“I have another request to make of you, Horace,” continued Mr. Dexter speaking with even more earnestness than before, “and that is that you go to the engine house in which that young man Decker is employed and learn from his own lips all that you can in regard to his family. If you find that what Sam hinted at is true, bring him here without a moment’s delay. I am a very old man, Horace, but this is a matter which must be settled at once for I can bear the suspense no longer.” Mr. Van Kuren readily gave the required promise, and having eaten a light breakfast he entered Mr. Dexter’s carriage and was driven off in the direction of the Elevated railroad. Purchasing a copy of a morning paper, he entered the car and settled himself in a corner to read the news. As he unfolded the damp sheet his eye fell upon a headline in heavy black type which told him at once that something exciting had occurred. The next moment the color left his cheeks and his hands began to shake so that he could scarcely read. The great hotel in which he and his family had lodged had been destroyed by fire and a number of the guests were known to have perished. There was no list of the missing or of the saved, and he realized that it would be impossible for him to learn any further details without going himself to the scene of the disaster. He read the short description of the fire through, and then the paper slipped from his hands and fell unheeded to the floor of the car, while he sat literally stunned by what he had just learned and apparently unable to collect his thoughts or make up his mind what to do. Other people about him, who had noticed the bright glare on the sky the night before were talking about the fire, and discussing the probable number of the missing. It was this that roused him from his stupor and he sat bolt upright in his seat, picked up the paper again and once more carefully perused the account of the conflagration. He was still fully two miles from 42d St., the station nearest to the great heap of cinders, bricks and ashes in which perhaps his own daughter was buried. The train seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace and it was in vain that he tried to divert his attention, from what he had just learned by reading the other portions of the newspaper. Again and again his eyes would turn to the awful black headline on the front page, and finally he threw the sheet to the floor in despair, folded his arms across his breast and endeavored to think of something else. But there was one figure which he could not blot out of his mind. It was that of his daughter standing by an open window with clothes and hair ablaze and screaming for some one to save her.