She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited interview pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in the vestibule that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look on her daughter’s face as she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room.  Here she stayed alone for over an hour, and then came down to the parlor, where she remained restless, moving about or standing by the window for a greater part of the morning.

There was something more than usual on hand.  Guilt in its guesses came near the truth.  What could all this mean, if it had not something to do with the cast-off baby?  Certainty at last came.  She was in the dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, and slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the parlors, where, concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that passed between her husband and daughter.

Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her heart.  From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the parlors—­the same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain—­and sat down.

“It had large brown eyes?” said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her voice.

“Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage,” returned the father.

“Didn’t you find out who the women were—­the two bad women the little girl told me about?  If we had their names, the police could find them.  The little girl’s mother must know who they are.”

“We have the name of one of them,” said Mr. Dinneford.  “She is called Pinky Swett, and it can’t be long before the police are on her track.  She is said to be a desperate character.  Nothing more can be done now; we must wait until the police work up the affair.  I will call at the mayor’s office in the morning and find out what has been done.”

Mrs. Dinneford heard no more.  The bell rang, and her husband and daughter left the parlor and went up stairs.  The moment they were beyond observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her chamber without being noticed.  Soon afterward she came down dressed for visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn.  Her manner was hurried.  Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly.  Soon she had passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived.  After this she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was in doubt or hesitation.  Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly retraced her steps for the distance of a square.  Then she wheeled around, as if from some new and strong resolve, and went on again.  At last she paused before a respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighborhood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of the city.  The shutters were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a quiet, unobtrusive look.  Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the bell.