It was between ten and eleven at night that the old lady and her daughter-in-law, sitting before the stove as they had done the evening before, again heard his step and his key. This time there was no pretense at expectation on either side. His first glance inside the room showed him the heavy dejection of the two faces turned toward him. They, on their part, saw him pale and drawn, as by a month’s illness. They had heard nothing. No investigation of which they were aware had brought in a crumb of comfort. He had heard worse than nothing. There had been talk at the police station that evening of the finding of George Harney, suffering from concussion of the brain, and the sudden departure of Barry Essex, believed to be his assailant. This information added the last straw to Barron’s agony of apprehension. It seemed as if a plot had culminated in those two days, a plot dark and inexplicable, in which the woman he loved was in some mysterious way involved. He was standing by the stove responding to the somber queries of the women, when the sound of feet on the porch steps suddenly transfixed them all. Young Mrs. Garcia screamed, while the old lady sat with head bent sidewise listening. Before Barron could get to the door a soft ring at the bell had drawn another scream from the younger woman, who, nevertheless, followed him and stood peeping into the hall, clinging to the door-post. The opened door sent a flood of light over three figures huddled in the glass porch--two men, a detective and policeman, Barron already knew, and a third, a stranger to him, whose face against the shadowy background looked fresh and boyish. “Ah, Mr. Barron, we’re lucky to strike you this way at the first shot,” said the detective. “We think we’ve found the lady.” “Found her? Where? Have you got her there?” “No; we’re not certain yet if it’s the right one.” The man, as he spoke, entered the hall, the policeman and the stranger following him. Under the flare of the two gas-jets they looked big, ungainly figures in their smoking rubber capes that ran rillets of water on the floor. The third, revealed in the full light, was a boy of some fourteen or fifteen years, well dressed and with the air of a gentleman. “This gentleman came to the station a half-hour ago,” said the policeman, indicating the stranger, “with a story of finding a lady on his own grounds, and we thought from his description it was the one you’re looking for.” Barron directed on the youth a glance that would have pried open the lips of the Sphinx. “What does she look like? Where is she?” “She’s in our garden,” said the boy, “under some trees. She looks tall and has on black clothes, and has dark red hair and a very white face.” Mrs. Garcia gave a loud cry from the background. “It’s Mariposa sure,” she screamed. “Is she alive?” “Alive!” echoed the youth. “Oh, yes, she’s quite alive, but I don’t know whether she’s exactly in her right mind. She’s sort of queer.”