telligence, Dorothy
put her inquiry to him, breathlessly stating her whole case, including
the loss of her purse and her regret over it.

"'Cause now, you see, sir, I haven't any money to pay for being taken
back. Else I would have called a carriage, like people do sometimes, and
got the carriage man to take me. That is, _if_ there was any carriage,
and any man, and I--I had any money. Oh! dear! That isn't what I wanted
to say, but I'm so tired running and--and--it's dreadful to be lost in
a New York city!"

Her explanation ended in a miserable breakdown of sobs and tears. Now
that help had come--she was sure of it after one glance into this second
officer's honest face--her courage collapsed entirely. The sergeant
allowed her a moment to compose herself and then said, as he took out a
notebook and prepared to write in it:

"Now, once more. Tell me exactly, or listen if I have the facts right.
You are a pupil at the Rhinelander Academy in Newburgh. You are starting
upon a trip for your summer vacation. You are under the care of Miss
Greatorex, a teacher. You ran away from the steamer 'Mary Powell' in
pursuit of a man whom you think carried off your own and a friend's
purse. Very well. I will send you to the boat and if your story is true
you will be restored to your friends and nothing more will come of it.
If it isn't true, you will be sent to a station-house to await
developments. McCarthy, proceed upon your beat."

Larry shrugged his shoulders more snugly into his new uniform, assumed
the bearing of a drum major and duly proceeded. The superior officer put
a whistle to his lips, and like the genii in Arabian Nights, his servant
instantly appeared.

"Call a cab. Take this young person to the 'Mary Powell,' foot of
Desbrosses street. If her guardian is not there, drive to the other
landing at Twenty-third street and inquire if the girl has been sought
for there. If this is a false story, report to me at the station and, of
course, bring the girl with you."

The words "station house" sounded ominous in Dorothy's ears. During her
Baltimore life she had learned all that was necessary about such places
to infect her with fear, having with other children sometimes watched
the "police patrol wagons" make their dreary rounds. She had peered at
the unhappy prisoners sitting within the van and had pitied them
unspeakably, despite the fact that they must have been wicked. A picture
of herself thus seated and despairing fl