She repaired to The Trumpet office without loss of time, and there acquainted her chief with the story of Miss Moreau’s disappearance, not neglecting to mention the burglary of the night before, which even to the women, having no knowledge of its real import, seemed to indicate a sinister connection with subsequent events. Winslow did not disappoint Mrs. Willers by pooh-poohing the matter, as she had half imagined he would; a young lady’s disappearance for twelve hours not being a subject for such tragic consternation. He seemed extremely worried—in fact, showed an anxiety that struck the head of the Woman’s Page as almost odd. He assured her that if Miss Moreau was not heard from that day by midday he would offer secretly to the police department the largest reward ever given in San Francisco, for any trace or tidings of her.
Meantime Barron, having assured himself by visits to all the ticket offices that she had not left the city on any train, had finally taken his case to the police. It had been in their hands only an hour or two, when young Shackleton’s offer of what, in even those extravagant days seemed an enormous reward, was communicated to the department. It put life into the somewhat dormant energies of the officers detailed on the case. Mariposa had not been missing twenty-four hours when the search for her was spreading over the face of the city, where she had been so insignificant a unit, in a thorough and secret network of investigation.
The day wore away with maddening slowness to the women in the house, whose duty it was to sit and wait. To Barron, whose anxiety had been intensified by the torture of his deeper knowledge of the girl’s strange circumstances, existence seemed only bearable as it was directed to finding her. He did not dare now to pause or think. Without stopping to eat or rest he continued his search, now with the detectives, now alone. Several times in the course of the day he reappeared at the Garcia house, drawn thither by the hope that she might have returned. The señora, with the curious tranquillity of the very old which seems not to need the repairing processes of sleep or food, was always to be found sitting by the kitchen stove, upon which some dish or drink simmered for him. He rarely stopped to take either. But returning in the early dusk, he was grateful to find that she had a dry overcoat hanging before the fire for him. The rain still fell in torrents, and the long day spent at its mercy had soaked him.
It was between ten and eleven at night that the old lady and her daughter-in-law, sitting before the stove as they had done the evening before, again heard his step and his key. This time there was no pretense at expectation on either side. His first glance inside the room showed him the heavy dejection of the two faces turned toward him. They, on their part, saw him pale and drawn, as by a month’s illness. They had heard nothing. No investigation of which they were aware had brought in a crumb of comfort. He had heard worse than nothing. There had been talk at the police station that evening of the finding of George Harney, suffering from concussion of the brain, and the sudden departure of Barry Essex, believed to be his assailant.
This information added the last straw to Barron’s agony of apprehension. It seemed as if a plot had culminated in those two days, a plot dark and inexplicable, in which the woman he loved was in some mysterious way involved.
He was standing by the stove responding to the somber queries of the women, when the sound of feet on the porch steps suddenly transfixed them all. Young Mrs. Garcia screamed, while the old lady sat with head bent sidewise listening. Before Barron could get to the door a soft ring at the bell had drawn another scream from the younger woman, who, nevertheless, followed him and stood peeping into the hall, clinging to the door-post.
The opened door sent a flood of light over three figures huddled in the glass porch—two men, a detective and policeman, Barron already knew, and a third, a stranger to him, whose face against the shadowy background looked fresh and boyish.
“Ah, Mr. Barron, we’re lucky to strike you this way at the first shot,” said the detective. “We think we’ve found the lady.”
“Found her? Where? Have you got her there?”
“No; we’re not certain yet if it’s the right one.”