Uncle Fred sat up—his back perfectly straight for the first time for many years. Mrs. Clegg’s knitting dropped from her fingers. No one else was present. Only children remained at Netherby, and they had gone to bed. "I have been thinking matters over," announced Albert, in measured tones. "I try to be a just man in all my dealings. It is one year to-day since the news came to me that my daughter had taken to—her present ways. By this time her punishment has possibly begun. It is not my intention to intervene between her and her Maker; but I have decided that there can be no harm in taking steps to ascertain what has become of her." Mrs. Clegg caught her breath. Uncle Fred, utterly dazed, wagged his beard weakly. "That’s very handsome of you, Albert," he said respectfully. "Handsomeness has nothing to do with it!" snapped Albert, among whose rare and austere amusements none was more prized than that of keeping his younger brother in his place. "I am simply doing what I consider to be right and just. Now, when you return to London I want you to institute inquiries as to where my daughter is to be found. If you are successful, I wish you to visit her. I should not like to think that she was actually destitute. Of course, she can never return here, but I can see that she is provided for." There was silence. Then Uncle Fred inquired, after the fashion of all feeble folk: "How should I set about finding her? London is a big place. I suppose the police—" "I will not have the police brought into the matter until absolutely necessary," thundered Albert. "You must search the theatres!" It was a magnificent suggestion, but too daring for Albert’s audience—certainly for Uncle Fred. "I have never been inside a theatre in my life," he objected. "Neither have I. But you need not go inside. Enquire at the door whether my daughter is employed there. Demand to see the manager!" "Do you think he will tell me?" "Threaten him with the law if he won’t. These fellows are usually under police observation, in any case. They won’t dare to fight." "Perhaps a word with the stage-door keeper—" suggested Mrs. Clegg timidly. "There’s no need for Fred to get mixed up with the dissolute crowd that hangs round stage-doors," was the stern reply. "He’ll go in by the front!" Uncle Fred, flattered on the whole at being still regarded as a potential profligate, hastened to associate himself with this sentiment. But at heart he felt a little ashamed. There were elements of the dare-devil about Uncle Fred. Still, he reflected, he could take his own line of action when he got back to London. He propounded another conundrum. "Supposing she isn’t in one of the theatres—what then? Would it be any good trying the churches? She may be attending some place of worship regularly."