“If I was only well enough to look for work, too,” Dollie would say every day, but, in spite of Marion’s care she was still weak and ailing. One night, when the winds were biting and the sky was laden with chilly mist, Marion was hurrying home from another day of fruitless searching. A carriage passed her with its lanterns glowing brightly, and, as Marion gave a sharp glance into the vehicle, she saw her aunt and uncle leaning back in the cushions. “Oh, this is horrible! horrible!” she whispered to herself. “They are fairly rolling in wealth, while their own nieces are starving.” She turned into a side street and hurried along. Right in the middle of a dark block two men confronted her. “Ha! So I have met you again, my beauty,” said a hateful voice which Marion recognized instantly. It was the man who had accosted her once before in a similar manner. “You’re just the girl we were hoping to meet. Come on, little sweetheart, and we’ll treat you royally.” There was not a person to be seen in the block, and the long rows of houses looked dark and gloomy. Marion gave a quick glance around and then uttered a shrill cry as she felt the man’s hand fall familiarly on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare to touch me, you scoundrel!” she almost screamed. “Oh, why is it that such a ruffian is not in prison?” “I’ll tell you why, if you’re dead anxious to know,” said the other man, chuckling. “Our friend here is too slippery, the police can’t catch him.” “Well, if he touches me again I’ll scream so that every officer in New York will hear me,” said Marion, boldly, then she suddenly stopped short and stared at the fellow. “Oh, I guess you won’t do so very much screaming, my beauty,” was the sneering answer. Marion had walked on slowly with the two men close beside her, and just as they reached a particularly gloomy-looking house the last speaker clapped his hand suddenly over her mouth, while he threw the other arm in a strong grip around her shoulders. “Quick! Drag her into the areaway,” ordered the other fellow in a low voice. “I have a key to the basement, and the house is empty.” As Marion heard the words she realized in an instant what the villain meant. She was at their mercy. The thought made her desperate. In the same instant it flashed across her mind who the half-drunken fellow was. It was Emile Vorse. She knew him in spite of his disguise—for was he not the man of all men whom she had cause to remember? With one fearful effort she wrenched his hand from her face and gave a cry for help that fairly woke the echoes. In a second both men were flying down the street and people came hurrying to her aid from every direction. As a burly policeman rushed up to her, Marion pointed in the direction of the fleeing men. “They tried to assault me—do catch them, officer,” she cried. “One is Emile Vorse, who is wanted at headquarters!”