"What the ---- do I know about his granddaughter!" cried Wickersham. "That is for you to say. He swears that he will kill you unless you produce her. He is on his way here now, and I have hurried ahead to warn you." Wickersham's face, already pale, grew as white as death, for he read conviction in Keith's tone. With an oath he turned to a bell and rang it. "Ring for a cab for me at once," he said to the clerk who appeared. "Have it at my side entrance." As Keith passed out he heard him say to the clerk: "Tell any one who calls I have left town. I won't see a soul." A little later an old man entered Wickersham & Company's office and demanded to see F.C. Wickersham. There was a flurry among the men there, for they all knew that something unusual had occurred; and there was that about the massive, grim old man, with his fierce eyes, that demanded attention. On learning that Wickersham was not in, he said he would wait for him and started to take a seat. There was a whispered colloquy between two clerks, and then one of them told him that Mr. Wickersham was not in the city. He had been called away from town the day before, and would be gone for a month or two. Would the visitor leave his name? "Tell him Adam Rawson has been to see him, and that he will come again." He paused a moment, then said slowly: "Tell him I'm huntin' for him and I'm goin' to stay here till I find him." He walked slowly out, followed by the eyes of every man in the office. The squire spent his time between watching for Wickersham and hunting for his granddaughter. He would roam about the streets and inquire for her of policemen and strangers, quite as if New York were a small village like Ridgely instead of a great hive in which hundreds of thousands were swarming, their identity hardly known to any but themselves. Most of those to whom he applied treated him as a harmless old lunatic. But he was not always so fortunate. One night, when he was tired out with tramping the streets, he wandered into one of the parks and sat down on a bench, where he finally fell asleep. He was awakened by some one feeling in his pocket. He had just been dreaming that Phrony had found him and hail sat down beside him and was fondling him, and when he first came back to consciousness her name was on his lips. He still thought it was she who sat beside him, and he called her by name, "Phrony." The girl, a poor, painted, bedizened creature, was quick enough to answer to the name. "I am Phrony; go to sleep again." The joy of getting back his lost one aroused the old man, and he sat up with an exclamation of delight. The next second, at sight of the strange, painted face, he recoiled. "You Phrony?" "Yes. Don't you know me?" She snuggled closer beside him, and worked quietly at his big watch, which somehow had caught in his tight vest pocket. "No, you ain't! Who are you, girl? What are you doin'?"