Sydney began to lose his patience.

“You seem to think I mean you some harm,” he said.  “You are quite wrong there.  It is a matter of money, of a fortune that belongs to Mr. Maurice Parley, if I can find him.”

The old lady looked at him keenly.

“That’s what caused all his trouble,” she said slowly.  “Fortunes.  He was always thinking of them.”

“Can’t you tell me where he is now?” Sydney went on in a coaxing tone.  “You appear to know a good deal about him.”

“Oh, Mr.—­ I?  Do I show it?” A terrified look came into the old lady’s eyes.  Her fingers clutched tightly at each side of the doorway over which she had mounted guard.

Sydney was by this time convinced that there was some mystery about Maurice Darley, which the woman before him was seeking to conceal.

“What if he is dead?”

The old lady brought this out with a sort of triumphant tone.

“But he isn’t dead,” Sydney returned, with almost the same manner.  “If he was you would have said so long ago.  You see I can understand some things.  But why are you so secret about him?  Tell me, did you ever hear him speak of a Mr. Tyler?”

“Hush, hush!” The old lady put her fingers over her lips and advanced to Sydney as if to thrust him out of the door.  “Not now.  Not here,” she added in an imploring tone.

Sydney was compelled to back out of the door into the street, but he held it open partially to say: 

“I must find out about Maurice Darley.  It is for his good, not mine.  Where can I see you about him?  Will you come to my office on Chestnut Street?”

“No, no.  I can’t go away,” the old lady replied.

She was glancing backward over her shoulder every instant or two.

“Will you give me your name, then, so I can write to you?” Sydney went on.  “Or if I write to Mr. Darley here will you give it to him?”

“No, only write to me, Mrs. Hannah Fox,” and with that the door was closed in his face.

Sydney lingered in front of it a second.  He had a blind impulse to ring the bell and compel her to open it again.  But he knew that it would be useless, so he turned his steps slowly toward Chestnut street and went to his office.

He found that his absence all day had been productive of not a little harm.

“But this is a part of the expiation,” he murmured to himself.

He put aside the letters waiting to be answered, and set himself to the task of composing the one to Mrs. Fox.  It took him a long while to write it.  He tore up several completed ones.

The usual hour for closing the office arrived.  The boy hovered about his desk, seeming to hope that his presence would remind his employer that it was time to go home.

Sydney looked up at last.

“You may go, John,” he said.  “I will mail this.”

But when the boy had gone he read over what he had written, then tore it into very small pieces and dropped them in the waste paper basket.  Then he took a fresh sheet and began again.