a fifteen-year-old photograph. If
it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might
consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns
out to be that of a private individual--well, in that case, I shall have
a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we
have just acknowledged you possess a limited share."

That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up and
down a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in front
of a certain drug-store to let an old man out. He seemed very feeble and
leaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store.
But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes the
ills of life without bitterness or complaint. When halfway to his
goal,--for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himself
carefully with every one,--he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew out
of his hand. Happily--because he seemed unable to reach it himself--a
young girl just emerging from the drug-store saw his plight and stooping
for the stick, handed it to him. He received it with a smile, and while
it was yet in both of their hands, said in the most matter-of-fact way in
the world:

"Thank you, little Miss Duclos." Then suddenly: "Where's your aunt?"

She did not stop to think. She did not stop to ask herself what this
question meant or whether this old gentleman who seemed to know so much
about her and the family's secrets had a right to ask it, but blurted out
in nervous haste as if she knew of nothing else to do, "She's gone," and
then started to run away.

"Come back, little one." His tone was very imperative, but for all that
of a nature to win upon a frightened child. "I know she's gone," he added
soothingly as she looked back, hesitating. "And I'm sorry, for I have
something for her. I recognized you the moment you stepped out of the
store; but I see that you don't remember me. But why should you? Little
girls don't remember old men."

Again that benevolent smile as he poked about in one of his pockets and
finally drew out a little parcel which he held out toward her.

"This belongs to your aunt. See, it has her name on it, Madame Antoinette
Duclos. It came to the lodging-house in Fifty-third Street just after she
left, and I was asked to bring it to her. I was going to your house as
soon as I had done my little errand at this store, but now that I have
met