"She is sitting near the back window; it looks out on the roofs of other houses; she is holding a pretty little child on her lap." "She must be in the city," remarked Mr. Burton, aside; "the large house and the congregated roofs would imply it. Can you not tell me the name of the street?" "No, I can not see it. I was never in this place before. I can see water, as I look out of the window. It appears like the bay; and I see plenty of ships, but there is some green land across the water, besides distant houses." "It must be somewhere in the suburbs, or in Brooklyn. Are there no signs on the shops, which you can read, as you look out?" "No, papa." "Well, go down the stairs, and out upon the street, and tell me the number of the house." "It is No. --," she said, after a few moments' silence. "Go along until you come to a corner, and read me the name of the street." "Court street," she answered, presently. "It is in Brooklyn," exclaimed the detective, triumphantly. "There is nothing now to prevent us going straight to the spot. Lenore, go back now, to the house; tell us on which floor is this room, and how situated." Again there was silence while she retraced her steps. "It is on the fourth floor, the first door to the left, as you reach the landing." Lenore began to look weary and exhausted; the sweat broke out on her brow, and she panted as if fatigued with climbing flights of stairs. Her father, with a regretful air, wiped her forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so. A few more of those cabalistic touches, followed by the same painful contortions of those beautiful features, and Lenore was herself again. But she was pale and languid; she drooped against her father's breast, as he held her in his arms, the color faded from her cheeks, too listless to smile in answer to his caresses. Placing her on the sofa, he took from a nook in his secretary a bottle of old port, poured out a tiny glassful, and gave to her. The wine revived her almost instantly; the smiles and bloom came back, though she still seemed exceedingly weary. "She will be like a person exhausted by a long journey, or great labor, for several days," said Mr. Burton, as I watched the child. "It cost me a pang to make such a demand upon her; I hope it will be the last time--at least until she is older and stronger than now." "I should think the application of electricity would restore some of the vitality which has been taken from her," I suggested. "I shall try it this evening," was his reply; "in the mean time, if we intend to benefit by the sacrifice of my little Lenore, let us lose no time. Something may occur to send the fugitive flying again. And now, my dear little girl, you must lie down a while this afternoon, and be careful of yourself. You shall dine with us to-night, if you are not too tired, and we shall bring you some flowers--a bouquet from old John's conservatory, sure."