“I am taking him home, Paulette, where we can talk. You will find us there when you come back.”
“I was only a little kid about twelve years old, but I remember what a darling child you were,” said Philip, as they continued their way.
“It is a long time, nearly fifteen years ago, and I am no more a child,” returned Lucie soberly.
“You have had hard times, then?”
“I will tell you.”
She took him to the pathetically poor little home and there she told him all. More than once during the recital he sprang from the broken step upon which they were sitting and paced the walk, biting his lip and muttering under his breath. At the close of her story he broke forth into rapid speech. “My sister! My sister! We must find her. If only I may be spared to look for her, to bring her back. I must try to get in touch with your father. You know where he is?”
Lucie gave him the address, which he carefully wrote down in his notebook.
“What a duffer to think I should find you all in some safe place. If I had only known. If I had only come sooner.”
“What could you have done, my uncle?”
“I don’t know, but I could have tried.”