The ride uptown was not unpleasant, but it was soon over, and then Gretel found herself standing on a street corner, in a part of the city that was quite unfamiliar to her. She felt bewildered, and uncertain as to which direction she ought to turn.
“I can’t remember whether it was east or west of Third Avenue,” she said to herself, wondering why her head felt so uncomfortably light. “I’ll try east first and see if the numbers are right.”
She turned down a shabby street, where a great many children were playing on the sidewalk, but after walking a short distance, and scanning the numbers of the houses, she decided that she had made a mistake, and should have crossed the avenue and gone west. So, with a sigh, she turned and retraced her steps to the corner. Having safely crossed the avenue, despite the constant procession of trucks and trolley cars, she once more began an anxious scrutiny of the numbers on the houses. Yes, she was right this time; these were the two hundreds, and two hundred and seventeen was the number of which she was in search. Her heart began to beat very fast again as she neared her destination. After all, it was a long time since she had seen or heard of the Lipheims. Suppose they had moved. Suddenly she stopped short, with a little cry of astonishment.
“Why, why,” she gasped, her eyes growing round with dismay, “that is the house, I’m sure, but—but they’re tearing it down. Nobody can be living there now.”
It was too true. A gang of workmen were engaged in demolishing a building, which had evidently once been an apartment-house; already the doors and windows had been taken out, and a part of the walls were down. Gretel stood quite still, staring stupidly before her. The shock was so sudden and unexpected that for the first few moments she could do nothing but stare in helpless bewilderment. Then, with a great effort, she pulled herself together, and approached one of the workmen.
“Would you please tell me if this house used to be two hundred and seventeen?” she inquired timidly.
“It was that,” the Irishman answered, good-naturedly, “and it’s going to be the same number when it’s made over into a model apartment-house.”
“I—I suppose you don’t know where the people who used to live here have moved to?”
“I do not. Are you looking for somebody who used to live in two seventeen?”
Gretel nodded, and the man regarded the white, tired little face more attentively.