writing. An old copy-book would be just the thing."
Lucette carried out these instructions to the letter, and by bribing the
servant girl at the school obtained exactly what the detective had
suggested, a copy-book in which little Rose Mitchel had practised
writing.

Armed with this, and selecting a specimen, which seemed best suited to
his purpose, Mr. Barnes next bribed the mail boy at the Fifth Avenue
Hotel to examine all letters addressed to Mr. Mitchel until he should
find one in the same hand. It was not until early in March that this
patient work resulted in success. Then one day the boy reported to Mr.
Barnes that the expected letter had at length arrived. The post-mark
indicated that it had been mailed at East Orange, New Jersey.

"So that is where the little bird is hidden," said Mr. Barnes to himself
when this information reached him. Summoning Lucette, he sent her to
East Orange with these instructions:

"Now, my girl, I'll give you another chance to redeem yourself. You are
to go to East Orange and find that child. The most promising plan is
through the post-office. I will give you a note to the postmaster that
will aid you. Should a letter be sent to the child either by Mitchel
himself or by Miss Remsen, you will learn of it through the postmaster.
The rest of course will be simple."

"But suppose," said Lucette, "that the child's letters are directed
under cover to the parties with whom she is living? What then?"

"Why, stupid, that is what I send you down there for. As the postmaster
is an acquaintance of mine, I could get the address, should it reach
him, without having you there. But that is only a faint hope. We know
that the child is in East Orange. East Orange has just so many houses.
You must examine every one if necessary. Now go, and if you don't find
the child, I have no further need of you. I give you this commission
partly as a chance to redeem your other mistake, and partly because you
have seen the child once and could recognize her."

"I'll find her," said Lucette, and she departed.

A week later Mr. Barnes was in New Orleans, where he devoted himself to
discovering, if possible, the early histories of Mr. Mitchel and the
murdered woman. Weeks passed and he made no progress.

One morning in the latter part of April he was feeling somewhat
despondent over his ill success, when, as he glanced listlessly through
the _Picayune_, the following paragraph caught his eye:

"Mr. Barnes, th