his hand to his head. His hat was gone. He
looked down at his feet. They were soaking wet. His overcoat was
glazed with a coating of fine particles of ice, and his hands were
trembling. He had eaten practically nothing since his lunch of
Tuesday, had walked many miles, and slept but a few hours after a
night of anxious searching, and suddenly he felt faint and sick.

"Come on?" he repeated. "Come where?"

"Where you belong." The policeman's grasp was steadying. "Hurry up. I
can't wait here all night."

"Neither can I." Van Landing took out his handkerchief and wiped his
face. "I wish you'd get my hat." The crowd was pressing closer. He was
losing time and must get away. Besides, he could not trust himself.
The man's manner was insolent, and he was afraid he would kick him.
Instead he slipped some money in his hand.

"Mistake, my friend. You'd have your trouble for nothing if you took
me in. There's no charge save running. I want to find a boy who
passed me just now. Name is Noodles. Know him?"

For a moment the cop hesitated. The man's voice, dress, manner, were
not the sort seen in this section, and the bill slipped in his hand
had a yellow tinge--still--

"I've dropped my hat. Get it, will you?" Van Landing threw some change
in the still gathering crowd, and as they scampered for it he turned
to the policeman, then caught hold of the railing. A hateful faintness
was coming over him again. On the edge of the crowd a girl with a
middle-aged woman had stopped, and the girl was making her way toward
him.

"What is it, Mr. Cronklin? Not one of our boys?" The clear voice
reached him as if at his side. He steadied himself, stared, and tried
to speak.

"Frances," he said, and held out his hands. "You've made me walk so
far, Frances, and Christmas is--"

In the snow his feet slipped. The cop was such a fool. He had never
fainted in his life.

Some one was standing near him. Who was it, and where was he? This
wasn't his room. On his elbow, he looked around. Nothing was
familiar. It must be a woman's room; he could see photographs and a
pin-cushion on the bureau, and flowers were growing on a table near
the window. The bed he was in was small and white. His was big and
brass. What had happened? Slowly it came to him, and he started to get
up, then fell back. The surge of blood receded, and again there was
giddiness. Had he lost her? Had she, too, slipped out of his hands
because of his confounded fall? It was a du