The spirit of the old, dead days spoke in the voice of the Judge--spoke with a kindly dignity. It had ever been the voice of Justice, tempered with Mercy--the most feared and respected voice in the upper counties. His grave, smooth-shaven face, his kindly gray eyes, his noble brow with its crown of white hair were fitting accessories of the throne of Justice and Mercy. "I'll go this afternoon. Thank you, Judge!" said Baker, as he left the office. Pauline had announced in her letter that her husband's name was Herbert Middleton. Mr. Baker sent a telegram to Pauline to apprise her of his arrival in the morning. It was a fatherly message of love and good-will. At the hotel in New York, Mr. Baker learned that Mr. and Mrs. Middleton had checked out the day before. Nobody could tell him where they had gone. One of the men at the porter's desk told of putting them in a taxicab with their grips and a steamer trunk soon after luncheon. He didn't know where they went. Mr. Baker's telegram was there unopened. He called at every hotel desk in the city, but he could get no trace of them. He telephoned to Mrs. Baker. She had heard nothing from Pauline. In despair, he went to the Police Department and told his story to the Chief. "It looks as if there was something crooked about it," said the Chief. "There are many cases like this. Just read that." The officer picked up a newspaper clipping, which lay on his desk, and passed it to Mr. Baker. It was from the _New York Evening Post_. The banker read aloud this startling information: "'The New York police report that approximately 3600 girls have run away or disappeared from their homes in the past eleven months, and the Bureau of Missing Persons estimates that the number who have disappeared throughout the country approximates 68,000.'" "It's rather astonishing," the Chief went on. "The women seem to have gone crazy these days. Maybe it's the new dancing and the movies that are breaking down the morals of the little suburban towns or maybe it's the excitement of the war. Anyhow, they keep the city supplied with runaways and vamps. You are not the first anxious father I have seen to-day. You can go home. I'll put a man on the case and let you know what happens." CHAPTER THREE WHICH TELLS OF THE COMPLAINING COIN AND THE MAN WHO LOST HIS SELF There was a certain gold coin in a little bureau drawer in Bingville which began to form a habit of complaining to its master. "How cold I am!" it seemed to say to the boy. "I was cold when you put me in here and I have been cold ever since. Br-r-r! I'm freezing." Bob Moran took out the little drawer and gave it a shaking as he looked down at the gold piece. "Don't get rattled," said the redoubtable Mr. Bloggs, who had a great contempt for cowards. It was just after the Shepherd of the Birds had heard of a poor widow who was the mother of two small children and who had fallen sick of the influenza with no fuel in her house.