“Nobody has claimed her! She’s going to stay!” were the words that formed themselves in Baron’s mind. The dull, monotonous aspects of the old mansion were to be changed. A new voice, like a melody rising above droning chords, was to greet his ears at morning and night. A thing of beauty was to take its place before the background of dull, long-established things. No one had come to Thornburg to demand of him the child who had disappeared from his premises--Baron could read as much in the manager’s expression. Wonderful! Truly wonderful! “You haven’t had any word yet?” he began. Thornburg was used to Baron’s ways. He had a friendly contempt for the dilettante young man about town and newspaper writer who could have made a place for himself, as everybody agreed, if he had chosen to do so, but who indulged himself by following his own ill-directed bent, merely because he was--well, because he was Baron--or _a_ Baron. “Not a word,” he replied, smiling indulgently, as if the matter were really not at all surprising. Baron read the other’s thought. “But a child like that!” he exclaimed. “People are sometimes strange,” said Thornburg. “Now, if she had been a trained dog, or a cat with an unusual pedigree, or a horse with power to draw loads--then she would have been hunted up quick enough. But you see, she’s only a child.” Baron shook his head. He was rejecting all this as inadequate. “She’s still with you?” continued the manager. “Yes. I’m hoping she’ll remain with us.” “She like it there?” “Like it?” echoed Baron. He couldn’t answer the question. He thought of something more pertinent to say. “It means that she will have a home--if we can keep her.” Thornburg nodded slowly. “I don’t think anything better could happen to her than for you to keep her,” he said. “I suppose she’ll get the kind of care a little girl of her kind needs. If she’s just a waif of the theatre she probably has a lot to learn about--oh, about life and real things.” “Very likely,” Baron agreed. He added: “I was hoping you might throw some light on the case--as to who she is and where she came from.” Thornburg shook his head. “No, I couldn’t,” he said. “About her coming to the theatre----” “A woman brought her to the theatre and asked to be admitted. She belonged to the profession--the woman. We usually pass them in if there’s any room. There happened to be just one seat left down-stairs--in the back row--and I told her she could have that. I supposed she would hold the little girl on her lap. I was provoked when I saw she had let her wander up into the box where you were. In fact, I spoke to her about it.” “And you don’t know who the woman was--even by reputation?” “Oh, there are thousands of such people--people who are ‘of the profession.’ Vaudeville people, circus performers, members of little stock companies, third-rate travelling troupes--they all ask for free seats.”