“There’s another, though!” cried Larry. “He went down the fire-escape. See if you can stop him. It may be Parloti, though it didn’t look like him. Then call the police to take this one. Lorenzo, I’m going to take you to your mother!”
“Oh, señor, the dear Lord will bless you for that!” cried the boy, as he fell weeping into Larry’s arms.
Eager hands took charge of the kidnapper, who was soon turned over to the police. A hasty search failed to disclose his confederate, who escaped, though eventually he was captured.
And then Larry performed what was one of the happiest acts of his life. He restored the stolen boy to his happy mother. In an automobile, one of the few in the town, the trip was made to the motorboat, and then to the hotel where Madame Androletti, Grace and Mr. Potter were stopping.
“Oh, mother!” cried Lorenzo, as he ran into her arms.
“My boy! My boy!” gasped the happy mother, and then when she had kissed him, her next caress was for Larry, who received it blushingly enough.
“I have two boys now,” said the singer proudly. “My own, and the one who brought my own to me.”
“But how on earth did you do it, Larry?” asked Grace, when some semblance to calmness had been restored. The young reporter told his story, modestly enough, and Lorenzo added to it.
“And how did they take you away?” inquired the singer of her son.
“It was in the theater where you sang that night,” he explained. “A man came to me as I stood in the wings. He said you wanted me to get something from your dressing-room. When he had me in a dark corner he put a cloth over my face. It smelled sweet and sickish.”