"Yes"--with a whispered gasp--"your Royal Highness."

Susan says she doesn't know just why she addressed the devil in that
way, unless she was trying to flatter him and so get round him.

"I'm not so awfully bad," she went on, "if you don't count thinking
things too much!"

The right cheek of her otherwise delicately modeled child's face was a
swollen lump of purple and green. I dropped down on one knee beside her.

"Why, you poor little lady! You're hurt!"

Instantly she sprang to her feet, wild-eyed.

"No, no! It's not me--it's Pearl! Oh, quick--please! He had a razor!"

"Razor? _Who_ did?" I seized her hands. "I'm Mr. Hunt, dear. Your father
often works on my car. Tell me what's wrong!"

She was still half dazed. "I--I can't see why I'm down here--with
papa's dinner pail. Pearl was upstairs, and I tried to stop him from
going." Then she began to whimper like a whipped puppy. "It's all mixed.
I'm scared."

"Of course--of course you are; but it's going to be all right." I led
her to the car and lifted her to the front seat. "Hold on a minute,
Susan. I'll be back with you in less than no time!"

I sounded my horn impatiently. After an interval, a slow-footed car
washer inside the garage began trundling the doors back to admit me. I
ran to him.

No. Bob, he left at six, same as usual. He hadn't been round since....
His kid, eh? Mebbe the heat had turned her queer. Nuff to addle most
folks, the heat was....

I saw that he knew nothing, and snapped him off with a sharp request to
crank the car for me. As he did so, I jumped in beside Susan.

"Where do you live, Susan? Oh, yes, of course--Birch Street. Bob told me
that.... Eh? You don't want to go home?"

"Never, please. Never, never! I _won't_!" Proclaiming this, she flung
Bob's dinner pail from her and it bounced and clattered down the
asphalt. "It's too late," she added, in a frightened whisper: "I know it
is!"

Then she seized my arm--thereby almost wrecking us against a fire
hydrant--and clung to me, sobbing. I was puzzled and--yes--alarmed. Bob
was a bad customer. The child's bruised face ... something she had said
about a razor----? And instantly I made up my mind.

"I'll take you to my house, Susan. Mrs. Parrot"--Mrs. Parrot was my
housekeeper--"will fix you up for to-night. Then I'll go round and see
Bob; see what's wrong." I felt her thin fingers dig into my arm
convulsively. "Yes," I reassured her, taking a corner perilously at full
speed,