There were no answers to these questions.  And now Mr. Maynard took the helm.  He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly.

“Helen,” he said, “try to rouse yourself, darling.  Keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been.  King, I am going out to find Marjorie.  You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your care.  You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother.  Ethel, I’d be glad if you would stay here with Helen, and, Jack,—­will you come with me?”

“Of course,” replied Mr. Bryant.

“And, King,” his father went on, “keep within sound of the telephone.  I may call you at any moment.  Get your sleep, my boy,—­if I should be gone over night,—­but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you.”

“Yes, Father, I’ll look after Mother, and I’ll be right here if you call me.  Where are you going?”

“I don’t know, my son.  I only know I must hunt for Marjorie with such help and such advice as I can procure.  Come on, Jack.”

After affectionate farewells, the two men went away.

“First for that conductor,” said Mr. Maynard.  “I cannot wait till afternoon; I shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home.”

At length he learned that the conductor lived in Asbury Park.  He was off duty at that hour, and Mr. Maynard tried to get him by telephone, but the line was out of order.

“To his house we go, then,” and the two men boarded the first possible train.

At Asbury Park they found his house, but the conductor’s wife, Mrs. Fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his rest.

But after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady became sympathetic and helpful.

“Of course I’ll call him,” she cried; “oh, the poor mother! my heart aches for her!”

Mr. Fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes.  It was about noon, and he was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o’clock.

“Why, yes,” he said, in answer to their queries.  “I remember that girl.  I didn’t think much about her,—­for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road.  But, somehow, I don’t think that child went to New York,—­no, I don’t think she did.”

“Where did she get off?” asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

“Ah, that I don’t know.  You see, the summer crowds are travelling now and I don’t notice individuals much.”

“Can’t you tell by your tickets?” asked Mr. Bryant.

“No, sir; I don’t see’s I can.  You know, lots of people did go to New York on my train, and so, I’ve lots of New York tickets, but of course I couldn’t tell if I had hers.  And yet,—­seems to me,—­just seems to me,—­that child got off at a way station.”