Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather,
sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to
hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that
you--"

"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs
hesitated.

"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"

"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders
never cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down--but, of
course, not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say,
will you--will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second.
I'll write it now. Just slip a note to her--Great Scott! What's that?"

The house seemed to be clattering down about his head.

"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of
the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no
stopping them now. 'Ere they come."

And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking vanguard of the
Christmas revellers--seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had
snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the
play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came,
regardless of stumbles and tumbles--an avalanche of joy.

Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde