"Where are they going?"

"They are Irish folks, miss," said the matron. "They have been in
Chicago and over the country for the past three months, hunting him
everywhere. They have given up, and are starting home today. They----"

"Did they leave an address? Where could I find them?" interrupted the
Angel.

"They left a card, and I notice the morning paper has the man's picture
and is full of them. They've advertised a great deal in the city papers.
It's a wonder you haven't seen something."

"Trains don't run right. We never get Chicago papers," said the Angel.
"Please give me that card quickly. They may escape me. I simply must
catch them!"

The matron hurried to the secretary and came back with a card.

"Their addresses are there," she said. "Both in Chicago and at their
home. They made them full and plain, and I was to cable at once if I
got the least clue of him at any time. If they've left the city, you can
stop them in New York. You're sure to catch them before they sail--if
you hurry."

The matron caught up a paper and thrust it into the Angel's hand as she
ran to the street.

The Angel glanced at the card. The Chicago address was Suite Eleven,
Auditorium. She laid her hand on her driver's sleeve and looked into his
eyes.

"There is a fast-driving limit?" she asked.

"Yes, miss."

"Will you crowd it all you can without danger of arrest? I will pay
well. I must catch some people!"

Then she smiled at him. The hospital, an Orphans' Home, and the
Auditorium seemed a queer combination to that driver, but the Angel was
always and everywhere the Angel, and her methods were strictly her own.

"I will take you there as quickly as any man could with a team," he said
promptly.

The Angel clung to the card and paper, and as best she could in the
lurching, swaying cab, read the addresses over.

"O'More, Suite Eleven, Auditorium."

"'O'More,'" she repeated. "Seems to fit Freckles to a dot. Wonder if
that could be his name? 'Suite Eleven' means that you are pretty well
fixed. Suites in the Auditorium come high."

Then she turned the card and read on its reverse, Lord Maxwell O'More,
M. P., Killvany Place, County Clare, Ireland.

The Angel sat on the edge of the seat, bracing her feet against the one
opposite, as the cab pitched and swung around corners and past vehicles.
She mechanically fingered the pasteboard and stared straight ahead. Then
she drew a deep breath and read the card again.

"A Lord-