"I have come," she said to the matron of the Home, "to ask if you will allow me to examine, or, better yet, to take with me, the little clothes that a boy you called Freckles, discharged last fall, wore the night he was left here."The woman looked at her in greater astonishment than the occasion demanded.
"Well, I'd be glad to let you see them," she said at last, "but the fact is we haven't them. I do hope we haven't made some mistake.
I was thoroughly convinced, and so was the superintendent. We let his people take those things away yesterday. Who are you, and what do you want with them?"The Angel stood dazed and speechless, staring at the matron.
"There couldn't have been a mistake," continued the matron, seeing the Angel's distress. "Freckles was here when I took charge, ten years ago. These people had it all proved that he belonged to them.
They had him traced to where he ran away in Illinois last fall, and there they completely lost track of him. I'm sorry you seem so disappointed, but it is all right. The man is his uncle, and as like the boy as he possibly could be. He is almost killed to go back without him. If you know where Freckles is, they'd give big money to find out."The Angel laid a hand along each cheek to steady her chattering teeth.
"Who are they?" she stammered. "Where are they going?""They are Irish folks, miss," said the matron. "They have been in Chicago and over the country for the past three months, hunting him everywhere. They have given up, and are starting home today. They----""Did they leave an address? Where could I find them?" interrupted the Angel.
"They left a card, and I notice the morning paper has the man's picture and is full of them. They've advertised a great deal in the city papers. It's a wonder you haven't seen something.""Trains don't run right. We never get Chicago papers," said the Angel. "Please give me that card quickly. They may escape me.
I simply must catch them!"
The matron hurried to the secretary and came back with a card.
"Their addresses are there," she said. "Both in Chicago and at their home. They made them full and plain, and I was to cable at once if I got the least clue of him at any time. If they've left the city, you can stop them in New York. You're sure to catch them before they sail--if you hurry."The matron caught up a paper and thrust it into the Angel's hand as she ran to the street.
The Angel glanced at the card. The Chicago address was Suite Eleven, Auditorium. She laid her hand on her driver's sleeve and looked into his eyes.
"There is a fast-driving limit?" she asked.
"Yes, miss."
"Will you crowd it all you can without danger of arrest? I will pay well. I must catch some people!"Then she smiled at him. The hospital, an Orphans' Home, and the Auditorium seemed a queer combination to that driver, but the Angel was always and everywhere the Angel, and her methods were strictly her own.
"I will take you there as quickly as any man could with a team," he said promptly.
The Angel clung to the card and paper, and as best she could in the lurching, swaying cab, read the addresses over.
"O'More, Suite Eleven, Auditorium."
"`O'More,'" she repeated. "Seems to fit Freckles to a dot. Wonder if that could be his name? `Suite Eleven' means that you are pretty well fixed. Suites in the Auditorium come high."Then she turned the card and read on its reverse, Lord Maxwell O'More, M. P., Killvany Place, County Clare, Ireland.
The Angel sat on the edge of the seat, bracing her feet against the one opposite, as the cab pitched and swung around corners and past vehicles. She mechanically fingered the pasteboard and stared straight ahead. Then she drew a deep breath and read the card again.
"A Lord-man!" she groaned despairingly. "A Lord-man! Bet my hoecake's scorched! Here I've gone and pledged my word to Freckles I'd find him some decent relatives, that he could be proud of, and now there isn't a chance out of a dozen that he'll have to be ashamed of them after all. It's too mean!"The tears of vexation rolled down the tired, nerve-racked Angel's cheeks.
"This isn't going to do," she said, resolutely wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand and gulping down the nervous spasm in her throat.
"I must read this paper before I meet Lord O'More."She blinked back the tears and spreading the paper on her knee, read:
"After three months' fruitless search, Lord O'More gives up the quest of his lost nephew, and leaves Chicago today for his home in Ireland."She read on, and realized every word. The likeness settled any doubt.
It was Freckles over again, only older and well dressed.
"Well, I must catch you if I can," muttered the Angel. "But when Ido, if you are a gentleman in name only, you shan't have Freckles;that's flat. You're not his father and he is twenty. Anyway, if the law will give him to you for one year, you can't spoil him, because nobody could, and," she added, brightening, "he'll probably do you a lot of good. Freckles and I both must study years yet, and you should be something that will save him. I guess it will come out all right. At least, I don't believe you can take him away if I say no.""Thank you; and wait, no matter how long," she said to her driver.
Catching up the paper, she hurried to the desk and laid down Lord O'More's card.
"Has my uncle started yet?" she asked sweetly.
The surprised clerk stepped back on a bellboy, and covertly kicked him for being in the way.
"His lordship is in his room," he said, with a low bow.
"All right," said the Angel, picking up the card. "I thought he might have started. I'll see him."The clerk shoved the bellboy toward the Angel.
"Show her ladyship to the elevator and Lord O'More's suite," he said, bowing double.
"Aw, thanks," said the Angel with a slight nod, as she turned away.
"I'm not sure," she muttered to herself as the elevator sped upward, "whether it's the Irish or the English who say:
`Aw, thanks,' but it's probable he isn't either; and anyway, I just had to do something to counteract that `All right.'
How stupid of me!"
