“I’ve heard of her, but do not know her by sight.  She bears a hard reputation even here, and adds to her many evil accomplishments the special one of adroit robbery.  A victim lured to her den rarely escapes without loss of watch or pocket-book.  And not one in a hundred dares to give information, for this would expose him to the public, and so her crimes are covered.  Pinky Swett is not the one to bother herself about a baby unless its parentage be known, and not then unless the knowledge can be turned to advantage.”

“The first thing to be done, then, is to find this woman,” said the policeman.

“That will not be very hard work.  But finding the baby, if she thinks you are after it, would not be so easy,” returned Mr. Paulding.  “She’s as cunning as a fox.”

“We shall see.  If the chief of police undertakes to find the baby, it won’t be out of sight long.  You’d better confer with the mayor again,” added the policeman, addressing Mr. Dinneford.

“I will do so without delay,” returned that gentleman.

“I hope to see you here again soon,” said the missionary as Mr. Dinneford was about going.  “If I can help you in any way, I shall do so gladly.”

“I have no doubt but that you can render good service.”  Then, in half apology, and to conceal the real concern at his heart, Mr. Dinneford added, “Somehow, and strangely enough when I come to think of it, I have allowed myself to get drawn into this thing, and once in, the natural persistence of my character leads me to go on to the end.  I am one of those who cannot bear to give up or acknowledge a defeat; and so, having set my hand to this work, I am going to see it through.”

When the little girl who had taken Edith to the mission-house in Briar street got home and told her story, there was a ripple of excitement in that part of Grubb’s court where she lived, and a new interest was felt in the poor neglected baby.  Mr. Paulding’s visit and inquiries added to this interest.  It had been several days since Pinky Swett’s last visit to the child to see that it was safe.  On the morning after Edith’s call at the mission she came in about ten o’clock, and heard the news.  In less than twenty minutes the child and the woman who had charge of it both disappeared from Grubb’s court.  Pinky sent them to her own room, not many squares distant, and then drew from the little girl who was in Edith’s sewing-class all she knew about that young lady.  It was not much that the child could tell.  She was very sweet and good and handsome, and wore such beautiful clothes, was so kind and patient with the girls, but she did not remember her name, thought it was Edith.

“Now, see here,” said Pinky, and she put some money into the child’s hand; “I want you to find out for me what her name is and where she lives.  Mind, you must be very careful to remember.”

“What do you want to know for?” asked the little girl.

“That’s none of your business.  Do what I tell you,” returned Pinky, with impatience; “and if you do it right, I’ll give you a quarter more.  When do you go again?”