to every word that was uttered. He
was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel
story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the
street.

Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it
seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the
story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed
that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him
when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase
the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_
true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr.
Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming
Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the
witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must
find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the
man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along
the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his
heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his
side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support.

When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed
out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he
reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way
to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him
now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips
whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt
that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor
deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know
it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could
only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday
evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right
and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once
he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to
speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else.

Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the
Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the
other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into
the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners,
making short excursions