"You got some bapers for him?" "That’s my business," said Kouka, advancing menacingly toward Koerner. "You tell where he is or I’ll run the whole family in. Here," he said suddenly, a thought having occurred to him, "put ’em under arrest, both of ’em!" The old man shuffled backward, leaned against the table for support and raised his crutch for protection. "You better look oudt, Mis’er Detective," said Koerner. "You’d better look oudt. Py Gott--" Kouka stopped, considered, then changed his mind. "Look here, Mr. Koerner," he said. "It’s no use. We know Archie’s here and we want him." "He’s not here," suddenly spoke Mrs. Koerner beside him. "He’s not here!" "The hell he ain’t!" said Kouka. "I saw him come in--ten minutes ago. Search the house, men." And the rummaging began again. The men were about to enter the little room where Koerner slept: it was dark in there and one of them took the lamp. "Look oudt!" Koerner said suddenly. "Look oudt! You go in dere if you vant to, but, py Gott, don’t blame me if--" The men suddenly halted and stepped back. "Go on in!" commanded Kouka. "What do you want to stand there for? Are you afraid?" Then they went, ransacked that room, threw everything into disorder and came out. "No one there," they reported in relief. They searched the whole house over again, and old man Koerner stood by on one leg and his crutch, with a strange, amused smile on his yellow face. At last, Kouka, lifting his black visage, looked at the ceiling, sought some way as if to an upper story, found none, and then began to swear again, cursing the old man and his wife. Finally he said to the officers: "He’s been kidding us." Then he called his men, dashed out of the house, and with a dark lantern began seeking signs in the back yard. Near the rear fence he discovered footprints in the soft earth; they climbed over and found other footprints in the mud of the alley. "Here they went!" cried Kouka. V Archie had stood for a moment in his mother’s embrace; he had felt her cheek against his; he had heard her voice again. He was forgetful of everything--of Curly’s presence, of all he had ever been made to suffer by himself and by others. He knew that his mother’s eyes were closed and that tears were squeezing through the lids; he felt his own tears coming, but it did not matter--in that moment he could cry without being made ashamed. It was a supreme moment for him, a moment when all he had been, all he had done, all he had not done, made no difference; no questions now, no reproaches, no accusations, not even forgiveness, for there was no need of forgiveness; a moment merely of love, an incredible moment, working a miracle in which men would not believe, having lost belief in Love. It was a moment that suffused his whole being with a new, surging life, out of which--