got down to the office again. So I climbed those stairs, and
every step I took my eye was searching for a hiding-place.
I could have pitched the little bag out of a window, but Nancy
Olden wasn't throwing diamonds to the birds, any more than Mag
here is likely to cut off the braids of red hair we used to play
horse with when we drove her about the Cruelty yard.

One flight.

No chance.

Another.

Everything bare as stone and soap could keep it.

The third flight--my knees began to tremble, and not with
climbing. The call came from this floor. But I ran up a fourth
just on the chance, and there in a corner was a fire hatchet
strapped to the wall. Behind that hatchet Mrs. Kingdon's diamonds
might lie snug till evening. I put the ends of my fingers first
in the little crack to make sure the little bag wouldn't drop to
the floor, and then dived into my pocket and--

And there behind me, stealthily coming up the last turn of the
stairs was Mr. George Moriway!

Don't you hate a soft-walking man, Mag? That cute fellow was
cuter than the old Major himself, and had followed me every inch
of the way.