It made a pretty picture this morning as it turned into the busier street and took its way among the dark, snorting cars that pushed and sped.  It was like a delicate dream that shimmered and touched the pavement—­or like a breath of the past... and the great cars skimmed around it and pushed on with quick honk and left it far behind.

But the carriage kept its way with unhurried rhythm—­into the busy street and out again into a long avenue where great houses of cement and grey stone stood guard.

No one was in sight, up and down its clear length—­only the morning sun shining on the grey stones and on the pavement—­and the little jingling in the harness and the joyous child and the quiet grey woman beside her.

“I shall not be gone a minute, Betty,” said Miss Stone.  The carriage had drawn up before the great shadow of a house.  She gave the child’s hand a little pat and stepped from the carriage.

But at the door there was a minute’s question and, with a nod to Betty, she stepped inside.

When the door opened again, and she came out with quick step she glanced at her watch—­the errand had taken more than its minute, and there were others to be done, and they were late.  She lifted her eyes to the carriage—­and stopped.

The coachman, from the corner of his eye, waited for orders.  But Miss Stone did not stir.  Her glance swept the quiet street and came back to the carriage—­standing with empty cushions in the shadow of the house.

The coachman turned a stolid eye and caught a glimpse of her face and wheeled quickly—­his eye searching space.  “There wa’n’t nobody!” he said.  He almost shouted it, and his big hands gripped hard on the reins....  His face was grey—­“There wa’n’t nobody here!” he repeated dully.

But Miss Stone did not look at him.  “Drive to the Greek’s.  You know—­where she went before.”  She would not give herself time to think—­sitting a little forward on the seat—­of course the child had gone to the Greek—­to Mr. Achilles....  They should find her in a minute.  There was nothing else to think about—­no shadowy fear that had leaped to meet the look in James’s face when it turned to her.  The child would be there—­

The carriage drew up before the shop, with its glowing lines of fruit under the striped awning, and Miss Stone had descended before the wheel scraped the curb, her glance searching the door and the dim room beyond.  She halted on the threshold, peering in.

A man came from the rear of the room, his hands outstretched to serve her.  The dark, clear face, with its Greek lines, and the eyes that looked out at her held a welcome.  “You do me honour,” he said.  “I hope Madame is well—­and the little Lady—?” Then he stopped.  Something in Miss Stone’s face held him—­and his hand groped a little, reaching toward her—­“You—­tell me—­” he said.

But she did not speak, and the look in her face grew very still.