"Box kites have no tails," murmured Mr. Kirby, "he must have thrown it."
"Who?" asked Mr. Postlethwaite eagerly.
"I don't know," said Mr. Kirby with charming innocence.
"You 're making a fool of me!" said old Mr. Postlethwaite savagely.
"No, I 'm not," returned Mr. Kirby in a soothing tone. "Come, there 's nothing more to be done here. I 'll write to those young men. I 'll write at once. I 'll hear the day after tomorrow, and I 'll let you know."
"The day after to-morrow!" shrieked old Mr. Postlethwaite. "And the house wide open, and anyone coming in through that skylight?"
"It 'd be a charity," said the lawyer. "It will shelter the little birds."
Mr. Kirby made to put his arm into the angry old gentleman's and to lead him down the stairs, when he noticed something on the floor. It was a scrap of paper. He picked it up, glanced at it hurriedly, and put it in his pocket. Then—the gesture had taken but a moment—he was holding Mr. Postlethwaite's arm and taking him down the stairs.
"You ought to have a caretaker here for a day or two anyhow, Postlethwaite," said Mr. Kirby
