s, and flew rather than walked down the
long Parade. The flickering gas lamps showed between patches of darkness,
the rain drizzled on, and she felt helpless and bewildered, not knowing
where to turn next. Wherever Dickie was, bronchitis must be dogging his
footsteps, and all the time she seemed to hear Susie's voice appealing to
her. Poor Susie! who always came back to her best friend--who was always
so sorry afterwards!

She spoke to the policeman at the corner of the Parade, and he was very
determined. He would go to the police station and give notice, he said;
but there wasn't the least use in her wearing herself out by running on
into the town. He knew the young lady from No. 17 quite well by sight--a
very sensible young lady!--and he was as certain as that he stood there
that she had not passed him since five o'clock. She was on the beach then
with the little boy and some other young ladies and gentlemen; he had
seen them himself. They were playing and shouting, and having a fine
time. No, he was quite certain he wasn't making a mistake; he knew her by
her face, and her brown plaits, and her scarlet jersey. She certainly was
playing with other children.

Mrs. Beauchamp tried to push aside the urgent fear that was knocking at
her heart. If even the policeman had confidence in Susie, should her
mother be behindhand? She told the policeman, for his information and her
own comfort, that she was only frightened because the little boy had been
ill, and it was such a cold, wet night, but at the same time she thought
she would walk round to the town by the beach. "And you will go to the
police station? Some one may have seen them. I cannot feel satisfied
doing nothing."

"If you take my advice, lady," said the policeman, "you should go home
first. Perhaps they'll have got back, or perhaps the other young lady
could give you an idea. Children know a good deal of each other's ways."

The advice was sensible and practical, and Mrs. Beauchamp was relieved at
any definite suggestion. Amy might possibly know something about the
others which she had not confided to nurse. She caught at the hope, and
fought her way back before the wind, up the long, wet Parade, until she
stood, drenched and breathless, at the door.

Nurse opened it almost on her knock, and peered anxiously behind her into
the dark, but Mrs. Beauchamp shook her head.

"No, I have done nothing," she said, in a strained voice. "I can't think
what to do--no one