"No, it's a directory," Maria replied, in a dull voice. "What do they keep it chained for? Books don't run away." "I suppose they are afraid folks will steal it." "My!" said Gladys, eying the big volume. "I don't see what on earth they'd do with it when they got it stole," she remarked, in a low, reflective voice. Maria leaned against the counter and waited. Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air. "I can't find any George B. here," he said. "You are sure it was B?" "Yes," replied Maria. "Well, there's no use," said Wollaston. "There is no George B. Edison in this book, anyhow." He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed absently at the crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them both. "Well," said Gladys, presently, "you ain't goin' to stand here all night, be you? What be you goin' to do next? Go to the police-station?" "I don't see that there is any use," replied Wollaston. "Maria's father must have been there by this time. This is a wild-goose chase anyhow." Wollaston's tone was quite vicious. He scowled superciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if he wanted anything. "No, we don't, thank you," he said. "What be you goin' to do?" asked Gladys, again. She looked at the soda-fountain. "I don't see anything to do but to go home," said Wollaston. "There is no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I can see." "You can't go home to-night, anyhow," Gladys said, quite calmly. "They've took off that last train, and there ain't more'n ten minutes to git down to the station." Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror. "What makes you think they've taken off that last train?" he demanded. "Ain't my pa brakeman when he's sober, and he's been real sober for quite a spell now." Wollaston seized Maria by the arm. "Come, quick!" he said, and leaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the Elevated, with Gladys following. "There ain't no use in your runnin'," said she. "You know yourself you can't git down to Cortlandt Street, and walk to the ferry in ten minutes. I never went but oncet, but I know it can't be did." Wollaston slackened his pace. "That is so," he said. Then he looked at Maria in a kind of angry despair. He felt, in spite of his romantic predilection for her, that he wished she were a boy, so he could say something forcible. He realized his utter helplessness with these two girls in a city where he knew no one, and he again thought of the three dollars in his pocket-book. He did not suppose that Maria had more than fifty cents in hers. Then, too, he was worldly wise enough to realize the difficulty of the situation, the possible danger even. It was ten o'clock at night, and here he was with two young girls to look out for.