But, alas! Alice had deemed herself cleverer than she was, by long chalks, and it was not her that woke us.
We were aroused from deep slumber by the voice of Mrs. Beale.
'Hi!' it remarked,'wake up, young gentlemen! It's gone the half after nine, and your gentleman friend's up and dressed and a-waiting for his breakfast.'
'I say, Mrs. Beale,' cried Oswald, who never even in sleep quite loses his presence of mind, 'don't let on to anyone that we've got a visitor.'
She went away laughing. I suppose she thought it was some silly play-secret. She little knew.
We found the stranger looking out of the window.
'I wouldn't do that,' said Dora softly; 'it isn't safe. Suppose someone saw you?'
'They might take you, you know,' said Dora; 'it's done in a minute. We saw two poor men taken yesterday.'
Her voice trembled at the gloomy recollection.
'Let 'em take me,' said the man who wore the clothes of the plain-living and high-thinking Mr. Sandal; '_I_ don't mind so long as my ugly mug don't break the camera!'
'We want to save you,' Dora was beginning; but Oswald, far-sighted beyond his years, felt a hot redness spread over his youthful ears and right down his neck. He said:
'Please, what were you doing in Dover? And what did you take yesterday?'
'I was in Dover on business,' said the man, 'and what I took was Hythe Church and Burmarsh Church, and----'
'Then you didn't steal a cake and get put into Dover Gaol, and break loose, and----' said Dicky, though I kicked him as a sign not to.
'Then, _what_ are you? If you're not that poor escaped thief, what are you?' asked Dora fiercely, before Oswald could stop her.
'I'm a photographer, miss,' said he--'a travelling photographer.'
Then slowly but surely he saw it all, and I thought he would never have done laughing.
'Breakfast is getting cold,' said Oswald.
'So it is,' said our guest. 'Lordy, what a go! This'll be something to talk about between friends for many a year.'
'No,' said Alice suddenly; 'we thought you were a runaway thief, and we wanted to help you whatever you were.' She pointed to the sofa, where the whole costume of the untrue aunt was lying in simple completeness. 'And you're in honour bound never to tell a soul. Think,' she added in persuading tones--'think of the cold bacon and the cheese, and all those pickles you had, and the fire and the cocoa, and us being up all night, and the dry all-wool boots.'