“Well, I'd be glad to let you see them,” she said at last, “but the fact is we haven't them. I do hope we haven't made some mistake. I was thoroughly convinced, and so was the superintendent. We let his people take those things away yesterday. Who are you, and what do you want with them?” The Angel stood dazed and speechless, staring at the matron. “There couldn't have been a mistake,” continued the matron, seeing the Angel's distress. “Freckles was here when I took charge, ten years ago. These people had it all proved that he belonged to them. They had him traced to where he ran away in Illinois last fall, and there they completely lost track of him. I'm sorry you seem so disappointed, but it is all right. The man is his uncle, and as like the boy as he possibly could be. He is almost killed to go back without him. If you know where Freckles is, they'd give big money to find out.” The Angel laid a hand along each cheek to steady her chattering teeth. “Who are they?” she stammered. “Where are they going?” “They are Irish folks, miss,” said the matron. “They have been in Chicago and over the country for the past three months, hunting him everywhere. They have given up, and are starting home today. They----” “Did they leave an address? Where could I find them?” interrupted the Angel. “They left a card, and I notice the morning paper has the man's picture and is full of them. They've advertised a great deal in the city papers. It's a wonder you haven't seen something.” “Trains don't run right. We never get Chicago papers,” said the Angel. “Please give me that card quickly. They may escape me. I simply must catch them!” The matron hurried to the secretary and came back with a card. “Their addresses are there,” she said. “Both in Chicago and at their home. They made them full and plain, and I was to cable at once if I got the least clue of him at any time. If they've left the city, you can stop them in New York. You're sure to catch them before they sail--if you hurry.” The matron caught up a paper and thrust it into the Angel's hand as she ran to the street. The Angel glanced at the card. The Chicago address was Suite Eleven, Auditorium. She laid her hand on her driver's sleeve and looked into his eyes. “There is a fast-driving limit?” she asked. “Yes, miss.” “Will you crowd it all you can without danger of arrest? I will pay well. I must catch some people!” Then she smiled at him. The hospital, an Orphans' Home, and the Auditorium seemed a queer combination to that driver, but the Angel was always and everywhere the Angel, and her methods were strictly her own. “I will take you there as quickly as any man could with a team,” he said promptly. The Angel clung to the card and paper, and as best she could in the lurching, swaying cab, read the addresses over. “O'More, Suite Eleven, Auditorium.”