ould, Presley could not again come upon the young
woman, in whom he fancied he had seen the daughter of the unfortunate
German. At last, he gave up the hunt, and returning to his club--at this
hour almost deserted--smoked a few cigarettes, vainly attempted to
read from a volume of essays in the library, and at last, nervous,
distraught, exhausted, retired to his bed.

But none the less, Presley had not been mistaken. The girl whom he had
tried to follow had been indeed Minna Hooven.

When Minna, a week before this time, had returned to the lodging house
on Castro Street, after a day's unsuccessful effort to find employment,
and was told that her mother and Hilda had gone, she was struck
speechless with surprise and dismay. She had never before been in any
town larger than Bonneville, and now knew not which way to turn nor how
to account for the disappearance of her mother and little Hilda. That
the landlady was on the point of turning them out, she understood, but
it had been agreed that the family should be allowed to stay yet one
more day, in the hope that Minna would find work. Of this she reminded
the land-lady. But this latter at once launched upon her such a torrent
of vituperation, that the girl was frightened to speechless submission.

"Oh, oh," she faltered, "I know. I am sorry. I know we owe you money,
but where did my mother go? I only want to find her."

"Oh, I ain't going to be bothered," shrilled the other. "How do I know?"

The truth of the matter was that Mrs. Hooven, afraid to stay in the
vicinity of the house, after her eviction, and threatened with arrest by
the landlady if she persisted in hanging around, had left with the
woman a note scrawled on an old blotter, to be given to Minna when
she returned. This the landlady had lost. To cover her confusion, she
affected a vast indignation, and a turbulent, irascible demeanour.

"I ain't going to be bothered with such cattle as you," she vociferated
in Minna's face. "I don't know where your folks is. Me, I only have
dealings with honest people. I ain't got a word to say so long as the
rent is paid. But when I'm soldiered out of a week's lodging, then I'm
done. You get right along now. I don't know you. I ain't going to have
my place get a bad name by having any South of Market Street chippies
hanging around. You get along, or I'll call an officer."

Minna sought the street, her head in a whirl. It was about five o'clock.
In her pocket was thirty-fiv