His arm was seized by Mr. Rugge. "She's gone,--fled," gasped the
manager, breathless. "Out of the lattice; fifteen feet high; not dashed
to pieces; vanished."

"Go on and order breakfast," said Losely to Mr. Poole, who was listening
too inquisitively. He drew the manager away. "Can't you keep your
tongue in your head before strangers? The girl is gone?"

"Out of the lattice, and fifteen feet high!"

"Any sheets left hanging out of the lattice?"

"Sheets! No."

"'Then she did not go without help: somebody must have thrown up to her a
rope-ladder; nothing so easy; done it myself scores of times for the
descent of 'maids who love the moon,' Mr. Rugge. But at her age there is
not a moon; at least there is not a man in the moon: one must dismiss,
then, the idea of a rope-ladder,--too precocious. But are you quite
sure she is gone? not hiding in some cupboard? Sacre! very odd. Have
you seen Mrs. Crane about it?"

"Yes, just come from her; she thinks that villain Waife must have stolen
her. But I want you, sir, to come with me to a magistrate."

"Magistrate! I! why? nonsense; set the police to work."

"Your deposition that she is your lawful child, lawfully made over to me,
is necessary for the inquisition; I mean police."