Like a flash the officer was after his quarry, giving three short raps on the sidewalk with his night-stick as he ran, to summon assistance. Marion explained the situation to a small crowd of men and boys who had gathered, and they promptly started off to help the policeman. As quickly as possible Marion hurried home and retired. The first thing in the morning she went out and bought a paper. “They caught him! They caught Emile Vorse!” she cried out, happily, “but, oh, Dollie, just listen to this. They say he has been calling himself by the name of Max, and that he has been decoying young girls to ruin through an agency of some sort.” “The very man that insulted me in his office,” cried Dollie, with a gasp. “His name was Mr. Max, oh, I am so glad they have caught him.” “Miss Ray will be delighted,” was Marion’s answer, “for she has never felt quite safe, knowing that the fellow was at liberty.” “Well, it’s a very true saying that ‘it is a long lane that has no turning.’” “I hope our lane will turn pretty soon,” said Dollie, sighing. Just then Marion’s glance fell on another item in the paper. “That boy that was run over by the cable car was not identified,” she said, sadly. “He had no friends, apparently, for he has been buried by the city.” “He was just Bert’s age,” said Dollie, sorrowfully. Marion dropped the paper and stared at her sister. “Oh, Dollie, I have a scheme,” she cried, excitedly. “Quick! Open your typewriter and be ready to take a dictation. I’m going to play a trick on Matt Jenkins that will give Bert Jackson his freedom.” CHAPTER XII. A TERRIBLE SITUATION. While Dollie was getting her machine in shape her sister composed the following letter. “Mr. Matthew Jenkins, Poor Farm, Hickorytown, Conn. “Dear Sir—A boy about sixteen was recently run over by a cable car in this city and killed. As he was unidentified within the regular time allowed by the city, he has been buried in Potter’s Field, the same as any other pauper. I have seen the garments left by the deceased and recognized them as belonging to one of your truant boys, one Bert Jackson, who was in my employ a few days after his arrival in this city. Knowing that the boy was your charge, I write this letter. It should relieve you of all anxiety regarding him in future.” She signed the letter “John Johnson,” but appended no address. They could think whatever they pleased about the omission, it would make no difference in Matt Jenkins’ actions in the matter. “He’ll be tickled to death,” said Dollie, grimly. “He’ll just be glad he is dead and that’s the last he’ll ever think of him.” “And that is exactly what I want,” said Marion, laughing, “for as soon as they think he is dead, they’ll stop looking for him.” “You are the cleverest girl in the world,” said Dollie, as she addressed the envelope. She had become quite proficient now on her typewriter.