"Who spoke?" exclaimed the detective, springing back from the church-yard rail against which he had been leaning.
Save himself and his companion, not a soul was to be seen either on Rector street or Broadway.
With a low cry the boy had seized him by the arm.
"There—there!" he whispered, trembling with excitement, pointing, at the same time to the open expanse of the Trinity church-yard within the rail, by the side of which they stood.
The eyes of Caleb Hook followed the direction indicated by Frank's hand.
There, moving among the headstones in the shadow of the church itself, was the form of a woman, cheaply dressed in a faded calico, an old shawl and a woolen hood.
She was tall and thin, and her long gray hair hung in a tangled mass down her neck and shoulders.
"Great God! if it ain't——"
"My mother!" cried the boy aloud, springing toward the rail. "It is! It is! Look! she faces us now. God have mercy! What can this mean?"
The form had paused, and, turning, gazed sorrowfully toward the astonished pair beneath the stars which glistened above.