“But alone!  And at this hour!  Miss Hermione, that was surely very—­er—­unwise of you.”

“Yes, you see I didn’t know where to look,” she sighed.  “I’ve been to the saloon but he wasn’t there—­”

“The saloon?  Good Lord!” exclaimed Ravenslee, his placidity quite forgotten, his face set and stern.  “That is no place for you—­or any girl—­”

“I must go to find Arthur,” she said softly.

“No, not there—­even for that.”

“Why not?”

“Think of the—­the risks you run!  No girl should take such chances.”

“Oh, you mean—­that!” said Hermione, meeting his eyes with her frank glance.  “But no one would try to insult me hereabouts; this isn’t Broadway or Fifth Avenue, Mr. Geoffrey!” and she smiled a very sad, weary little smile.  “But I came to ask if you happened to know where Arthur is or—­whom he was with?”

“Wasn’t wid that Bud M’Ginnis, was he?” questioned Mrs. Trapes sharply.

“No, he wasn’t with M’Ginnis,” answered Mr. Ravenslee, in frowning perplexity, “but that’s about all I can tell you.”

“Thank you,” sighed the girl, “I must go and try again.  I know I shall find him—­soon.”  But, though she tried to speak in a tone of cheerful confidence, her shapely head drooped rather hopelessly.

“You mean you are going out on to the—­to look for him again?”

“Why, of course,” she answered, “I must find Arthur!”

“Don’t, Hermy, don’t—­so pale an’ tired as you are, don’t go again!” pleaded Mrs. Trapes, her usual sharpness transfigured into a deep and yearning tenderness; even her voice seemed to lose something of its harshness.  “Don’t worry, my sweet, the b’y’ll find his way home right enough, like he did last time.”

“Like—­last time!” cried Hermione, and shivering, she leaned against the wall as if she were faint.  “Ah, no, no!” she whispered, “not—­like last time!” and bowing her head she hid her face in her hands.

Close, close about that quivering form came two motherly arms, and Mrs. Trapes fell to passionate invective and tender soothing, thus: 

“There, there, my love—­my pretty, don’t remember that last time!  Oh, drat my fool’s tongue for remindin’ you, drat it, my dear, my honey!  Ah, don’t go breakin’ your angel’s ’eart along of Arthur, my precious—­and drat him too!  That b’y’ll come back all right, he will—­he will, I know he will.  Oh, if I was only behind ’im with a toasting fork!  There, there, Hermy dear, don’t fret, Arthur’ll come home all right.  My honey, you’re all tuckered out, an’ here it’s gettin’ on to midnight, an’ you to go to Englewood by the early car!  Go to bed, dear, an’ I’ll sit up for Arthur.  Only don’t cry, Hermy—­”

“Oh, I’m not crying, dear,” said Hermione, lifting her head.  “See, I haven’t shed a tear!  But I must find Arthur.  I couldn’t rest or sleep; I should lie listening for his step.  So you see, dear, I must go out and find him!”