got a little business there myself. I'm
proud to go with you. It's your sister you want, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, what would you be doing by yourself--a young lady? How will you
find your sister?"

"Do you think you can find her?"

"Sure I can find her," he proclaimed, confidently. He had evidently made
up his mind that casual treatment was what the affair demanded. "Haven't
I good friends in Boston?" By friendship he swayed his world: nor was he
completely unknown--though he did not say so--to certain influential
members of his race of the Boston police department. Pulling out a large
nickel watch and observing that they had just time to catch the train, he
locked up his shop, and they set out together for the station. Mr.
Tiernan led the way, for the path was narrow. The dry snow squeaked under
his feet.

After escorting her to a seat on the train, he tactfully retired to the
smoking car, not to rejoin her until they were on the trestle spanning
the Charles River by the North Station. All the way to Boston she had sat
gazing out of the window at the blinding whiteness of the fields,
incapable of rousing herself to the necessity of thought, to a degree of
feeling commensurate with the situation. She did not know what she would
say to Lise if she should find her; and in spite of Mr. Tiernan's
expressed confidence, the chances of success seemed remote. When the
train began to thread the crowded suburbs, the city, spreading out over
its hills, instead of thrilling her, as yesterday, with a sense of
dignity and power, of opportunity and emancipation, seemed a labyrinth
with many warrens where vice and crime and sorrow could hide. In front of
the station the traffic was already crushing the snow into filth. They
passed the spot where, the night before, the carriage had stopped, where
Ditmar had bidden her good-bye. Something stirred within her, became a
shooting pain.... She asked Mr. Tiernan what he intended to do.

"I'm going right after the man, if he's here in the city," he told her.
And they boarded a street car, which almost immediately shot into the
darkness of the subway. Emerging at Scollay Square, and walking a few
blocks, they came to a window where guns, revolvers, and fishing tackle
were displayed, and on which was painted the name, "Timothy Mulally." Mr.
Tiernan entered.

"Is Tim in?" he inquired of one of the clerks, who nodded his head
towards the rear of the store, where a middle-aged, grey-haired