But the Brothers Banditti belonged to him.

On the other side of the hill was a large waste plot of ground. A
builder with more enterprise than capital had begun the erection of
up-to-date villas but had gone bankrupt in the process, and now nothing
remained of his ambition but a heap of somewhat squalid ruins. Here,
after school hours, the Brothers met and played and plotted.

They had not always been Banditti. Before Robert's advent they had
been the nice children of the nicest people of the neighbourhood.
Their games had been harmless, if apathetic, and they had always gone
home punctually and clean. The parents considered the waste land as a
great blessing. Robert had come upon them in the course of his lonely
prowlings, and from a distance had watched them play hide and seek. He
had despised them and their silly game, but, on the other hand, they
did not know who he was and would not make fun of him and taunt him
with unpaid bills, and it had been rather nice to listen to their
cheerful voices. The ruins, too, had fired his imagination. He had
viewed them much as a general views the scene of a prospective battle.
And then--strangest attraction of all--there had been Frances Wilmot.
She was different from any other little girl he had ever seen. She was
clean and had worn a neat green serge dress with neat brown shoes and
stockings which toned with her short curly brown hair, but she did not
shine or look superior or disdainful. Nor had she been playing with
her companions, though they ran back to her from time to time as though
in some secret way she had led their game. When Robert had come upon
her she was sitting on the foundations of what was to have been a
magnificent portico, her arms clasped about her knees, and a curious
intent look on her pointed delicate face. That intent look, as he was