Such was Penrod's instinct, and thus loyally he had followed it.
. . . He was dragged into the library, expecting anything
whatever. The dreadful phrases of the newspaper item rang through
his head like the gongs of delirium: "Police headquarters!" "Work
of a negro!" "King of France!" "Valued at about twelve hundred
and fifty dollars!"
Eighty-five dollars had dismayed him; twelve hundred and fifty
was unthinkable. Nightmares were coming to life before his eyes.
But a light broke slowly; it came first to Mr. and Mrs.
Schofield, and it was they who illuminated Penrod. Slowly,
slowly, as they spoke more and more pleasantly to him, it began
to dawn upon him that this trouble was all Roddy's.
And when Mr. Schofield went to take the horn to the house of Mr.
Ethelbert Magsworth Bitts, Penrod sat quietly with his mother.
Mr. Schofield was gone an hour and a half. Upon his solemn return
he reported that Roddy's father had been summoned by telephone to
bring his son to the house of Uncle Ethelbert. Mr. Bitts had
forthwith appeared with Roddy, and, when Mr. Schofield came away,
Roddy was still (after half an hour's previous efforts)
explaining his honourable intentions.
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