“They threatened to arrest her, sir.  It would have killed her.”

“They wouldn’t dare arrest her on suspicion.”

“The Squierses would dare do anything.  You don’t know old Mrs. Squiers.”

“I know the law, sir, and in any event it was a foolish thing, as well as criminal, to forge a check to get the money they demanded.”

“You are right, sir,” replied Tom Gates, despondently.  “It was foolish and criminal.  I wouldn’t mind my own punishment, but it drove my Lucy mad.”

“See here,” said Kenneth, sternly, “you are getting morbid, young man, and pretty soon you’ll be mad yourself.  If Lucy is found do you want her to see you in this condition?”

“Can she be found, sir, do you think?”

“We are trying to find her,” replied Kenneth.  “You have failed, it seems, and Will Rogers had failed.  I’ve had one of the cleverest detectives of Chicago trying to find her for the last three days.”

“Oh, Kenneth!” exclaimed Beth.  “I didn’t know that.  How good of you!”

“It must have been the detective that came to see Mrs. Rogers,” said Tom, musingly.  “She told me a strange man had been there from Mr. Forbes, to inquire all about Lucy.”

“Yes; he makes a report to me every evening,” remarked Kenneth; “and Mr. Burke says this is the most mystifying case he has ever encountered.  So far there isn’t a clew to follow.  But you may rest assured that what any man can do, Burke will do.”

“I’m so grateful, sir!” said Tom.

“Then you must show it by being a man, and not by giving way to your trouble in this foolish manner.”

“I’ll try, sir, now that there’s something to hope for.”

“There’s a good deal to hope for.  Despair won’t help you.  You must go to work.”

“I will.  It won’t be very easy to get work, for I’ve disgraced myself in this neighborhood, and I can’t leave here till something is known of Lucy’s fate.  But I’ll do something—­any kind of work—­if I can get it.”

“I need someone to assist me in my correspondence,” said Kenneth.  “Would you like to be my secretary?”

“Me, Mr. Forbes—­me!”

“Yes, Tom.  I’ll pay you twenty dollars a week to start with, and more if you serve me faithfully.  And you’ll board here, of course.”

Then Tom Gates broke down and began to cry like a child, although he tried hard to control himself.

“You—­you must forgive me, Mr. Forbes,” he said, penitently; “I—­I’ve been without sleep for so long that I haven’t any nerves left.”

“Then you must go to sleep now, and get a good rest.”  He turned to Beth.  “Will you see Martha,” he asked, “and have her give Tom Gates a room?”

She went on her errand at once, and gradually the young man recovered his composure.

“I can do typewriting and stenography, Mr. Forbes,” he said, “and I can keep accounts.  I’ll serve you faithfully, sir.”