Suddenly a whole new realm seemed to open before him, but it was shrouded in darkness. And that little figure at his side with large, sober, searching eyes fixed calmly on him was quietly demanding his knowledge and waiting for his answer. He had passed hundreds of windows crowded with Christmas presents that very evening and had never looked at one. He had passed as between blank walls. What would he not have given now for but the least memory of one glance! But the eyes were waiting and he must answer. "Why--ah--you know,--ah--_toys!_" It was an inspiration and Livingstone shook himself with self-approval. "Yes--ah--TOYS! you know?" he repeated. He glowed with satisfaction over his escape. The announcement, however, did not appear to astonish his companion as much as he felt it should have done. She did not even take her eyes from his face. "How many children are there?" "Why--twenty." Livingston caught at a number, as a sinking man catches at a twig. As she accepted this, Livingstone was conscious of elation. He felt as though he were playing a game and had escaped the ignominy of a wrong answer: he had caught a bough and it held him. "How old are they?" Livingstone gasped. The little ogress! Was she just trifling with him? Could it be possible that she saw through him? As he looked down at her the eyes fastened on him were as calm as a dove's eyes. "Why--ah--. How many brothers and sisters have you?" he asked. He wished to create a diversion and gain time. She answered promptly. "Seven: four sisters and three brothers. John, he's my oldest brother; Tom, he's next--he's eight. Billy is the baby." This contribution of family history was a relief, and Livingstone was just trying to think of something else to say, when she demanded again, "What are the ages of your children?" "I have no children," said Livingstone, thinking how clever he was to be so ready with an answer. "I know.--But I mean the children you want the toys for?" Livingstone felt for his handkerchief. The perspiration was beginning to come on his brow. "Why,--ah--the same ages as your brothers and sisters--about," he said desperately, feeling that he was at the end of his resources and would be discovered by the next question. "We will go to Brown's," said the child quietly, and, dropping her eyes, she settled herself back in the furs as though the problem were definitely solved. CHAPTER XII Livingstone glanced at the little figure beside him, hoping she would indicate where "Brown's" was, but she did not. Every one must know "Brown's." The only "Brown" Livingstone knew was the great banker, and a grim smile flickered on his cheek at the thought of the toys in which that Brown dealt. He shifted the responsibility to the driver. "Driver, go to Brown's. You know where it is?" "Well, no, sir, I don't believe I do. Which Brown do you mean, sir?" "Why--ah--the toy-man's, of course."