"I know him," said Foley, with a glance of hatred directed at Jack.

"He's a thief. He's been in my employ, but he's run away with fifty
dollars belonging to me."

"I don't care about stealing the kind of money you deal in," said Jack,
coolly. "It's all a lie this man tells you."

"Why do you arrest me?" said Foley. "It's an outrage. You have no right
to enter my house like this."

"What is your business?" demanded the police sergeant.

"I'm a physician."

"If you are telling the truth, no harm will be done you. Meanwhile, we
must search your house. Where is that secret staircase?"

"I'll show you," answered Jack.

He showed the way upstairs.

"How did you get out?" he asked Foley, as he touched the spring, and the
secret door flew open.

"Curse you!" exclaimed Foley, darting a look of hatred and malignity at
him. "I wish I had you in my power once more. I treated you too well."

We need not follow the police in their search. The discoveries which
they made were ample to secure the conviction of the gang who made this
house the place of their operations. To anticipate a little, we may say
that Foley was sentenced to imprisonment for a term of years, and his
subordinates to a term less prolonged. The reader will also be glad to
know that to our hero was awarded the prize of a thousand dollars which
had been offered for the apprehension of the gang of counterfeiters.

But there was another notable capture made that day.

Mrs. Hardwick was accustomed to make visits to Foley to secure false
bills, and to make settlement for what she had succeeded in passing off.

While Jack and the officers were in the house she rang the door bell.

Jack went to the door.

"How is this?" she asked.

"Oh," said Jack, "it's all right. Come in. I've gone into the business,
too."

Mrs. Hardwick entered. No sooner was she inside than Jack closed the
door.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, suspiciously. "Let me out."

But Jack was standing with his back to the door. The door to the right
opened, and a policeman appeared.

"Arrest this woman," said Jack. "She's one of them."

"I suppose I must yield," said Peg, sulkily; "but you shan't be a gainer
by it," she continued, addressing Jack.

"Where is Ida?" asked our hero, anxiously.

"She is safe," said Peg, sententiously.

"You won't tell me where she is?"

"No; why should I? I suppose I am indebted to you for this arrest. She
shall be kept out of your way as long as I have power to do so."

"Then I shall find her," said Jack. "She is somewhere in the city, and
I'll find her sooner or later."

Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great
disappointment to her. It interfered with a plan she had of making a
large sum out of Ida. To understand what this was, we must go back a day
or two, and introduce a new character.




CHAPTER XXXI

MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE


Jack's appearance on the scene had set Mrs. Hardwick to thinking. This
was the substance of her reflections: Ida, whom she had kidnaped for
certain reasons of her own, was likely to prove an incumbrance rather
than a source of profit. The child, her suspicions awakened in regard to
the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no
longer available for that purpose.

Under these circumstances Peg bethought herself of the ultimate object
which she had proposed to herself in kidnaping Ida--that of extorting
money from a man who has not hitherto figured in our story.

John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging
house in Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of forty, he
looked many years older than that age. Late hours and dissipated habits,
though kept within respectable limits, left their traces on his face. At
twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with
some professional income--for he was a lawyer, and not without
ability--was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a
considerable surplus every year. But latterly he had contracted a
passion for gaming, and, shrewd though he might be naturally, he could
hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily _habitues_ of the
gaming table, who had marked him for their prey.

The evening before his introduction to the reader he had passed till a
late hour at a fashionable gaming house, where he had lost heavily.

His reflections on waking were not the most pleasant. For the first time
within fifteen years he realized the folly and imprudence of the course
he had pursued. The evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for
which he had given his IOU. Where to raise the money he did not know.
After making his toilet, he rang the bell and ordered breakfast.

For this he had but scanty appetite. He drank a cup of coffee and ate
part of a roll. Scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of
the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor.

"Is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing that it might be a
creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.

"No, sir."

"A lady?"

"No, sir."

"A child? But what could a child want of me?"

"No, sir. It isn't a child," said the servant, in reply.

"Then if it's neither a gentleman, lady nor child," said Somerville,
"will you have the goodness to inform me what sort of a being it is?"

"It's a woman, sir," answered the servant, his gravity unmoved.

"Why didn't you say so when I asked you?"

"Because you asked me if it was a lady, and this isn't--leastways she
don't look like one."

"You can send her up, whoever she is," said Somerville.

A moment afterward Peg entered his presence.

John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she
might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. So
many years had passed since he had met with this woman that she had
passed out of his remembrance.

"Do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked. "You must be quick,
for I am just going out."

"You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville."

"I can't say I do," he replied, carelessly. "Perhaps you used to wash
for me once."

"I am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman, proudly.

"In that case," said Somerville, languidly, "you will have to tell me
who you are, for it is quite out of my power to remember all the people
I meet."

"Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection; or have you
forgotten that name, too?"

"Ida!" repeated John Somerville, throwing off his indifferent manner,
and surveying the woman's features attentively. "Yes."

"I have known several persons of that name," he said, recovering his
former indifferent manner. "I haven't the slightest idea to which of
them you refer. You don't look as if it was your name," he added, with a
laugh.

"The Ida I mean was and is a child," she said. "But there's no use in
beating about the bush, Mr. Somerville, when I can come straight to the
point. It is now about seven years since my husband and myself were
employed to carry off a child--a female child of a year old--named Ida.
You were the man who employed us." She said this deliberately, looking
steadily in his face. "We placed it, according to your directions, on
the doorstep of a poor family in New York, and they have since cared for
it as their own. I suppose you have not forgotten that?"

"I remember it," he said, "and now recall your features. How have you
fared since I employed you? Have you found your business profitable?"

"Far from it," answered Peg. "I am not yet able to retire on a
competence."

"One of your youthful appearance," said Somerville, banteringly, "ought
not to think of retiring under ten years."

"I don't care for compliments," she said, "even when they are sincere.
As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have reached the age
of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second
childhood."

"Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business brought
you here?"

"I want a thousand dollars," said Peg, abruptly.

"A thousand dollars!" repeated Somerville. "Very likely. I should like
that amount myself. Did you come here to tell me that?"

"I have come here to ask you to give me that amount."

"Have you a husband?"

"Yes."

"Then let me suggest that your husband is the proper person to apply to
in such a case."

"I think I am more likely to get it out of you," said Peg, coolly. "My
husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were
willing."

"Much as I am flattered by your application," said Somerville, with a
polite sneer, "since it would seem to place me next in estimation to
your husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow
such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent
rendered."

"I am ready to give you an equivalent."

"Of what nature?"

"I am willing to be silent."

"And how can your silence benefit me?"

"That you will be best able to estimate."

"Explain yourself, and bear in mind that I can bestow little time on
you."

"I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I
believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the
child's mother may have."

"What do you know about the child's mother?" demanded Somerville,
hastily.

"All about her!" said Peg, emphatically.

"How am I to credit that? It is easy to claim a knowledge you do not
possess."

"Shall I tell you the whole story, then? In the first place, she married
your cousin, after rejecting you. You never forgave her for this. When,
a year after marriage, her husband died, you renewed your proposals.
They were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain
of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence, determined
to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and myself, and
employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole story, briefly
told."

"Woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"That is of no consequence," said Peg. "It was for my interest to find
out, and I did so."

"Well?"

"I know one thing more--the residence of the child's mother. I hesitated
this morning whether to come here, or to carry Ida to her mother,
trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from you because
it is for your interest to comply with my request."

"You speak of carrying the child to her mother. How can you do that when
she is in New York?"

"You are mistaken," said Peg, coolly. "She is in Philadelphia."

John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg felt that she had
succeeded.

He paused after a while, and stood before her.

"You demand a thousand dollars," he said.

"I do."

"I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum, no
matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at this
time--no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for you."

"Very well," said the woman, well satisfied.

Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection.
Difficulties encompassed him--difficulties from which he found it hard
to find a way of escape. He knew how difficult it would be to meet this
woman's demand. Gradually his countenance lightened. He had decided what
that something should be.

When Peg left John Somerville's apartments, it was with a high degree
of satisfaction at the result of the interview. All had turned out as
she wished. She looked upon the thousand dollars as already hers. The
considerations which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to
make every effort to secure her silence.

Then, with a thousand dollars, what might not be done? She would
withdraw from the business, for one thing. It was too hazardous. Why
might not Dick and she retire to the country, lease a country inn, and
live an honest life hereafter? There were times when she grew tired of
the life she lived at present. It would be pleasant to go to some place
where they were not known, and enroll themselves among the respectable
members of the community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a
quiet home. Her early years had been passed in the country. She
remembered still the green fields in which she played as a child, and to
this woman, old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life
return.

But her dream was rudely broken by her encounter with the officers of
the law at the house of her employer.




CHAPTER XXXII

A PROVIDENTIAL MEETING


"By gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound surprise.

He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly troubled by the
thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he was
apparently no nearer the discovery of his young ward than before. What
steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In his perplexity
his eyes rested suddenly upon the print of the "Flower Girl."

"Yes," he said, "that is Ida, fast enough. Perhaps they will know in the
store where she is to be found."

He at once entered the store.

"Can you tell me anything about the girl in that picture?" he asked,
abruptly, of the nearest clerk.

"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think you would need a long time to
find the original."

"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. That is a
picture of my sister."

"Of your sister!" repeated the salesman, with surprise, half incredulous.

"Yes," persisted Jack. "She is my sister."

"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is."

Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a
surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes
also were fixed upon the "Flower Girl."

"Who is this?" she asked, in visible excitement. "Is it taken from
life?"

"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.

"Your sister?" repeated the lady, her eyes fixed inquiringly upon Jack.

In her tone there was a mingling both of surprise and disappointment.

"Yes, madam," answered Jack, respectfully.

"Pardon me," she said, "there is very little personal resemblance. I
should not have suspected that you were her brother."

"She is not my own sister," explained Jack, "but I love her just the
same."

"Do you live in Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the lady, eagerly.

"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us
about three weeks since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I have
not been able to find her yet."

"Did you call her Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation.

"Yes, madam."

"My young friend," said the woman, rapidly, "I have been much interested
in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here.
Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the
rest? Then we will together concert measures for recovering her."

"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, bashfully; for the lady was
elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with a
lady of her social position. "I shall be glad to go home with you, and
shall be very much obliged for your advice and assistance."

"Then we will drive home at once."

With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and,
at her bidding, got in himself.

"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible."

"Yes, madam."

"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked
Mrs. Clifton.

Jack afterward ascertained that this was her name.

"About a year old, madam."

"And how long since was that?" asked the lady, waiting for the answer
with breathless interest.

"Seven years since. She is now eight."

"It must be," murmured the lady, in low tones. "If it is indeed, as I
hope, my life will indeed be blessed."

"Did you speak, madam?"

"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted her."

Jack related briefly how Ida had been left at their door in her infancy.

"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"

"It was at the close of December, the night before New Year's."

"It is, it must be she!" ejaculated Mrs. Clifton, clasping her hands,
while tears of joy welled from her eyes.

"I--I don't understand," said Jack, naturally astonished.

"My young friend," said the lady, "our meeting this morning seems
providential. I have every reason to believe that this child--your
adopted sister--is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at
the time of which I speak. From that day to this I have never been able
to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have
long taught myself to think of her as dead."

It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him.
She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the
maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion, the
same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like
Ida's. Jack looked, and as he looked he became convinced.

"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

"Yes, madam."

"I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost her;
I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you when we get to my
house."

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet
street. The driver dismounted and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs.
Clifton to alight.

Bashfully our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,
seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which
excited his admiration and wonder. He had little time to look about him,
for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened
downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

"Can you remember Ida when she was first brought to your house?" she
asked. "Did she look anything like this picture?"

"It is her image," answered Jack, decidedly. "I should know it
anywhere."

"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my child
you have cared for so long. Oh! why could I not have known it before?
How many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! But
God be thanked for this late blessing! I shall see my child again."

"I hope so, madam. We must find her."

"What is your name, my young friend?"

"My name is Harding--Jack Harding."

"Jack?" repeated the lady, smiling.

"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be
called John."

"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heart
at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than Ida; "as Ida
is your adopted sister--"

"I call her my ward. I am her guardian, you know."

"You are a young guardian. But, as I was about to say, that makes us
connected in some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Harding, for
that would sound too formal. I will call you Jack."

"I wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride.

It almost upset him to be called Jack by a beautiful lady, who every day
of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to Jack
could not be exceeded even by royal state. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen
Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and
veneration for her than he did already.

"Now, Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, in a friendly manner which delighted our
hero, "we must take measures to discover Ida immediately. I want you to
tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have
taken thus far toward finding her."

Jack began at the beginning and described the appearance of Mrs.
Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false
representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to
Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal
to impart any information as to where Ida was concealed.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more
difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

"Can you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes, madam," answered Jack. "The man who painted the picture of Ida may
know where she is to be found."

"You are right," said the lady. "I will act upon your hint. I will order
the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print
store."

An hour later Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady
to his studio, accompanied by a young man of seventeen.

"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower Girl,'" said Mrs.
Clifton.

"I am, madam."

"It was taken from life?"

"You are right."

"I am anxious to find the little girl whose face you copied. Can you
give me any directions that will enable me to find her?"

"I will accompany you to the place where she lives, if you desire it,
madam," said the young artist, politely. "It is a strange neighborhood
in which to look for so much beauty."

"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said
Mrs. Clifton. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your
orders."

Once more they were on the move. In due time the carriage paused. The
driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea
of bringing his mistress to such a place.

"This can't be the place, madam," he said.

"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, Mrs. Clifton. I will go in, and
find out all that is needful."

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and took
away the child."

Mrs. Clifton sank back in her seat in keen disappointment.

"My child! my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. He
could not conjecture what gentleman could have carried away Ida. The
affair seemed darker and mere complicated than ever.




CHAPTER XXXIII

IDA IS FOUND


Ida was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged
to call home. Peg had gone out, and, not feeling quite certain of her
prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had left some work for the
child--some handkerchiefs to hem for Dick--with strict orders to keep
steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock
at the door.

"Who's there?" asked Ida.