The matron hurried to the secretary and came back with a card.

“Their addresses are there,” she said.  “Both in Chicago and at their home.  They made them full and plain, and I was to cable at once if I got the least clue of him at any time.  If they’ve left the city, you can stop them in New York.  You’re sure to catch them before they sail—­if you hurry.”

The matron caught up a paper and thrust it into the Angel’s hand as she ran to the street.

The Angel glanced at the card.  The Chicago address was Suite Eleven, Auditorium.  She laid her hand on her driver’s sleeve and looked into his eyes.

“There is a fast-driving limit?” she asked.

“Yes, miss.”

“Will you crowd it all you can without danger of arrest?  I will pay well.  I must catch some people!”

Then she smiled at him.  The hospital, an Orphans’ Home, and the Auditorium seemed a queer combination to that driver, but the Angel was always and everywhere the Angel, and her methods were strictly her own.

“I will take you there as quickly as any man could with a team,” he said promptly.

The Angel clung to the card and paper, and as best she could in the lurching, swaying cab, read the addresses over.

“O’More, Suite Eleven, Auditorium.”

“‘O’More,’” she repeated.  “Seems to fit Freckles to a dot.  Wonder if that could be his name?  ‘Suite Eleven’ means that you are pretty well fixed.  Suites in the Auditorium come high.”

Then she turned the card and read on its reverse, Lord Maxwell O’More, M. P., Killvany Place, County Clare, Ireland.

The Angel sat on the edge of the seat, bracing her feet against the one opposite, as the cab pitched and swung around corners and past vehicles.  She mechanically fingered the pasteboard and stared straight ahead.  Then she drew a deep breath and read the card again.

“A Lord-man!” she groaned despairingly.  “A Lord-man!  Bet my hoecake’s scorched!  Here I’ve gone and pledged my word to Freckles I’d find him some decent relatives, that he could be proud of, and now there isn’t a chance out of a dozen that he’ll have to be ashamed of them after all.  It’s too mean!”

The tears of vexation rolled down the tired, nerve-racked Angel’s cheeks.

“This isn’t going to do,” she said, resolutely wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand and gulping down the nervous spasm in her throat.  “I must read this paper before I meet Lord O’More.”

She blinked back the tears and spreading the paper on her knee, read:  “After three months’ fruitless search, Lord O’More gives up the quest of his lost nephew, and leaves Chicago today for his home in Ireland.”

She read on, and realized every word.  The likeness settled any doubt.  It was Freckles over again, only older and well dressed.