unlocked, and the blue coupe went whirling away, and we in the
plum-cushioned carriage followed slowly.

I decided that I'd had enough. Now and here in the middle of all
these carriages was a bully good time and place for me to get
away. I turned to the Bishop. He was blushing like a boy.
I blushed, too. Yes, I did, Tom Dorgan, but it was because I was
bursting with laughter.

"Oh, dear!" I exclaimed in sudden dismay. "You're not my
father."

"No--no, my dear, I--I'm not," he stammered, his face purple
now with embarrassment. "I was just trying to tell you, you poor
little girl, of your mistake and planning a way to help you,
when--"

He made a gesture of despair toward the side where the coupe had
been.

I covered my face with my hands, and shrinking over into the
corner, I cried:

"Let me out! let me out! You're not my father. Oh, let me out!"

"Why, certainly, child. But I'm old enough, surely, to be, and I
wish--I wish I were."

"You do!"