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 into side streets; block after block, until he reached the Hyde Park bridge.  He was tired and disheartened as he turned back and wondered what he should do next.  Then it occurred to him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night.  Perhaps the lawyer was still waiting for him.  Perhaps, if he should appeal to him, the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth known before injustice should be done.