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“No, no,” cried Teacher, “not that. I don’t think I could bear it. And as for him, he would either kill or die. He’s almost spent with rage and starvation. I think you’ll find him more amenable than he was before.”

Mr. Eissler did not find him at all. Room 18 awaited them, pleasant, orderly, and empty. Empty, too, was the whole great building and all the rooms they searched through, save for the sweeper women who met their queries blankly. They had noticed no boy.

“Again!” exclaimed Miss Bailey, almost tearfully, as they returned. “What shall I ever do about him? I meant, you know, to take him now, this very afternoon, while I had him, up to the Society’s rooms in Twenty-third Street.”

“How often has he been here altogether?” asked Mr. Eissler. Teacher crossed to her desk, sat down at it, and commenced to turn the pages of the Roll Book with listless hand. Mr. Eissler stood beside her, and behind them both the door of the supply closet in which all class necessities were stored opened gently, noiselessly, inch by inch, until the Fire-lighter stood forth with a sheet of sulphur matches in his hand. The joy of coming vengeance made his little face look very old as he advanced upon the unsuspecting backs of his enemies. He struck one of his matches upon some inner surface of his rags, and as Teacher pointed and Mr. Eissler stopped to examine all the crosses which marked one section of the Roll Book, the Fire-lighter held the match to the hem of Miss Bailey’s heavy walking skirt. It burned dully, and the child had shut himself into the closet again before the smell of fire was noticed and located.

Then alarmed and excited was Mr. Eissler, but not reduced to panic. In a moment he had smothered the smoulder, and was beating off the sparks with his ruler.

Miss Bailey just then chanced to turn toward the closet door and saw a curl of smoke making its way stealthily through a crack in one of the panels. Mr. Eissler saw it too, threw the door open, and revealed the lost child–his rags all smoking and smouldering about him. They threw Miss Bailey’s heavy ulster about him, and rolled him upon the floor, patting and pressing the bundle until they were quite sure that no fire remained. Then Teacher, kneeling down, turned back the ulster. Very quiet and relaxed lay her problem.

“Dead?” she questioned in terror.

“Oh, hardly. Slip your hand in over his heart.”

Teacher did so and breathed again. “Beating,” said she, and withdrew her hand, and in her cuff-link was entangled a thin string.

“Gold,” exclaimed Eissler instantly; “dirty, but gold.”

Miss Bailey drew the chain out further and disclosed a flat locket.

“Cut it off and keep it for him,” Eissler advised. “I’m going to ring for the ambulance, and I know that there would be precious little gold left on him by the time he reached the ward. I’ll send one of the women to you as I go.” And so Miss Bailey sat on the floor and regarded this bitter fruit of her striving. A child–a little child, hunted, wounded, as far as she could see even unto death. And for the thousandth time she let despair roll over her. What was the use? What was the use?

Some time later up in the dressing-room she was removing as best she could the marks of her experience, when it occurred to her to examine the locket. It was a thin gold affair with a smudge of dirt upon each side of it, and she devoted her efforts to one of these smudges. She rubbed it with a towel, and stood incredulous, carried back to the Mystery Stories of her own youth, for a monogram in diamonds winked and twinkled at her. She tried the other side and unearthed a coronet. After much careful search she managed to open the locket. And the Mystery held. On one side a beautiful woman, on the other a coil of baby hair. All was as it should be.