“A child! A baby?” exclaimed Annie, staring.
“Yes!—No!—that is, a little girl of about five or six or seven years old. I am no judge of children’s ages.”
“Lost?”
“It is hard to say. Lost, or dropped, or stolen, I am not sure which. But robbed of her clothing certainly.”
“Well, don’t stand there in the hall. Come in here, Mr. William, and sit down and tell me all about it. Where is the child?” Annie inquired.
Harcourt went into the room, took the chair she offered, sat down and said:
“The child is in my apartment. I think she must have been stolen for blackmailing, or other evil purposes, from a country house away down South in Maryland, and brought to New York! then ran away from her abductor and lost herself in this city, was picked up by a female thief, beguiled into some den, robbed of her clothing and abandoned in these streets. There, that is my theory; but I am not sure it is the correct one.”
“Poor little thing! What can I do for her? I will do anything in the world. Do you want me to take care of her while you go and inform the police?” inquired the gentle woman, in a tone of ready sympathy and helpfulness.
Harcourt hesitated. Then:
“I never once thought of the police,” he said, slowly. And, after a thoughtful pause: “No,” he said, “I do not think I shall trouble the police with this child’s care; at least not just yet a while. The fact is, Annie, that I have strong reasons for believing that this girl is the protégée of a Southern lady whom I once knew. And I hope to be able to restore the child to her without the unpleasant publicity which an application to the police would involve.”