"You don't go down there, Father John," he said--"not without two or three big men, as big as myself. That you don't--I'll keep you back, Father John by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?"

Father John acknowledged the justice of this. A crowd of men and women had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest disturbance. Father John recognized many of them, and soon formed a little body of strong men and women. The policemen also came to their aid. They searched the blind alley, going into every house. In short, they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor Connie; but, alas!

all in vain.

Father John was at least glad that he had not gone to visit Sue and Giles. He could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that poor Connie had come home and had been kidnapped again.

"We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren, we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out."

Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early--very early--in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a queer feeling that something very bad had happened.

When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.

"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream--I must be mistook, of course, but I thought Connie had come back."

"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."

"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair.

"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"

"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o'

breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"

All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.

"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"

"You ask G.o.d where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice.

"She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you--you turned her away, Peter Harris."

"I did wot?" said Harris.

"You turned her off--yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too much and didn't know what you were doing."

The man's face was ghastly pale.

"What do yer mean?" he said.

"You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I a.s.sured her that I know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome her home in the morning."

"Well, and so I be. Welcome my la.s.s home? There ain't naught I wouldn't do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear, sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave--the Prodigal didn't have a bigger welcome."

"But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin.

Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong, perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because of you; for you were so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. I'll tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare; you must get up and help to find her."

Peter Harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position.

"Find her?" he said. "But she were here--here! Where be she? Wot did yer do with her, Father John?"

"I didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. I was taking her to Giles and Sue when----"

"Man--speak!"

Harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. Father John staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently,

"As we were pa.s.sing a blind alley some one s.n.a.t.c.hed her from me, right into the pitch darkness. I followed, but was pulled back myself. As soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. It is your duty now to help to find her.

The police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. Beyond doubt the child is in danger. Wake up, Harris. Think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child."

"G.o.d in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "Lost--you say? And she come 'ere--and I turned her off? Oh, my little Connie!"

"Keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. You must help the police. You know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of London. You can give valuable information; come at once."

A minute or two later the two men went out together.

CHAPTER XV.

CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE.

While these dreadful things were happening to Connie, Sue rose with the dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks.

First she had to light the fire and prepare Giles's breakfast; then to eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed Giles, who still slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for her long walk from Westminster to St. Paul's Churchyard. She must be at her place of employment by eight o'clock, and Sue was never known to be late. With her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes, she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at Messrs.

Cheadle's cheap sewing.

Sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. She had directness of aim and concentration of purpose.

No one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused to consider her purpose either high or n.o.ble; but Sue swerved not from aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left.

She was the bread-winner in the small family. That was her present manifest duty. And some day she would take Giles away to live in the country. That was her ambition. Every thought she had to spare from her machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand result. At night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of work she dwelt upon it.

Some day she and Giles would have a cottage in the country together.

Very vague were Sue's ideas of what country life was like. She had never once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. She imagined that flowers grew either in bunches, as they were sold in Convent Garden, or singly in pots. It never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great cl.u.s.ters of starry primroses. No, Sue had never seen the place where she and Giles would live together when they were old. She pictured it like the town, only clean--very clean--with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of flowers for Giles without spending many pence on them.

People would have called it a poor dream, for Sue had no knowledge to guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting resolution to her face and purpose to her eyes, and encircling her round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel spreading his wings about her.

She walked along to-day brightly as usual. The day was a cold one, but Sue was in good spirits.

She was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work.

A girl sat by her side. Her name was Mary Jones. She was a weakly girl, who coughed long and often as she worked.

"I must soon give up, Sue," she panted between slight pauses in her work. "This 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and then I gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her hand to her sunken chest.

"'Tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered Sue. "Don't you think as you could jest keep back to-day, Mary Jones? Maybe you mightn't be seen, and I'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we comes back."