agitated," she said, putting out a hand to stroke his whiskers. "You are so puzzled you don't know what you are saying. How could my mother be drowned before I was born?"

"No, no, darling, you misunderstand me. It was my wife who disappeared mysteriously, not your mother."

"My mother was your daughter. That's one thing I want to know," said perplexed Boodles.

"t.i.ta, we called her t.i.ta for short," he said, glad of one fact of which he was certain.

"And my father, Canon Lascelles--really? A real canon, a man with a sort of t.i.tle?" she cried, with a little joyous gasp.

"He's in British Honduras. I think that was the place--"

"Alive! My father alive!" cried Boodles. "And you never told me before!

Why haven't I seen him? Why doesn't he write to me? Oh, I think you have been cruel to me, telling me those wild stories of how I came to you, keeping the truth from me all these years."