I was bitterly disappointed in that girl, Mag! I was altogether mistaken in my diagnosis of her. Hers is only a physical cleverness, a talented dexterity. She had no resource in time of danger but her legs. And legs will not carry a grafter half so far as a good, quick tongue and a steady head. She halted at a safe distance and glared back at me. Her hostility excited the crowd of children--her push--against me, and the braver ones jeered the things Kitty only looked, while the thrifty ones stooped and gathered up the spoil. "Tell her I wouldn't harm her," I said to one of her lieutenants. "She says she won't hurt ye, Kit," the child screamed. "She dassent," yelled back Kitty, the valiant. "She knows I'd peach on her about the kid." "Kid! What kid?" I cried, all a-fire. "The kid ye swiped this mornin'. Yah! I told the cop what brought her back how ye took her jest as I--" "Kitty!" I cried. "You treasure!" And with all my might I ran after her. Silly? Of course it was. I might have known what the short skirts above those thin legs meant. I couldn't come within fifty feet of her. I halted, panting, and she paused, too, dancing tantalizingly half a block away. What to do? I wished I had another purse to bestow on that sad Kitty, but I had nothing, absolutely nothing, except--all at once I remembered it--that little pin you gave me for Christmas, Mag. I took it off and turned to appeal to the nearest one of the flying body-guard that had accompanied us. "You run on to her and tell her that if she'll show me the house where that baby lives I'll give her this pin." He sped on ahead and parleyed with Kit; and while they talked I held aloft the little pin so that Kit might see the price. She hesitated so long that I feared she'd slip through my hands, but a sudden rival voice piping out, "I'll show ye the house, Missus," was too much for her. So, with Kit at a safe distance in advance to guard against treachery, and a large and enthusiastic following, I crossed the street, turned a corner, walked down one block and half up another, and halted before a three-story brownstone. I flew up the stairs, leaving my escort behind, and rang the bell. It wasn't so terribly swagger a place, which relieved me some. "I want to see the lady whose baby was lost this morning," I said to the maid that opened the door. "Yes'm. Who'll I tell her?" Who? That stumped me. Not Nance Olden, late of the Vaudeville, later of the Van Twiller, and latest of the police station. No--not Nance Olden ... not ... "Tell her, please," I said firmly, "that I'm Miss Murieson, of the X-Ray, and that the city editor has sent me here to see her." That did it. Hooray for the power of the press! She showed me into a long parlor, and I sat down and waited. It was cool and quiet and softly pretty in that long parlor. The shades were down, the piano was open, the chairs were low and softly cushioned. I leaned back and closed my eyes, exhausted.