“It is hard to say. Lost, or dropped, or stolen, I am not sure which. But robbed of her clothing certainly.” “Well, don’t stand there in the hall. Come in here, Mr. William, and sit down and tell me all about it. Where is the child?” Annie inquired. Harcourt went into the room, took the chair she offered, sat down and said: “The child is in my apartment. I think she must have been stolen for blackmailing, or other evil purposes, from a country house away down South in Maryland, and brought to New York! then ran away from her abductor and lost herself in this city, was picked up by a female thief, beguiled into some den, robbed of her clothing and abandoned in these streets. There, that is my theory; but I am not sure it is the correct one.” “Poor little thing! What can I do for her? I will do anything in the world. Do you want me to take care of her while you go and inform the police?” inquired the gentle woman, in a tone of ready sympathy and helpfulness. Harcourt hesitated. Then: “I never once thought of the police,” he said, slowly. And, after a thoughtful pause: “No,” he said, “I do not think I shall trouble the police with this child’s care; at least not just yet a while. The fact is, Annie, that I have strong reasons for believing that this girl is the protégée of a Southern lady whom I once knew. And I hope to be able to restore the child to her without the unpleasant publicity which an application to the police would involve.” “Yes?” said his neighbor, interrogatively. “Yes. But you see there are difficulties. I am not quite sure of the truth of my theory. The child is, besides, very young, ignorant, and mentally confused. She cannot give a clear account of herself, at least in answer to my own questions; but, then, I am not used to children, do not know how to question them, least of all do I know how to cross-examine them.” Harcourt hesitated, in perplexity. “What do you wish me to do, Mr. William? Indeed, I should be very glad to be of any use at all in this case. I have so little opportunity of doing any good,” said the seamstress, earnestly. “I wanted you—but I am afraid it will take up too much of your time—to have this little waif in here with you to-day, while I shall be away to my day’s work, and to draw from her, as you women know so well how to do, the whole truth about herself and her friends, and the manner in which she was separated from them.” “I will take her in with pleasure. And I will do my very best by her,” heartily responded the seamstress. “Thank you, Annie. I thank you very much. This is for the child,” he said, as he drew a two-dollar note from his pocket and handed it to her. It was the last money he had, with the exception of some small silver change, or that he would have until he should be paid off at the end of the current week. “What is this for?” Annie inquired, as she received the note.