“My poor little Owlet!”
“At last she ran away from her strange owner, and went, like some poor, little, lost dog, to hunt its mistress through the wide, wide world. But she thought that Goblin Hall lay somewhere among the woods and fields outside the city. She went, trying to find her way out, until she wandered down somewhere—it must have been in the neighborhood of the old Five Points, for she fell into the hands of a thieving ragpicker, who beguiled her into some den, stole her clothes, wrapped her in an old rag of a shawl, took her away in the dead of night, carried her some distance, left her under a stoop, and deserted her.”
“Oh, heavens! How long ago was that?”
“Only two nights.”
“How was she found? Who rescued her? Who brought her to Washington? Go on, please!”
The lawyer paused for a moment and then answered:
“William Harcourt.”
“William Harcourt!” echoed Roma in boundless amazement.
“Yes,” quietly replied Mr. Merritt.
“How, in the name of heaven and all the angels, could he have found her?” demanded Miss Fronde in unabated wonder.