"Why didn't you go up to her?"
"I made out to, but one of the men chised me awie."
"What with? A regiment of lancers?"
"No, sir. But 'e doubled up 'is fist as if 'e'd it me, so I 'urried back 'ere. I was afride 'e'd 'it me."
"You mean—'it you like this?" asked Adam, and hit him.
"Oxv-w! Please, Captain—"
"Or like this?" asked Adam, and hit him again.
Adam turned back to Hal Bingham.
"We'll go to that place and start asking questions. There's still a smitch of daylight left. You got a weapon?"
"Got a cudgel back of the bar."
"Fetch it out."
He turned back to the cringing Lamson, on the Hoor.
"You'll take us to the spot," he said.
"Not me! You couldn't get me to— Please, Captain!"
Adam had drawn, and he lashed the lad's legs, right, left, rhythmically, almost as though he were swinging a scythe. He was careful to strike with the flat, but he struck hard.
"Look at me, Lamson," caressively, as though calling a kitten.
Lamson opened his eyes. The point of the sword was two inches from his nose.
"You are taking us there, Lamson."
"Y-Yes, sir."
Adam glanced at Hal, armed with the club now. "Come along." He flung open the street door—and Lillian Bingham fell into his arms.
Much must be allowed a mother in moments of stress. Hal Bingham wept, and freely. It was the first time Adam had ever seen a Londoner weep. Adam himself was not sure of his eyes for a while. Nevertheless it was Adam who broke up the scene. Kneeling before Lillian: "Let's have the story once more, before we go out."
"Out?" cried Goodwife Bingham. "There's nobody in this family ever goes out after dark again!"
"Let's have the story once more," Adam said gently.
It was a simple story. Lillian was fully recovered now, had her breath back. She looked straight at Adam while she talked.
She had been playing at the intersection of Loo Lane, the upstreet limit she was allowed, and it was not quite dark. She'd been about to start home. She insisted that she had not gone further than she should have gone or stayed out later.
"All right, all right!"
She did not know from which direction the two men had come. They were just suddenly there. Did they call her by her name? No. They'd only called her "little girl" and things like that.
"You know—silly things."
"Go on," said Adam.
She had not at first felt frightened when each of these men took her by the hand and started to walk her, for indeed it had been in this direction, toward the inn, which seemed natural to her. Hadn't she just been about to start this way herself? She had not recognized either man but she'd not remarked anything unusual about them. Their dress was neither a peacock's nor notably mean. She remembered that they had walked faster than she liked to walk; but grown-ups usually did that. She had assumed that they were occasional customers at the Hearth Cricket. She met many such. She was vaguely obligated to smile upon any man in this neighborhood who acted as though he knew her. She always had been.
But these men, after a short distance, had turned, turning her with them, and soon were moving away from the inn. It could be they hoped that in the gathering darkness the girl would not notice this. They stood closer to her now, and walked a bit faster, and when she pointed out that they were going the wrong way they hadn't answered with words, only tugged her along.
"They didn't hold my hands very tight. It didn't hurt. But I couldn't let go."
Yes, she had seen and recognized the Lamson lad, and she'd called out to him, she didn't know what. One of the men had snarled at him, and he'd scampered away.
It might have been at about this time that she started to cry. But she hadn't cried much, she assured them now.
The men had hurried her along. They kept telling her that they were taking her home, that they'd only gone for a little walk and were near the Hearth Cricket now. Yes, they'd named the inn.
She hadn't really believed them, but neither had she fought hard to get away. She'd only held back as much as she was able, dragging, purposely stumbling and falling to her knees. The men had not been rough when they pulled her to her feet, but they'd been quick about it—they weren't wasting any time.
"Weren't there people around? Why didn't you scream for help?"
This had not even occurred to Lillian, she freely confessed. Then, too, she had been out of breath: the men made her move fast.
Not until they came to the house had she really balked. Walking the open streets, even while the light failed, was one thing; entering a strange house was quite another. Lil had torn herself free and turned and ran. Perhaps because she had been so "good," her revolt took them off guard. She didn't know whether either or both followed her. She'd never looked back. She had run up one street and down another until at last she recognized some shops. She had never stopped running until she fell into Adam's arms.
"Now about the house, my beauteous. This is important. What was that house like?"
Well, it was three stories, she thought. It was plaster-and-lath, not stone. It stood flush with the street, a cobbled one of average width. The door, which was wide, was dark brown in color, or it might even have been black. There was no knocker. She didn't think that there was a fanlight. Two or three stone steps led up to the door, she thought.
Now this description might have fitted any one of hundreds of houses within a mile of the Hearth Cricket.
Hunkered down before the girl, Adam remembered the sugar bun and brought it forth. Lillian grinned shyly.
"What do you say?" prompted her mother.
"Thank you, sir," said Lil.
"Now about this house," serious, confidential. "If we was to take you to where these men first came up to you, your father and I, and if we was to walk next to you, one on each side, the way they did, do you think you could walk us right to that house?"
"I— I might."
"It might come back to you, don't you think?"
"Maybe."
"That can wait till morning," said Goodwife Bingham. "Lillian, back to the kitchen. We're going to have a wash."
"No, no," Adam cried. "Tomorrow morning may be too late. We must get this while the memory's fresh. I think Lil could walk right there— now. She'd never be able to do that tomorrow."
"Now see here. Captain Long. We're monstrous grateful for all you've done, but Lil don't go out in the dark any more—not even if she was to be escorted by a company of the Queen's horse!"
"I'll go, sure," said Lillian.
Adam rose.
"Ma'am," softly, "it's not a time to hide under the bed. We've got a chance to break up this gang, if we act fast. We won't be long. And once we've found the place we'll bring Lil right back."
"She don't go out," said Mrs. Bingham.
Lillian, munching her sugar bun, looked from one to the other.
"Ma'am, if nobody ever does anything about this, if they don't ever do more than that cowhearted Lamson, you'll have it all over again. We're near 'em—let's get 'em! Your own husband told me this morning, right here in this room, that if that gang ain't cleared out soon they'll be snatching the babes right out of bed!"
"He's right, Mary," Hal Bingham said. "We got to go now."
"She don't leave this house!"
"It ain't just Lillian, ma'am, though it's her we're thinking of first. But there's others. There's other mothers, too. We may not get these villains, ma'am, but we're bound by our faith in the Lord to try."
"He's right, Mary," Hal said.
The woman gave in suddenly. She sank to a stool, and for the first time she wept. Elbows on knees, head in hands, she rocked a bit, while the tears streamed down her face. She began to moan.