His first thought, on leaving the train, was this: How should he find his lost child in this boundless Babylon? For the advertisement in the Times, of that morning, had already informed him that the baby-boy was still missing. Sending on his valet with his luggage to Mivart’s, he himself got into a cab and drove to the Morley House. Arrived there, he went into the reading-room to make inquiries, for the child might have been found, even after that last advertisement had been sent to the paper. “Has the lost boy been found up to this morning?” he inquired of the bookkeeper or clerk of the house. “No, sir,—nor ever will be, I fear; but here is Mr. Hammond—perhaps he can tell you more,” answered that official. Alexander turned, and found himself face to face with Dick. They had parted in anger the last time they had spoken together; but now, for different reasons, both forgot that anger,—Alexander, in his recovered sanity and in his gratitude for Dick’s services; and Dick himself in the frankness of his heart and the compassion he felt for the sick and suffering man. Their hands met, and—— “Dick!” “Alick!” Were the first words they spoke. “Has the child been heard of?” “No,” sighed Hammond. “Come out, and walk with me; I wish to ask you about it.” “But it is pouring rain, and you have been ill. You are so still. Let us go into some unoccupied private parlor and have coffee ordered there. You will need it.” “Just as you please, Dick.” Hammond beckoned a waiter to show them to a private room: and, when they had reached it, he ordered breakfast for two to be brought there. “Now tell me of _her_. How is she? How does she bear this heavy sorrow?” inquired Alexander, as soon as the waiter had left the room. “Badly enough. She scarcely ever eats or sleeps. She is wasted to a shadow. She is dying—she will die, unless the child is restored,” answered Dick. “The child shall be restored, if he is above ground!” said Alick, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. Dick shook his head, and sighed. “I tell you he shall. I arose from my death-bed to seek for him, and find him, and bring him to his mother—and I will do it!” “Will you go to her and tell her that?” said Dick, solemnly. “No, I will not. There is too much—too much to be forgiven me. I will not go near until I can place her child in her arms. And, Hammond, mind, this is a confidential interview—do not speak to her of it, or of me.” “Certainly not, if such is your wish.” “Does she pray now as she used to pray in all her troubles?” “She does little else than pray; she does nothing else but pray and search for her child.” “_She_ search?” “Yes, she lives in a cab; has lived so ever since the child was lost.” “And does she believe that she will find him?” “Yes. She believes that he is alive, and therefore to be found. It is her belief in that theory which keeps her alive through all the agony of suspense. If she thought he was dead she would die. I am sure of it.”