Half an hour later I met her in New York. She repeated the details of Margaret’s disappearance and we talked over possibilities, but there was no clew to work on, as to what could have become of my little sister. We called up all the friends she had in New York that I knew about, but could learn nothing. And there was very little that I could do that night. The store workers were scattered to the four winds by that time. So I had given all the details of the disappearance to the police, and after sending Mrs. Furneau home—she was frightened and tired out—I went to a hotel myself, so that I could be close at hand if the police wanted me. As long as I live the recollection of that night will be vivid in my memory. Hour after hour I paced the floor, stopping every ten minutes or so to ring up my house, only to learn from the frightened servants that there was no news. Margaret had not returned. And at last the gray dawn crept into the room and found me still fully dressed and still pacing back and forth. The store opened at nine, and at that hour Mrs. Furneau, who had come into town again to help, joined me. We went through the store together and questioned the workers—door-men, floor-walkers, salesgirls—every one. But we could learn nothing. There was simply no trace of any kind. And another hasty telephone call told me that there was no news of my little sister at home. That night and morning had been the beginning of two months of fear that haunted me like the terrible figments of a nightmare. At first, the number of investigations that suggested themselves, among the people in the store and among Margaret’s friends, had kept my mind occupied and kept hope alive that nothing serious had happened to the child. Then there had been the hospitals to search and city officials to interview, to say nothing of social workers and charitable organizations. Mrs. Furneau spent days with me, helping in the search. But as time passed and we could learn nothing, despair settled on me like a choking cloud, and with it an unreasonable sense of resentment towards Mrs. Furneau for her part in it all. I did my best to conceal it; but her intuition must have told her that there was something wrong, and after a week or so she gave up the search and I continued my efforts alone. But the days grew into weeks and the combined efforts of the police, the best detective agencies in the country, and every other agency that money and determination could press into the service, failed to find a shadow of a trace, until at length other crimes and an epidemic of disappearances among young Society girls distracted their attention and I continued the search alone.