headed, thick-set man with the fussy deportment of a Thames tug, extricated himself from his progeny. After repeated injunctions to it to remain quiet, he disappeared into the police-station and a few minutes later emerged with the key.
"Don't do that, Eustace," he called out.
Eustace was doing nothing but press a particularly stubby nose against the window of the omnibus; but Mr. Rogers was a man who must talk if only to keep himself in practice. If nothing worthy of comment presented itself, he would exclaim, apropos the slightest sound or movement, "What's that?"
The omnibus started off again, and a few minutes later turned into Branksome Road. It was Nelly, the second girl, aged eleven, who made the startling discovery.
"Mother, mother, look at our house, it's empty!" she cried excitedly.
"Nelly, be quiet," commanded Mr. Rogers from sheer habit.
"But, father, father, look, look!" she persisted, pointing in the direction of No. 131.
Mr. Rogers looked, and looked again. He then looked at his family as if to assure himself of his own identity.
"Good God! Emily," he gasped (Emily was Mrs. Rogers), "look!"
Emily looked. She was a heavy, apathetic woman, who seemed always to be a day in
