So intent was he in discovering Sunny that he did not see his mother, sitting in the darkened room by the window. Through dim eyes Mrs. Hammond had been staring into the street, and listening to the nearby rumble of the Sixth Avenue elevated trains. Somehow the roar of the elevated spelled to the woman the cruelty and the power of the mighty city, out into which she had driven the young girl, whose eyes had entreated her like a little wounded creature. The club woman thought of her admonitions and speeches to the girls she had professionally befriended, yet here, put to a personal test, she had failed signally.
Her son was coming through the studio again, calling up toward the gallery above:
"Hi! Sunny, old scout, where are you?"
He turned, with a start, as his mother called his name. His first impulse of welcome halted as he saw her face, and electrically there flashed through Jerry a realisation of the truth. His mother's presence there was connected with Sunny's absence.
"Mother, where is Sunny? What are you doing here? Where is Sunny, I say?"
He shot the questions at her frantically. Mrs. Hammond began to whimper, dabbing at her face with her handkerchief.
"For heaven's sake, answer me. What have you done with Sunny?"
"Jerry, how can I tell you? Jerry—Miss Falcon-er and I—we—we thought it was for your good. I didn't realise that you c-cared so much about her, and I—and we——Oh-h-h," she broke down, crying uncontrolledly, "we have driven that poor little girl out—into the street."
"You what? What is that you say?"
He stared at his mother with a look of loathing.