At the very boldness of it, Jane's manner completely changed. That front countenance took on a silly simper. And she put her two-faced head, now on one side, now on the other, ingratiatingly.

"What am I here for!" she repeated in an injured tone. "And you ask me that, Miss? Why, what _should_ I be doin' for you, lovie, but dancin'

attendance."

At that, she began to act most curiously, stepping to the right and pointing a toe, stepping to the left and pointing a toe; setting down one heel, setting down the other; then taking a waltzing turn.

"Oh!" said Gwendolyn, understanding. (For dancing attendance was precisely what Jane was doing!) After observing the other's antics for a moment, she tossed her head. "Well, if _that's_ all you want to do," she said unconcernedly, "why, _dance_."

"Yes, dance," broke in the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, snapping his fingers.

"Frolic and frisk and flounce!"

Jane obeyed. And waltzed up to the bill-board. "Say! what's the price of that big braid?" she called--between her tortoise-shell teeth. She had spied the red coronet, and was admiring its plaited beauty.

From under those long, square brows, the little old gentleman frowned across the table at her. "I'll quote you no prices," he answered. "You haven't paid me yet for your extra face."

Jane's reply was an impudent double-laugh. She was examining the different things on the bill-board, and hopping sillily from foot to foot.

Gwendolyn tugged gently at a coat-tail. "Can't we run now?" she asked; "and hide?"

_Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_

"Sh!" warned the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, not stirring. "What was that!"

"I don't know."

Both held their breath. And Gwendolyn took a more firm hold of the lip-case.

After a moment the little old gentleman began to speak very low: "We shan't be able to steal away. She's watching us out of the back of her head!"

"Yes. I can see 'em shine!"

"I believe that when she rolled her eyes from one face to the other it made that _rumbley sound_."

"Scares me," whispered Gwendolyn.

"Ump!" he grunted. "Ought to cheer you up. For it's my opinion that her eyes rumble _because her head's empty_."

"If it was hollow I think I'd know," she answered doubtfully. "You see she's been my nurse a long time. But--would it help?"

"_Find out_," he advised. "And if it's a fact, your mother ought to know."

_Boom-er-oom-er-oom!_

Gwendolyn, watching, saw two shining spots in Jane's back face grow suddenly small--to the size of glinting pin-points; then disappear. The nurse turned, and came dancing back.

"You'd better let me have that braid, old man," she cried rudely.

"I'll smooth down your saucy tongue," he threatened.

"Tee! hee! hee! hee!" she tittered. "Ha! ha! ha!"

Gwendolyn had heard her laugh before. But it was the first time she had _seen_ her laugh. The Man-Who-Makes-Faces, too. Now, at the same moment, both witnessed an extraordinary thing: As Jane chuckled, she lifted one stout arm so that a black sateen cuff was close to the mouth of the front face. And holding it there, actually _laughed in her sleeve!_

Laughed in her sleeve--_and a great deal more!_ For with each chuckle, from the top of her red head to her very feet, _she grew a trifle more plump!_

The little old gentleman warned her with one long finger. "You look out, young lady!" said he. "One of these days you'll laugh on the other side of your face." (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant "you'll laugh on your _other_ face.")

Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, "Come!"

she bade Gwendolyn. "Come away with Nurse."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his head significantly. "It's evident, Miss Jane," said he, "that you've forgotten all about--the Piper."

She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she did a hop-schottische.

He was not slow to take advantage. "We're sure to see him shortly," he went on. "And when we do--! Because your account with him is adding up _terrifically_. You're dancing a good deal, you know."

"How can I help _that?_" demanded Jane. "Ain't I dancin' atten--"

Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once she was a little apprehensive on her own account--remembering how _she_ had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before!

"Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she began timidly, "do you mean the Piper that everybody has to pay?"

"Exactly," replied the little old gentleman. "He's out collecting some pay for me now--from a dishonest fellow who didn't settle for two dozen ears that I boxed and sent him."

At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this time), holding up her arm as before--and filling out two or three wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was not always to be depended upon!)

The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw--for the first time--that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the paths at Johnnie Blake's. And each gave out a soft light. She did not have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were--lights to make plain the way for people's feet: in short, nothing more nor less than footlights!

A few times in her life--so few that she could tell them off on her pink fingers--she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane's dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more satisfactory!

Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. "You're just startin'," she repeated. "Where?"

"To find her father and mother," answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly.

At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. "Father and mother!" she cried.

"Indeed, you won't! Not while _I'm_ a-takin' care of her." And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn--by a slender wrist.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.

"Slap her hands! Slap her hands!" he shouted excitedly. "It'll start circulation."

Both slapped--so hard that her hands stung. And with the result he sought. For instantly all three began going in circles, around and around, faster and faster and faster.

It was Jane who first let go. She was puffing hard, and the perspiration was standing out upon her forehead. "I'm going to call the Policeman,"

she threatened shrilly.