keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.

"The detective system of New York is so lax," said Mrs. Adams. "I do
wish there was more system among them and among the police. One would
feel--" She heaved a deep sigh.

Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.

"Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan to
offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child's
return?" asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhat
diffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, in
spite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamed
out of the shadow where she sat.

Ida continued to rock.

"But," said Mrs. Adams, "a great many children are lost every year
and found. Sometimes the system does really work in a manner to
astonish any one. I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr.
Edgham or a policeman walking in with her. But--well--there is so
much to be done. The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in to
hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance without
seeing one policeman."

"I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen would
have sprung out from somewhere," said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice.
Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself assailed without a word
in his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart.

"That was what Mr. Adams said," retorted Mrs. Adams, with some
asperity, "and I told him that I would rather the dozen policemen
were in evidence before I was shot and robbed than after. I had on
all my rings, and my diamond sunburst."

"Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good plan to offer
up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe restoration of the
dear child?" asked Mrs. Applegate again. Her voice was sonorous, very
much like her husband's. She felt that, so far as in her lay, she was
taking his place. He was out of town.

It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up to
her step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock, and
look at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take her eyes
from it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria spoke, and her
voice did not sound like her own at all. It was accusatory, menacing.

"Where is my little sister?" she cried. "Where is she?"

Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around her
caressingly. "You poor, dear child," she sobbed, "I guess you do feel
it. You did set a heap by tha