While a nod and a faint smile had done for Kitty, and a “No, I was not very well last night,” had sufficed for Kling, whose eyebrows made the inquiry—­he never finding fault with O’Day for lapses of any kind—­the case was far different when it came to Masie.  The little lady had to be coaxed into one of the easy chairs in the improvised office and comforted with an arm around her shoulder, to say nothing of having her hair smoothed back from her face, followed by a kiss on her white forehead, before her overwrought anxieties were allayed.

That he was not himself was apparent to every one.  Masie was still sure of it when she bade him good-by, and Kling became convinced of it long before the day was over.  As the afternoon wore on, however, he grew calmer.  His indomitable will began to reassert itself.  His manner became more alert, and his glance clearer.

When he found himself able to think, he determined that his first move must be to find Carlin, and that very night.  It had been some weeks since he had visited the ship-chandler.  He had tried the latch several times, and would have repeated his visits had not a bystander told him that Carlin was in the country fitting out a yacht for one of his customers and would not be back for a month.  The time was now up.

And yet, when he thought it all over, could he, in view of this new phase of the case, seek Carlin’s help and advice?  What might be better—­and his heart gave a bound—­would be to see Father Cruse.  The woman whom Kitty had picked up might be one of his waifs, who, overcome by fatigue or illness after leaving the church, had fallen on the door-step where the policeman had found her.

At six o’clock he left the shop with a formal good night to Kling, a hasty, almost abrupt good-by to Masie, and, without a word of any kind to Kitty, whose quiet scrutiny he dreaded, bent his steps to a small eating-room in the basement of one of the old-time private houses in Lexington Avenue, where he sometimes took his meals.  At seven o’clock he was threading his way through the crowds in Third Avenue, searching the face of every one he met.  At eight o’clock, his impatience growing, he turned into 28th Street and mounted the short flight of steps in front of St. Barnabas’s.  The tones of the organ, as well as the illumined stained-glass windows and the groups of people around the swinging doors of the vestibule, showed that a service was being held.  These, however, were the only evidences that a body of people had met to pray inside, both pavements outside being filled with hurrying throngs, as were the barrooms opposite, crowded with loud-talking men lining the bars, with here and there a woman at a table.