His first start of surprise was followed by a natural resentment of what might have been an impertinent intrusion on his privacy by some practical-joking adult, for he knew there was no child in the house.
His room was kept in order by the wife of the night watchman employed by the bank, and no one else had a right of access to it. But the woman might have brought a child there and not noticed its disposal of its plaything. He smiled. It might have been worse! It might have been a real baby!
The idea tickled him with a promise of future “copy”—of a story with farcical complications, or even a dramatic ending, in which the baby, adopted by him, should turn out to be somebody’s stolen offspring. He lifted the little image that had suggested these fancies, carefully laid it on his table, we
