"In a moment, Miss Lulu," touching whip to the prancing iron-gray ponies and setting them off at a dashing rate. "Yes, as I was saying, Winans played with the child that kept fretting for Norah and the milk, and I dare say he grew tired of playing the nurse--I should in his place, I know--and thought of taking a comfortable smoke. He left the baby sitting on a divan, stopped into his dressing-room, selected a good weed, lighted it, and stepped back again." "And what happened then?" Lulu inquired. "Would you believe it!--the little thing that could no more than toddle by itself--that he had left but a moment before, sitting on the divan, fretting for Norah and its milk--it was gone." "Gone--where?" asked Lulu, staring blankly at him. "The Lord in heaven knows, Miss Clendenon. Winans ran to the door--it had stood ajar all the time for fresh air--and looked up and down the hall for him, in vain though. Then the nurse came up with the milk, and they began to search together, called up the waiters, alarmed the whole house, in fact; and all was useless. Every room was searched, every one inquired of, but not a trace of the child was found; he was clearly not in the house. I happened in just then and joined in the search. At four this evening the search had become widespread; two detectives have scoured the city, and it seems impossible to throw the least light on the affair. Winans is perfectly wild about it--never saw a man suffer so." "Oh, how dreadful!" breathed Lulu, "and who broke it to _her_--the wretched mother?" "Norah absolutely refused to go to her with news which she said must certainly kill her. Winans shrunk from the task in the same desperate horror. She does not know it yet, and he clings to a hope of finding it before dark, and sending it back by Norah as though nothing had happened; but I fear he will fail. Little Paul has undoubtedly been stolen for the sake of a ransom, no doubt, or his fine clothes; and it is probable they will get him back, but scarcely to-day." "Oh, poor unhappy Grace!" murmured Lulu, and all her miserable, half-indefinable jealousy of the beautiful woman melted in a hot rain of tears for the terribly bereaved young mother. The captain, greatly surprised at this feminine outburst, was really at a loss to offer consolation. Having all a man's horror of woman's tears, he let the sudden rain-storm have its way, and then hazarded a remark: "Why, you do not know her; I beg your pardon, do you?" "No," brushing away the pearly drops with a dainty lace-bordered handkerchief. "I have seen her, heard her trouble, and take a very deep interest in her, and," as she dried the last tear and looked pensively up, "I am such a baby that my tears are ready on all occasions." "An April day," is his oft-quoted comment, "'all smiles and tears.'" Silence falls. Captain Fontenay looks a little sad, intensely thoughtful, evidently revolving something in his mind.