Uncle Felix, upon
whom fell the burden of rescue or defence, sat there with a curious
look upon his face. For a moment it seemed he knew not what to do.
The Policeman, approaching still nearer to the tarpaulin, glared at
him.
"You're an accessory," he said sternly, "both before and after the
fact."
"I didn't say he _wasn't_ there."
"You didn't say he _was_," was the severe retort. It was unanswerable.
"He'll hang by the neck till he's dead," thought Tim, "and afterwards
they'll bury the body in a lime-kiln so that even his family can't
visit the grave." He looked wildly about him, thinking of possible
ways of escape he had read or heard about, and his eye fell upon his
sister Judy.
Now Judy was a queer, original maid. She believed everything in the
world. She believed not only what was told her but also what she
thought. And among other things she believed herself to be very
beautiful, though in reality she was the ugly duckling of the brood.
"All God has made is beautiful," Aunt Emily had once reproved her,
and, since God had made everything, everything must be beautiful. It
was. God had made her too, therefore she was simply lovely.
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