Bobbie stiffened in his arms suddenly.

"I hear Jinnie's fiddle," he gasped. "I'm goin' to my Jinnie."

When the key turned in the lock, the girl came to the door. At first she didn't notice the blind child, but her name, unsteadily called, brought her eyes to the little figure. Happy Pete recognized her with a wild yelp, wriggled himself past the other two, and whiningly crouched at her feet. Jinnie had them both in her arms before Morse turned the key again in the lock.

"Bobbie and Happy Pete!" she cried. Then she got up and flashed tearful eyes upon Morse.

"What did you bring them for? Did you tell Peg?"

"No, I didn't tell Peg and--and I brought him----" he paused and beckoned her with an upward toss of his chin.

Jinnie followed him agitatedly.

"I brought him," went on Morse, "because I don't just like your manner. I brought him as a lever to move you with, miss."

Then he left hurriedly, something unknown within him stirring with life. He decided afterward it was the sight of the blind child's golden head pressed against Jinnie's breast that had so upset him.

As he drove away, he crushed a desire to return again, to take them both, boy and girl, back to the cobbler's shop. But he must not allow his better emotions to attack him in this matter. He had known for a long time Jinnie could be wielded through her affection for the lad.

He thought of his own child somewhere in the world and what it meant to him to possess Jinnie's money, and set his teeth. He would bring the girl to his terms through her love for the slender blind boy.

That day Jinnie wrote a letter to Peg, telling her that Bobbie was with her, and Happy Pete, too.

The stolid woman had quite given way under the mysterious disappearance of the boy. When she returned home, she searched every lane leading to the marshes until dusk. In fact, she stumbled far into the great waste place, calling his name over and over. He was the last link that held her to the days when Lafe had been in the shop, and Peg would have given much if her conscience would cease lashing her so relentlessly. It eased her anxiety a little when a new resolution was born in her stubborn heart. If they all came back to the shop, she'd make up to them in some way for her ugly conduct. With this resolve, she went home to her own baby, sorrowful, dejected and lonely.

All the evening while Peg was mourning for them, Jinnie sat cuddling Bobbie, until the night put its dark hood on the ravine and closed it in a heavy gloom. Happy Pete, with wagging tail, leaned against the knees of the girl, and there the three of them remained in silence until Bobbie, lifting his face, said quiveringly:

"Peggy almost died when you went away, Jinnie."

Jinnie felt her throat throb.

"Tell me about it," she said hoa.r.s.ely.

"There ain't much to tell," replied the child, sighing, "only Peggy was lonely. She only had me and the baby, and I didn't have any stars and the baby's got no teeth."

"And the baby? Is he well, dear?" questioned Jinnie.

"Oh, fine!" the boy a.s.sured her. "He's growed such a lot. I felt his face this morning, and oh, my, Jinnie, his cheeks puff out like this!"

Bobbie gathered in a long breath, and puffed out his own thin, drawn cheeks.

"Just like that!" he gasped, letting out the air.

"And Lafe?" ventured Jinnie.

"Lafe's awful bad off, I guess. Bates' little boy told me he was going to die----"

"No, Bobbie, no, he isn't!" Jinnie's voice was sharp in protestation.

"Yes, he is!" insisted Bobbie. "Bates' boy told me so! He said Lafe wouldn't ever come back to the shop, 'cause everybody says he killed Maudlin."

As the words left his lips, he began to sob. "I want my cobbler," he screamed loudly, "and I want my beautiful stars!"

"Bobbie, Bobbie, you'll be sick if you scream that way. There, there, honey!" Jinnie hushed him gently.

"I want to be 'Happy in Spite'," the boy went on. But his words brought before the pale girl that old, old memory of the cobbler who had invented the club for just such purposes as this. How could she be 'Happy in Spite' when Bobbie suffered; when Peg and baby Lafe needed her; happy when Lafe faced an ignominious death for a crime he had not committed; happy when her beloved was perhaps still very ill in the hospital? She got up and began to walk to and fro. Suddenly she paused in her even march across the room. Unless she steadied her fluttering, stinging nerves, she'd never be able to still the wretched boy.

There's an old saying that when one tries to help others, winged aid will come to the helper. And so it was with Jinnie. She had only again taken Bobbie close when there came to her Lafe's old, old words: "He hath given his angels charge over thee."

"Bobbie," she said softly, "I'm going to play for you."

As Jinnie straightened his limp little body out on the divan, she noticed how very thin he had become, how his heart throbbed continually, how the agonized lines drew and pursed the sensitive, delicate mouth.

Then she played and played and played, and ever in her heart to the rhythm of her music were the words, "His angels shall have charge over thee." Suddenly there came to her a great belief that out of her faith and Lafe's faith would come Bobbie's good, and Peg's good, and especially the good of the man shut up in the little cell. When the boy grew sleepy, Jinnie made him ready for bed.

"I'll lie down with you, Bobbie," she whispered, "and Happy Pete can sleep on the foot of the bed."

And as the pair of sad little souls slept, Lafe's angels kept guard over them.

CHAPTER XLIII

THEODORE SENDS FOR MOLLY

Theodore King was rallying rapidly in the hospital. All danger of blood poison had pa.s.sed, and though he was still very weak, his surgeon had ceased to worry, and the public at large sat back with a sigh, satisfied that the wealthiest and most promising young citizen in the county had escaped death at the hand of an a.s.sa.s.sin.

One morning a telephone message summoned Molly Merriweather to the hospital. In extreme agitation she dressed quickly, telling Mrs. King she would return very soon. Never had she been so hilariously happy.

Jinnie Grandoken had disappeared, as if she had been sunk in the sea.

Molly now held the whip hand over her husband; she could force him to divorce her quietly. It was true of them both now their princ.i.p.al enemies were out of the way. Theo was getting well, and would come home in a few days.

While she had thought him dying, nothing save Jordan's tales of the girl's experiences in the gorge house had been able to rouse her to more than momentary interest.

With glowing cheeks she followed the hospital attendant through a long corridor to Theodore's room. She entered softly and for a moment stood gazing at him admiringly. How very handsome he was, even with the hospital pallor! When the sick man became cognizant of Molly's presence, he turned and smiled a greeting. He indicated a chair, and she sank into it.

"You sent for me, Theodore?" she reminded him softly, bending forward.

"Yes."

He was silent so long, evidently making up his mind to something, that Molly got up and smoothed out his pillow. Theodore turned to her after she had reseated herself.

"Molly," he began, "do you know where Jinnie Grandoken is?"

Molly's eyelids narrowed. So he was still thinking of the girl!

"No," she said deliberately.

"It seems strange," went on King somberly. "I've tried every way I know how to discover her whereabouts, and can't. I sent to the Grandoken's for her, but she was gone."