“Hush, it is this. On this paper you will find a name; below it a number of addresses. They are all of places down town and some of them not very reputable I fear. What I desire is for you to seek out the man whose name you here see, going to these very places after him, beginning with the first, and continuing down the list until you find him. When you come upon him, he will ask you for a card. Give him one on which you will scrawl before his eyes, a circle, so. It is a token which he should instantly understand. If he does, address him with freedom and tell him that your employer—you need make use of no names—re-demands the papers made over to him this morning. If he manifests surprise or is seen to hesitate, tell him your orders are imperative. If he declares ruin will follow, inform him that you are not to be frightened by words; that your employer is as fully aware of the position of affairs as he. Whatever he says, bring the papers.” Bertram nodded his head and endeavored to rise, but his uncle’s hand rested upon him too heavily. “He is a small man; you need have no dread of him physically. The sooner you find him and acquit yourself of your task, the better I shall be pleased.” And then the hand lifted. On his way down stairs Bertram encountered Paula. She was standing in the hall and accosted him with a very trembling tone in her voice. All her questions were in regard to Mr. Sylvester. “Have you seen him?” she asked. “Does he speak—say anything? No one has heard him utter a word since he came in from down town and saw her lying there.” “Yes, certainly; he spoke to me; he has been giving me some commissions to perform. I am on my way now to attend to them.” She drew a deep breath. “O!” she cried, “would that he had a son, a daughter, a child, some one!” This exclamation following what had taken place above struck Bertram forcibly. “He has a son in me, Paula. Love as well as duty binds me to him. All that a child could do will I perform with pleasure. You can trust me for that.” She threw him a glance of searching inquiry. “His need is greater than it seems,” whispered she. “He was deeply troubled before this terrible accident occurred. I am afraid the arrow is poisoned that has made this dreadful wound. I cannot explain myself,” she went on hurriedly, “but if you indeed regard him as a father, be ready with any comfort, any help, that affection can bestow, or his necessities require. Let me feel that he has near him some stay that will not yield to pressure.” There was so much passion in this appeal that Bertram involuntarily bowed his head. “He has two friends,” said he, “and here is my hand that I will never forsake him.” “I do not need to offer mine,” she returned, “He is great and good enough to do without my assistance.” But nevertheless she gave her hand to Bertram and with a glow of her lip and eye that made her beauty, supreme at all times, something almost supernatural in its character.