ustomer's face. He drew back with a great
cry. The man's face was as white as death, and at that instant he
became aware of the strong odor of chloroform, which filled the vehicle
to suffocation.

"Here's a pretty go," muttered the cabman, "and in my coach too.

"The best thing to do would be to dash a cup of water over him and
restore him to consciousness."

The cabman hurried to a watering-trough a few feet distant. Snatching up
one of the tin cups which was fastened to it by a chain, he soon
wrenched it free. But before he had advanced a single step with its
contents, a great cry of horror broke from his lips; the horses dashed
suddenly forward and were galloping madly down the same street which
they had so lately traversed.

He reported his loss to the nearest station, not daring to mention the
serious condition of the occupants of the cab. But up to noon the
following day not even a trace of the vehicle could be discovered.

Old Mrs. Varrick was fairly paralyzed over the disappearance of little
Jessie, whom she had learned to love as a daughter. She would not
believe that she had left the house of her own accord--wandered away
from it.

"There has been foul play here," she cried.

And immediately old Stephen, the servant, said to himself:

"It all comes from the stranger who was loitering about the place about
a week ago;" and he made up his mind to do a little detective work on
his own account. "If he is in the city, I will find him," he muttered.
"I will tramp night and day up and down the streets until I meet him.
Then I will openly accuse him of abducting poor pretty Miss Jessie."

He went to his old mistress and asked for leave of absence for a few
days. Mrs. Varrick shook her head mournfully.

"I should not think you would want to leave me, when you see me in all
this trouble, Stephen," she said. "You should stand by me, though every
one else fails me. Only this morning the butler gave notice that he
intended to leave here on the morrow, and he, like yourself, has been
with me for years."

"I am not surprised to hear that, ma'am," returned Stephen, laconically,
"for ever since that fatal night in the library the butler has had a
very horror of the place. He's as tender-hearted as a little child,
ma'am, the butler is. Why, he takes Master Hubert's trials to heart
terribly. He walks the floor night and day, muttering excitedly: 'Heaven
save poor Master Hubert!'"

Although every precaution was tak