“She's a dame in black,” said Melting Moses; “an' she's of d' Fift' Avenoo squeeze all right.” Melting Moses, now he was fed and dressed, went through the days with uncommon spirit, and when not thinking on his mother would be gay enough. My visitors interested him even more than they did me, and he announced but few without hazarding his surmise as to both their origins and their errands. “Show her in!” I said. My visitor was a widow, as I could see by her mourning weeds. She was past middle life; gray, with hollow cheeks, and sad pleading eyes. “My name is Van Flange,” said she. “The Reverend Bronson asked me to call upon you. It's about my son; he's ruining us by his gambling.” Then the Widow Van Flange told of her son's infatuation; and how blacklegs in Barclay Street were fleecing him with roulette and faro bank. I listened to her story with patience. While I would not find it on my programme to come to her relief, I aimed at respect for one whom the Reverend Bronson had endorsed. I was willing to please that good man, for I liked him much since he spoke in commendation of my English. Besides, if angered, the Reverend Bronson would be capable of trouble. He was too deeply and too practically in the heart of the East Side; he could not fail to have a tale to tell that would do Tammany Hall no good, but only harm. Wherefore, I in no wise cut short the complaints of the Widow Van Flange. I heard her to the end, training my face to sympathy the while, and all as though her story were not one commonest of the town. “You may be sure, madam,” said I, when the Widow Van Flange had finished, “that not only for the Reverend Bronson's sake, but for your own, I shall do all I may to serve you. I own no personal knowledge of that gambling den of which you speak, nor of those sharpers who conduct it. That knowledge belongs with the police. The number you give, however, is in Captain Gothecore's precinct. We'll send for him if you'll wait.” With that I rang my desk bell for Melting Moses. “Send for Captain Gothecore,” said I. At the name, the boy's black eyes flamed up in a way to puzzle. “Send a messenger for Captain Gothecore; I want him at once.” CHAPTER XX--THE MARK OF THE ROPE WHILE the Widow Van Flange and I sat waiting the coming of Gothecore, the lady gave me further leaves of her story. The name of Van Flange was old. It had been honorable and high in the days of Wouter Van Twiller, and when the town was called New Amsterdam. The Van Flanges had found their source among the wooden shoes and spinning-wheels of the ancient Dutch, and were duly proud. They had been rich, but were now reduced, counting--she and her boy--no more than two hundred thousand dollars for their fortune.