No sooner had the two men passed through the doorway than the newsboy, pulling his tattered felt hat low down over his eyes, quietly crossed the street, entered the house himself, and crept silently after them up the rickety stairs, just in time to see Detective Cutts, the man paid by the City for the detection of crime, and Mr. Elijah Callister, the pious brother of the Tenth Baptist Church, disappear within the rear room on the second landing of the tenement, the door of which was immediately closed. Then Jerry Buck, giving utterance to a peculiar chuckle, slipped past the door, mounted still another pair of stairs and tapped lightly upon the panels of the door of the room immediately above. It was presently opened, and a woman's head and shoulders thrust out into the hall. "Is that you, Jerry?" "Yes, missus, it's me." The door was softly opened wide and closed again, the boy slipping into the room. "Them fellers meets down-stairs again to-night, missus. They means business this time, and no mistake." "Is he there?" asked the woman. "You bet! Didn't I jest see him go in! I've been a-layin' for him, a-followin' of him since five o'clock. Cutts the detective is with him, too." "You are a good boy, Jerry," said the woman, tears springing to her eyes. "God will reward you for what you've done for me." "Do you think so, missus? 'Twan't much, after all. When I seed you a-tryin' to jump inter the river I stopped you. When you told me yer troubles, an' how that old mean snide, Callister, had robbed your husband and killed him, an' how he had treated you an' was a-tryin' to treat yer boy, why I jest took a-holt an' helped yer, an' the rest has come about of itself." For reply, the woman stroked the boy's tumbled hair, and then, as if moved by some sudden impulse, stooped and kissed him. "Looka here!" exclaimed Jerry, half pleased, half ashamed. "I never had no one do that to me before, but then you seem somehow jest as though you were my own mother, so I suppose it's all right." "And you never knew your mother?" asked the woman, regarding the boy with a wistful air. She was a person who had evidently seen much sorrow. Tall and thin, with gray hair tied tightly in a knot behind her head, poorly but respectably dressed, there was about her an unmistakable air of refinement, indicative of quite a different position in life from the one in which we now find her. For surely the carpetless room, cheap table and chairs, the little stove and scanty display of common dishes through the half open closet door were indicative of anything but plenty and comfort, to say the least. But they were miles and miles ahead of anything Jerry Buck was accustomed to, and he regarded them with an almost respectful air, as he replied: "No, missus, I never had no father nor mother as I remember. I've always lived about the streets." "But you must have some early remembrances," continued the woman. "Can't you tell me what they are?"