"We've lost Ethel," said my husband quietly.
"What do you mean? You don't"—
"No, no: she's gone; she's stolen. We don't know where she is," he answered with faltering voice. "We've just been to the police."
Miss Clare turned white; but, instead of making any remark, she called out to some of her friends whose good manners were making them leave the room,—
"Don't go, please; we want you." Then turning to me, she asked, "May I do as I think best?"
"Yes, certainly," answered my husband.
"My friend, Mrs. Percivale," she said, addressing the whole assembly, "has lost her little girl."
A murmur of dismay and sympathy arose.
"What can we do to find her?" she went on.
They fell to talking among themselves. The next instant, two men came up to us, making their way from the neighborhood of the door. The one was a keen-faced, elderly man, with iron-gray whiskers and clean-shaved chin; the other was my first acquaintance in the neighborhood, the young bricklayer. The elder addressed my husband, while the other listened without speaking.