“Ay, they’re sharp enough, and pretty spoken too,” said Diana.

“Sharp and pretty spoken,” echoed Mick.

“Then I’m your man,” said the Signor; “I’ll——­”

But the girl interrupted him.

“There’s one thing to be said,” she began.  “You must not think of letting them be seen hereabouts.  You might get yourself and us too into trouble.  It’s too near where they come from.”

The Signor held up his hands warningly.

“Hush,” he said, “I don’t want to know nothing of all that.  They’re two desolate orphans, picked up by you out of charity, and I take them to teach them a way of gaining a livelihood.  That’s all about it.”

“Well, all the same, you can do nothing with them hereabouts,” repeated Diana, anxious to gain time to put into execution the plans of escape.  “You’d better leave them here quietly with us till after the fair.  No one shall see them except those who’ve seen them already.”

They were in the outer half of the van by now, for Diana, afraid of disturbing the children, had drawn back with the light, and the Signor had followed her.

At her last speech he turned upon her with sudden and angry suspicion.

“No, no,” he said.  “I’ll have no tricks served me.  Have you been putting your handsome sister up to this, Mick, you fool?  You promised me the brats at once.”

“Yes, at once.  You shall have them at once when you pay me,” said Mick, beginning to get angry in turn, “but not before.  I don’t want to keep them—­not I; they’re the pest of my life, they are, but I’ll see my money or you shall never set eyes on them again.”

And he looked so stolidly obstinate that the other man glanced at Diana as if for advice.

“You’d better have left him alone,” she said in a low voice, contemptuously.  “If you make him angry now he’s not sober, there’s no saying what he’ll do.”

The Signor began to be really afraid that his prey might slip through his hands.  He turned to Diana.

“I’m one for quick work and no shilly-shallying,” he said.  “And I have Mick’s word for it.  He’s signed a paper.  I’ll take care to get myself and you into no trouble, but I must have the children at once.  Now listen, Mick.  I’ll be here to-morrow morning at say eight—­well, nine o’clock, with the money.  And you must have the children ready—­and help me to take ’em off quietly, or—­or—­I don’t want no bother,” he added meaningly.

“All right,” said Mick; “they’ll be ready,” and he followed the Signor down the steps of the van, Diana still holding the light.

“Nine o’clock,” said the Signor once more, as if he depended more on the girl than on the man.

“At nine o’clock,” she repeated, and she stood there till quite sure that the Signor had taken himself off, and that Mick had no intention of returning.

Then she blew out the light and crept softly in and out among the vans, tethered horses, etc., forming the gipsy caravan, till she came to the waggon where she knew Tim slept.  He was wide awake, expecting her, and in answer to her whispered call said nothing till they had got some yards away.