“But think of her terror—­her suffering!” cried Uncle John, wringing his chubby hands.  “Poor child!  It may be his idea to compromise her, and break her heart!”

“We’ll stop all that, John, never fear,” promised the Major.  “The first thing to do is to find a good detective.”

“Fogerty!” exclaimed Arthur, searching for the card.

“Who’s Fogerty?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get the best man possible!” commanded Mr. Merrick.  “Spare no expense; hire a regiment of detectives, if necessary; I’ll—­”

“Of course you will,” interrupted the Major, smiling.  “But we won’t need a regiment.  I’m pretty sure the game is in our hands, from the very start.”

“Fogerty is highly recommended,” explained Arthur, and related what the house detective of the Waldorf had said.

“Better go at once and hunt him up,” suggested Uncle John.  “What time is it?”

“After two o’clock.  But I’ll go at once.”  “Do; and let us hear from you whenever you’ve anything to tell us,” said the Major.

“Where’s Patsy?” asked Arthur.

“Sound asleep.  Mind ye, not a word of this to Patsy till she has to be told.  Remember that, John.”

“Well, I’ll go,” said the young man, and hurried away.

Q. Fogerty lived on Eleventh street, according to his card.  Arthur drove down town, making good time.  The chauffeur asked surlily if this was to be “an all-night job,” and Arthur savagely replied that it might take a week.  “Can’t you see, Jones, that I’m in great trouble?” he added.  “But you shall be well paid for your extra time.”

“All right, sir.  That’s no more than just,” said the man.  “It’s none of my affair, you know, if a young lady gets stolen.”

Arthur was wise enough to restrain his temper and the temptation to kick Jones out of the limousine.  Five minutes later they paused before a block of ancient brick dwellings and found Fogerty’s number.  A card over the bell bore his name, and Arthur lit a match and read it.  Then he rang impatiently.

Only silence.

Arthur rang a second time; waited, and rang again.  A panic of fear took possession of him.  At this hour of night it would be well-nigh impossible to hunt up another detective if Fogerty failed him.  He determined to persist as long as there was hope.  Again he rang.

“Look above, sir,” called Jones from his station in the car.

Arthur stepped back on the stone landing and looked up.  A round spark, as from a cigarette, was visible at the open window.  While he gazed the spark glowered brighter and illumined a pale, haggard boy’s face, surmounted by tousled locks of brick colored hair.

“Hi, there!” said Arthur.  “Does Mr. Fogerty live here?”

“He pays the rent,” answered a boyish voice, with a tinge of irony.  “What’s wanted?” “Mr. Fogerty is wanted.  Is he at home?”

“He is,” responded the boy.