Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. A robbery has been committed, and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. “Now you look happy. An old woman took her in. "After all," he said, "this is the safest weapon. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly.
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