I found the grandmother, an ancient Spanish dame, and with the aid of a five-year-old neighbor learned that she was treasuring six, to her unreadable, communications from Bellevue. Five of these were black-bordered, and announced the death of her daughter and four of that daughter’s children. Francisco was the only member of her daughter’s family left. “But your daughter’s husband, Francisco’s father, what has become of him?” I asked. When this was translated to her she shrugged her shoulders. When I asked my five-year-old interpreter what the old woman’s shrug meant I received another shrug for my pains. Near my wits’ end I hit on the plan of taking both ancient dame and interpreter to the bake-shop on the street floor of the house. “Sure, I can speak to ’em,” the young Russian woman behind the counter assured me. “I speak ten languages and about as many gibberishes.” Through this woman I learned that Francisco’s father had gone to work the same as usual one day about two weeks back, and had never again been heard from. He was a baker’s helper, that everybody knew, but not one of them could tell, or even make a guess, where he worked. Only one of his children had been taken to the hospital before he disappeared. Again that shrug. The next instant there came a wild jumble of sounds. As ignorant as I was of Spanish I recognized that the old woman who was filling the door of the bake-shop was cursing that other old woman, Francisco’s grandmother. It was the other grandmother, the mother of Francisco’s father. She called down vengeance from heaven to punish the detractors of her son. He had not left home, deserted his family because a new baby was expected, nor because his eldest boy had been taken to Bellevue and the other children were ailing. Then wringing her hands she bewailed the loss of her son; she had worked, she had brought him to America, and now he had been murdered by some unknown enemy. How was she to find her boy? This last wail being directed to me, the only American in the crowd of about one hundred collected about the entrance of the bake-shop, I asked the Russian woman to tell her about Francisco. On being made to understand she snatched the handful of Bellevue notices from the fingers of her son’s mother-in-law. Though a poor woman with no money in bank, she hurled back at her rival, she would take care of her own flesh and blood, she would go at once for Francisco. Without the formality of getting either hat or coat she boarded the next surface-car. On returning to Bellevue I learned that Francisco had been turned over to his grandmother. Writing out a history of the case I marked it closed. Some ten days later, between eight and nine o’clock of an evening, there walked into the reception-room of the social service department a man so thin and pale that but for the blackness of his clothes and the brown of his hair he might have been almost invisible. He asked to see his wife and four children, all in Bellevue.