She knew that it would not be proper to start the child on a railway journey with a gentleman—and Annie had never been misled into any mistake as to “Mr. William’s” real social position—in a pink calico frock and a white apron, and so she extinguished Owlet’s fiery plumage under a little brown coat, more suitable to a little bird of wisdom, and for which she had paid sixty cents at that convenient corner store for which she worked. She put a brown ribbon of the same shade of the coat on the little straw hat, in place of the blue band, put a pair of ten-cent brown gloves on the tiny hands, and a five-cent handkerchief in the little pocket, with—which was an injudicious put—a penny roll of peppermint lozenges. Last of all, she folded up a paper of sandwiches for luncheon, and gave them to Owlet, charging her to hand them over to Mr. William when they should have taken their seats in the car. “And now you are all equipped for your travels, little mite, and may the Lord have you in his care,” said Annie, just as Harcourt entered the room, valise in hand. He did not notice Owlet’s traveling dress, much less compute its cost, or ask himself where the cash had come from that paid for it. He was as ignorant of all such knowledge as the child was. And Owlet herself must have been surprised had she suddenly discovered how little of common sense was possessed either by herself or her protector on this subject. Childlike, she took all this for granted. Harcourt’s mind was burdened by heavier matters. He bade good-by to Annie with emotion that she could not understand. She did not know, as he did, that this was probably, almost certainly, their final parting. And in this he had still only the one poor consolation—that when she should read in the newspapers of the conscience-stricken criminal who had given himself up to justice she would never think of connecting him with her sometime neighbor. After this sad leave taking Harcourt led his little protégé out of the house and to the foot of Cortlandt Street, which was not far off. They boarded the ferryboat as it was about to start. “Do you remember ever having crossed this water before?” inquired Harcourt as the boat steamed away from the pier. “No,” Owlet answered. “Yet you must have crossed this water when you came to this city.” “Must I?” “Of course.” “Well, then, I must have crossed it while I was dead. I went dead several times while—while I was with him.” “Him? Who?” “The man who took me away from Lady and Ducky Darling.” “Who was that man, my dear?” “Oh, I don’t know; but Lady wouldn’t let him come in, and he wouldn’t go away, and Pompous Pirate set the dog on him—Tiger, you know.” Harcourt knew perfectly well; and if he ever had had a doubt as to the identity of the child’s abductor that doubt was set at rest now. He also understood what Owlet meant by going dead, and by what means the child stealer had managed to quiet her at intervals during their journey.