“In Washington!” echoed Harcourt, as his heart bounded and sank at the thought that his loved and lost Roma was now so close within his reach, yet so unapproachable—forever unapproachable by him. “Yes. She arrived here by the late train from the West last night. She was on her way when I answered your telegram, which was the reason why I could not communicate with her. She is en route for the Isle of Storms, which she is turning into a sanitorium for destitute invalids and children. She leaves to-morrow by the early boat for the Isle. So, if you feel inclined to try the experiment, you had better take the child to her this evening. You will find her at her old quarters, the Wesleyan Flats, in the northwestern suburbs of the city.” Harcourt had not been able to put in a word until now. “Ah!” he sighed, “I have not time. My train leaves at seven, and it is now after six. I dare not miss a train while my mother lies at the point of death. No—nor to tell the bitter truth—dare I present myself to Miss Fronde.” The lawyer suddenly looked grave and stern again. Harcourt perceived his change of mood, and said, with a sigh: “I feel and know in what a dark aspect I must appear to you, Mr. Merritt, but wait only for a few days longer and you will know and understand all.” “Mystery is humbug, sir,” said the lawyer roughly. “It is more than that, in some cases, Mr. Merritt—it is guilt, remorse and shame,” said the young man, in a tone of such deep despair that the old lawyer was startled. “But let that pass for the moment,” he added. “This child—does Miss Fronde know that she has been found?” “No. I only saw her last night, when I met her by appointment, at the depot, and took her to the Wesleyan. I would not trouble her then with news that might have broken her night’s rest. For reasons that it is not necessary to go into now she thought Owlet was in proper hands, and was, in a measure, at ease on her account. If, however, I had told her that the child had been lost and found in the city of New York she would have been very much distressed, especially as she could not have then interfered; but since the child is here again, and without her agency, she may receive her; and I am inclined to think she will do so. I have not seen Miss Fronde to-day, but I have an engagement to dine with her at the Flats this evening at half-past seven.” “Then, Mr. Merritt, as it is impossible for me to approach Miss Fronde, and be the happy medium of restoring the lost one, will it be too much for me to ask of you to do this gracious service to the orphan and her benefactress?” Harcourt pleaded. “Of course I will take the child to Miss Fronde. Where is she?” inquired the lawyer, looking around as if he expected to find her perched upon some chair. “In the front room. I will go and bring her in, if you will permit me.” “Certainly. Go, and bring her.”