“The mail rider’s just been here,” she exclaimed, “and listen to this letter.  It’s from a woman living near New York.  She just got back from Europe and in an old newspaper she read an account of our sky cruise.

“She is certain that The Wren is her daughter and gives a description of her that tallies in every particular.  She said that Wren was caught out in a heavy thunderstorm and sought refuge in a gipsy camp, as she learned afterward from a farmer who had seen her.  She hunted high and low but has never since had word of the child.  Her right name is Sylvia Harvey.  Mrs. James Harvey is her mother, and she’s rushing here as fast as a train will carry her.”

“If it is really Sylvia Harvey then her mother has found her only to lose her again,” sighed Jess.

“Don’t say that,” said Mr. Parker, coming into the room at that moment, “we’ll leave no stone unturned to find her.”

“Did you have any success with the telephone?”

“No; nobody has seen a band of people answering to the descriptions you gave of The Wren’s abductors.”

“Then we can do nothing more?”

The question came from Roy.

“Not to-night.  It would be useless.  I have notified all the police around and a general alarm will be sent out at once.  And now I order every one to bed.  We’ve hard work in front of us tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

CAPTURED BY GIPSIES.

About noon the next day Roy and Jimsy found themselves at the edge of a wild-looking section of country.  They were standing at the entrance to a glen densely wooded with dark, forbidding-looking trees, and walled by precipitous and rugged rocks.

“Looks as if the trail ends here,” said Jimsy disconsolately.

“It sure does.  We can’t——­Gee, Whillikens!”

“What on earth is up now?”

“It’s the broken-toed boot.  Look here on the muddy bank of this little stream.”

“By hooky, it is!  We’ve struck the trail instead of ending it.”

“What will we do; go back for reenforcements?”

“Not just yet.  We’ll reconnoiter a bit.  See, the fellow went up this bank and—­look there, Jimsy—­there’s a little footprint beside.  He was dragging the child along.”

With beating hearts the two boys entered the forbidding-looking glen.  It was almost dark under the trees, which made the aspect of the place even more gloomy and desolate looking.

“This is a nice, cheerful sort of place,” said Jimsy, in a low tone, as they walked along, following the bank of the stream, for the brush was too thick to admit of their walking anywhere else, which is what had driven the broken-booted man to leave a tell-tale trail behind him.

“I rather wish I had a gun,” said Jimsy.

“We won’t get close enough to them to need it,” rejoined Roy; “we’ll just spy out their hiding place and then go back for reenforcements.”