lm, flung to him from the highest windows, had testified
to its power. From the end of Sowell Street Ford moved slowly from house
to house until he was directly opposite the three in one of which he
believed the girl to be. "We will try the NEW songs here," he said.

Night had fallen, and, except for the gas-lamps, the street was empty,
and in such darkness that even without his disguise Ford ran no risk of
recognition. His plan was not new. It dated from the days of Richard
the Lion-hearted. But if the prisoner were alert and intelligent, even
though she could make no answer, Ford believed through his effort she
would gain courage, would grasp that from the outside a friend was
working toward her. All he knew of the prisoner was that she came from
Kentucky. Ford fixed his eyes on the houses opposite, and cleared his
throat. The man struck the opening chords, and in a high barytone, and
in a cockney accent that made even the accompanist grin, Ford lifted his
voice.

"The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home," he sang; "'tis summer,
and the darkies are gay."

He finished the song, but there was no sign. For all the impression he
had made upon Sowell Street, he might have been singing in his chambers.
"And now the other," commanded Ford.

The house-fronts echoed back the cheering notes of "Dixie." Again Ford
was silent, and again The silence answered him. The accompanist glared
disgustedly at the darkened windows.

"They don't know them songs," he explained professionally. "Give 'em,
'Mollie Married the Marquis.'"

"I'll sing the first one again," said Ford. Once more he broke into the
pathetic cadences of the "Old Kentucky Home." But there was no response.
He was beginning to feel angry, absurd. He believed he had wasted
precious moments, and, even as he sang, his mind was already working
upon a new plan. The song ceased, unfinished.

"It's no use!" he exclaimed. Remembering himself, he added: "We'll try
the next street."

But even as he spoke he leaped forward. Coming apparently from nowhere,
something white sank through the semi-darkness and fell at his feet.
It struck the pavement directly in front of the middle one of the
three houses. Ford fell upon it and clutched it in both hands. It was a
woman's glove. Ford raced back to the piano.

"Once more," he cried, "play 'Dixie'!"

He shouted out the chorus exultantly, triumphantly. Had he spoken it in
words, the message could not have carried more clearl