He had not yet, however, left the room, when one of the audience, a policeman off duty, stepped forward, and, intimating that he had something to say, was sworn, and went on to tell how he had been leaning against a lamp-post at the extreme of his beat, just resting a bit, in the edge of evening before last, when he saw an old woman that they call Mother Winch come up the street, carrying a bundle, and leading a little girl.  He knew she hadn’t any child of her own; and the child was dressed very poor; and Mother Winch called her Judy or Biddy, or some Paddy-name or other; and maybe it was all right, and maybe it wasn’t.  It could be worked up easy enough, he supposed.

So supposed the detective in whose hands the clew was immediately placed; but when, an hour later, he descended the steps into Mother Winch’s cellar, he found that a keener and a swifter messenger than himself had already called the wretched old woman to account; and she lay across the rusty old stove, quite dead, with a broken bottle of spirit upon the floor beside her, and all the front of her body shockingly burned.  The coroner who was called to see her decided that she had fallen across the stove, either in a fit, or too much intoxicated to move, and had died unconscious of her situation.  She was buried by public charity, and in her grave seemed hidden every hope of tracing the lost child.

“She must have been carried from the city,” said the detectives; and the search was extended into the country, and to other towns and cities, although not neglected at home.

CHAPTER XII.

Teddy’s temptation.

Teddy Ginniss sat alone in his master’s office, feeling very sad and forlorn:  for Dr. Wentworth had that morning said that the chance of life for his little patient was very, very small; and it seemed to Teddy heavier news than human heart had ever borne before.  His morning duties over, he had seated himself at his little table, and tried to study the lesson given him by Mr. Burroughs upon the previous day; but a heavy heart makes dim eyes, and the page where Teddy’s were fixed seemed to him no better than a crowd of disjointed letters swimming in a blinding mist.

A hasty step was heard upon the stair; and, passing the sleeve of his jacket across his eyes, the boy bent closer over the book as his master entered the room.

“Any one been in this morning, Teddy?” asked Mr. Burroughs, passing into the inner office.

“No, sir.”

“I am going out of town for a day or two, Teddy,—­going to New York; and Mr. Barlow will be here to attend to the business.  You will do whatever he wishes as you would for me.  You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The good-natured young man, struck by the mournful tone of Teddy’s usually hearty voice, turned and looked sharply at him.

“Aren’t you well, Teddy?”