ousness that a measure of responsibility for it belonged
to himself. Might he not have prevented her departure? He could not,
indeed, have been supposed to know that she was running away. But he did
not allow himself to plead any excuse on that account. He ought to have
known, was his continual reflection, that she would come to harm--going
away by herself like that; and, at least, he might have questioned her as
to where she was going. Through all the years, he had not ceased to
afflict himself with such thoughts as these. Once he actually mentioned
his self-accusing thoughts to "Cobbler" Horn. It was on one of the rare
occasions when the afflicted father had spontaneously spoken of his lost
child to his humble friend. He gazed blankly at the little huckster, for
a moment, as though he had not understood. Then, perceiving his drift, he
gently answered, "My dear friend, you could not help it. Please do not
speak of it again."

Tommy had always yearned for the recovery of the child; and, the wish
being father to the thought, he fully shared with "Cobbler" Horn himself
the expectation that she would eventually return. This expectation kept
him on the alert; and there is little cause to wonder that even so slight
a sign as the poise of the secretary's head, or the manner in which she
walked, should have induced him to think, for some passing moments, that
his long-cherished desire had been fulfilled at last.

And now, although he had dismissed that belief, it had left him more
vigilant than ever. It may be questioned, indeed, whether he had actually
dismissed it, or whether, having been dismissed, it had really gone away.
There are visitors who will take no hint to depart. It would seem that
here was such a visitor. The discarded impression that little Marian had
come back in the person of "Cobbler" Horn's secretary refused to be
banished from Tommy Dudgeon's mind. Henceforth he would have no peace
until he had set the fateful question at rest once for all.

To this end he watched for the young secretary day by day. A hundred times
a day he went to the shop-door, to gaze along the street; and at frequent
intervals he craned his neck to get a better view through the window. He
would leave the most profitable customer, at the sound of a footstep
without, or at the shutting of a neighbouring door. He gave himself to
deep ponderings, in the midst of which he became oblivious of all around.
His anxiety told upon his appetite,