At about ten thirty o’clock on the morning of the next Sunday, May 21, Carrie Jones went to Mrs. Clarke and asked if she might not take the little girl to the Park then, as the day was warm, and the sunshine inviting. In the afternoon it might be too hot. Mrs. Clarke and her husband consented, and the maid set off a little before eleven o’clock with Baby Marion tucked into a wicker carriage. She was told to return by one o’clock, so that the child might have her luncheon at the usual hour. At twelve o’clock Mr. Clarke set off for a walk in the Park, also tempted from his home by the enchantments of the day. Mrs. Clarke did not accompany him, since she had borne a second baby only two or three months before, and she was still confined to the house. Mr. Clarke entered the Park at the Sixty-sixth Street entrance and followed the paths idly along toward the old arsenal. Without especially seeking his daughter and her nurse, he nevertheless kept an eye out. A short distance from the arsenal he saw his child’s cart standing in front of the rest room; he approached, expecting to see the child. Both baby and nurse were gone, and the attendant explained that the child’s vehicle had been left in her care, while the nurse bore the baby to the menagerie. “She said she’d be back in about an hour. Ought to be here any minute now,” prattled the public employee. The father sat down to wait. Then he grew impatient and went off to wander through the animal gardens. In half an hour he was back at the rest room to find the attendant about to move the cart indoors and make her departure, her tour of duty being over. Beginning to feel alarmed, Mr. Clarke resorted to the nearest policeman, who smiled, with the confidence of long experience, and advised him to go home. It was a common thing for a green country girl to get lost among the winding drives and walks of Central Park. No doubt the nurse would find her way home with the child in a little while. Clarke went back to his house and waited. At two o’clock he went excitedly back to the Park and consulted the captain of police, with the same results. The officers were ordered to look for the nurse and child, but the alarm of the parent was not shared. He was once more told to go home and wait. At the same time he was rather pointedly told not to return with his annoying inquiries. Such temporary disappearances of children happened every day. The harried father went home and paced the floor. His enervated wife wept and trembled with apprehension. At four o’clock the doorbell rang, and the father rushed excitedly to answer. A bright-eyed, grinning boy stood in the vestibule and asked if Mr. Clarke lived here. Then he handed over a letter in a plain white envelope, lingering a moment, as if expecting a tip. Clarke naturally tore the letter open with quaking fingers and read: