The look in her eyes as she marched down that street where all manner of junk and rags are mingled with much that, after all, is pleasant and desirable, was one of utter surprise. "A store," she murmured, more than once, "a store in Chicago. And Maxwell Street. I am sure I can't be wrong. And yet--" Arrived at the street number written on a slip of paper in her hand, she stood staring at the narrow, two-story building with its blank windows and unpainted walls for a full moment. Then, a spirit of desperation seizing her, she sprang up the low steps, grasped the doorknob, then stepped resolutely inside. Once inside, she stood quite still. Never in any place had she witnessed such confusion. What place could this be? Her mind was in a whirl. Then, like a flash, her eyes fell upon an object that threw her into action. With a startled cry, she sprang at a group of women. She snatched a tortoise shell comb from a huge black woman's hand just as she was about to try it in her kinky hair. She dragged a pink kimono from beneath a tall, slim woman's arm and, diving all but headforemost, gathered in a whole armful of garments that an astonished little lady had been hugging tight. By this time the battle turned. She found herself at the center of a concerted attack. The black woman banged at her with a picture frame, the tall, thin one jabbed her with sharp elbows and the little lady made a grab at her hair. "Ladies! Ladies!" came in a protesting man's voice. "Why must you fight in my store?" "Fight? Who wants to fight!" the tall woman screamed. "Here we are peaceful folks looking over the goods in your store, and here comes this one!" She pointed an accusing finger at Grace. "She comes in grabbing and snatching, that's what she does!" "Store! Goods!" Grace's head was in a whirl. How could they call this a store? It was a place where people robbed strangers,--stole their trunks and rifled them. Surely there could be no mistaking that. Were not the trunks open there before her, a half dozen or more of them? And was not her own modest steamer trunk among them? Had she not caught them going through her trunk? Were not the articles in her arms, the tortoise shell comb, the kimono and those other garments her very own? Goods? Store? What could it all mean? Her head was dizzy. "A store," she whispered to herself, "my uncle's store in Chicago. He gave me this address. He must be in the business of stealing trunks and selling their contents!" She felt, of a sudden, all hollow inside, and dropping like an empty sack, half sat upon a partially emptied trunk. "Miss! Why do you do this?" The bearded man who now spoke was almost apologetic in his approach. "Why do you do this in my store? Many years I, Nicholas Fischer, have sold goods here and never before have I seen such as this!" "Nich--Nicholas Fischer!" The girl's eyes widened. "Then _you_ are Nicholas Fischer. And _this_ is your store? STORE!" she fairly screamed.