A dissolute-appearing old woman was scrubbing the ancient stone steps in one place across the way. She suggested better days just as obviously as did the stones, worn away by generations of feet. And a little farther along there were glaring plate-glass fronts bearing gilt legends which fairly shrieked those commercial words--which ought to have been whispered from side doors, Baron thought--Shoes, and Cloaks, and Hats. What sort of a vicinity was this in which to have a home? Baron wondered why the question had not occurred to him before. He did not realize that he was viewing the street now for the first time through the eyes of a child who owed the neighborhood no sort of sentimental loyalty. “Here we are!” he exclaimed as he produced his key; but his tone was by no means as cheerful as he tried to make it. Bonnie May hung back an instant, as a butterfly might pause at the entrance of a dark wood. She glanced into the dark vestibule before her inquiringly. Her eyebrows were critically elevated. “Is it a--a rooming-house?” she faltered. “Nonsense! It’s always been called a mansion. It’s a charming old place, too--I assure you! Come, we ought not to stand here.” He was irritated. More so than he had been before when his companion’s look or word had served as a reminder that he was doing an extraordinary, if not a foolish, thing. He would not have admitted it, but he was nervous, too. His mother hadn’t been at all amiable of late. There wasn’t any telling what she would do when he said to her, in effect: “Here’s a lost child. I don’t know anything at all about her, but I expect you to help her.” Suppose she should decide to express her frank opinion of waifs, and of people who brought them home? He fumbled a little as he unlocked the door. His heart was fairly pounding. “There you are!” he exclaimed. His voice was as gayly hospitable as he could make it, but his secret thought was: “If she weren’t so--so--Oh, darn it, if she were like any other child I’d shut her out this minute and let that be the end of it.” The hall was shadowy; yet even in the dim light Baron perceived that the marble balustrade of the stairway was strangely cold and unattractive--and he had always considered this one of the fine things about the house. So, too, was the drawing-room gloomy almost to darkness. The blinds were down as always, save on special occasions. And Baron realized that the family had long ago ceased to care about looking out upon the street, or to permit the street to get a glimpse of the life within. Indeed, he realized with a bit of a shock that the home life had been almost entirely removed to the upper floor--as if the premises were being submerged by a flood. He lifted one of the blinds. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll find mother.” “What do you use this room for?” inquired Bonnie May. She was slightly pale. She seemed to be fortifying herself for weird developments.