“Maybe the cars had something to do with it,” he suggested—­“maybe she had gone down-town.”

“No,” said Jurgis, “she never went down-town.”

“Perhaps not,” said the man.  Jurgis thought he saw him exchange a swift glance with the girl as he spoke, and he demanded quickly.  “What do you know about it?”

But the man had seen that the boss was watching him; he started on again, pushing his truck.  “I don’t know anything about it,” he said, over his shoulder.  “How should I know where your wife goes?”

Then Jurgis went out again and paced up and down before the building.  All the morning he stayed there, with no thought of his work.  About noon he went to the police station to make inquiries, and then came back again for another anxious vigil.  Finally, toward the middle of the afternoon, he set out for home once more.

He was walking out Ashland Avenue.  The streetcars had begun running again, and several passed him, packed to the steps with people.  The sight of them set Jurgis to thinking again of the man’s sarcastic remark; and half involuntarily he found himself watching the cars—­with the result that he gave a sudden startled exclamation, and stopped short in his tracks.

Then he broke into a run.  For a whole block he tore after the car, only a little ways behind.  That rusty black hat with the drooping red flower, it might not be Ona’s, but there was very little likelihood of it.  He would know for certain very soon, for she would get out two blocks ahead.  He slowed down, and let the car go on.

She got out:  and as soon as she was out of sight on the side street Jurgis broke into a run.  Suspicion was rife in him now, and he was not ashamed to shadow her:  he saw her turn the corner near their home, and then he ran again, and saw her as she went up the porch steps of the house.  After that he turned back, and for five minutes paced up and down, his hands clenched tightly and his lips set, his mind in a turmoil.  Then he went home and entered.

As he opened the door, he saw Elzbieta, who had also been looking for Ona, and had come home again.  She was now on tiptoe, and had a finger on her lips.  Jurgis waited until she was close to him.

“Don’t make any noise,” she whispered, hurriedly.

“What’s the matter’?” he asked.  “Ona is asleep,” she panted.  “She’s been very ill.  I’m afraid her mind’s been wandering, Jurgis.  She was lost on the street all night, and I’ve only just succeeded in getting her quiet.”

“When did she come in?” he asked.

“Soon after you left this morning,” said Elzbieta.

“And has she been out since?” “No, of course not.  She’s so weak, Jurgis, she—­”

And he set his teeth hard together.  “You are lying to me,” he said.

Elzbieta started, and turned pale.  “Why!” she gasped.  “What do you mean?”

But Jurgis did not answer.  He pushed her aside, and strode to the bedroom door and opened it.