But Cyril and Anthea exchanged gloomy glances. They remembered how convincing the truth about the Psammead had been once before when told to the police. It was a day of misfortunes. Of course the Psammead could not be found. Nor the jewels, though every one of the children searched the mother's room again and again. "Of course," Robert said, "_we_ couldn't find them. It'll be mother who'll do that. Perhaps she'll think they've been in the house for years and years, and never know they are the stolen ones at all." "Oh yes!" Cyril was very scornful; "then mother will be a receiver of stolen goods, and you know jolly well what _that's_ worse than." Another and exhaustive search of the sand-pit failed to reveal the Psammead, so the children went back to the house slowly and sadly. "I don't care," said Anthea stoutly, "we'll tell mother the truth, and she'll give back the jewels--and make everything all right." "Do you think so?" said Cyril slowly. "Do you think she'll believe us? Could anyone believe about a Sammyadd unless they'd seen it? She'll think we're pretending. Or else she'll think we're raving mad, and then we shall be sent to the mad-house. How would you like it?"--he turned suddenly on the miserable Jane,--"how would you like it, to be shut up in an iron cage with bars and padded walls, and nothing to do but stick straws in your hair all day, and listen to the howlings and ravings of the other maniacs? Make up your minds to it, all of you. It's no use telling mother." "But it's true," said Jane. "Of course it is, but it's not true enough for grown-up people to believe it," said Anthea. "Cyril's right. Let's put flowers in all the vases, and try not to think about the diamonds. After all, everything has come right in the end all the other times." So they filled all the pots they could find with flowers--asters and zinnias, and loose-leaved late red roses from the wall of the stableyard, till the house was a perfect bower. And almost as soon as dinner was cleared away mother arrived, and was clasped in eight loving arms. It was very difficult indeed not to tell her all about the Psammead at once, because they had got into the habit of telling her everything. But they did succeed in not telling her. [Illustration: She was clasped in eight loving arms] Mother, on her side, had plenty to tell them--about Granny, and Granny's pigeons, and Auntie Emma's lame tame donkey. She was very delighted with the flowery-boweryness of the house; and everything seemed so natural and pleasant, now that she was home again, that the children almost thought they must have dreamed the Psammead. But, when mother moved towards the stairs to go up to her bedroom and take off her bonnet, the eight arms clung round her just as if she only had two children, one the Lamb and the other an octopus. "Don't go up, mummy darling," said Anthea; "let me take your things up for you." "Or I will," said Cyril.