He put the child down on the sidewalk; she was really a good deal above the weight of those children who are usually carried. A few steps and they had reached a confectioner’s shop, in which women and children were sitting at little tables, oblivious to all menaces, far or near. “Let’s go in here,” he said, trying to assume a matter-of-fact tone. The child looked searchingly into his eyes. “What was it?” she asked. “What was what?” “Don’t!” she exclaimed with impatience. And then she looked up and down the street, where the constant stream of strangers passed. She felt forlorn, alone. She turned again to Baron as to a final refuge. “I behaved myself,” she said. “I didn’t wait to ask what was the matter--I didn’t say a word. But I knew something had happened. I could hear your heart beating. I knew it was something terrible. But you could tell me now!” Baron guided her to a chair and released her with a feeling of relief. His impulse was to take his departure and let the incident end as it might. But that wouldn’t do, certainly! What would the confectioner do with the child? Besides, there was something about her---- Through the fitful symphony of the city’s noises the clang of an alarm-bell sounded. The child lifted her head; her eyes became wide with excitement. “There’s a fire!” she exclaimed. “Yes,” admitted Baron. “It’s in the theatre. I thought we ought to come out, though of course it may not amount to anything. We’ll wait here until the excitement is over, and then we’ll go out and find your----” He did not finish the sentence. He realized that he did not know how. Instead he turned to a clerk and ordered something--he scarcely knew what. He was listening to those noises out in the street; he was noting, soon with great relief, that they were abating rapidly. Clearly there had been no real danger, after all. He led his charge from the place presently. He noticed that she had not touched a little dish of something the clerk had set before her. On the street again he was surprised to perceive that the normal activities of the neighborhood had been resumed. The audience in the theatre had been dismissed upon some pretext of a nature not at all terrifying. The fire had been extinguished. The lobby was deserted. No one was searching or waiting for a little girl, or seemed to be remotely interested in one. “Strange!” reflected Baron. He was wholly outside the realm of make-believe now. He was amid painfully prosaic surroundings. He turned to his companion. “Er--your name has escaped me for the minute----” “Bonnie May.” “Of course. Well, Bonnie May, I think I’ll have to take you home.” “Whose home--yours?” she asked. “Good gracious, no! To your own!” She peered into the lobby searchingly, the light slowly fading from her eyes. “But I haven’t any home,” she said. CHAPTER II A MOMENTOUS DECISION