"You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty--on a condition."

"Wot's that?" said Connie.

"That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. But I won't have _my_ profession and _my_ chances in life imperilled. Do you promise?"

"Sir, I'll niver,--niver tell."

"You must promise more strongly than that--the others must be witnesses."

"Oh, sir--oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word."

The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into Connie's face.

"I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of Eleanor, who went back to G.o.d at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And perhaps you may be able to tell her that I--a man given over to extreme wickedness--did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your friends."

"Sir----"

"Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have just said."

Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly in.

"Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively.

Agnes brought them.

"Be I to take her out, sir?" she said.

"No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.--Are you ready, Connie?"

"Yus, sir."

Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. He and Connie got in.

They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town.

"You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl.

"No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell."

"Well, then--good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

"Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a shilling--you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon Stylites."

CHAPTER XXI.

SAFE HOME AT LAST.

When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street.

Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later than three o'clock.

They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives--ordinary-looking men in plain clothes--but also the street preacher?

The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed close.

"Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank G.o.d on your knees--your child is safe at home."

"Wot?" said Harris.

In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he had just committed! And yet G.o.d was kind, and had given him back his child.

"Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was."

"It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word--not a word."

"Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father."

The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire.

Already her womanly influences had been at work.

The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was waiting--expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face.

"Father!" she cried as Harris--brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth--almost staggered into the room.

He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, pa.s.sionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench,"

pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat, trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compa.s.sion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt.

But Father John read deeper below the surface.

The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome.

The detectives began to question Connie.

"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who dragged you into that court last night?"

"I won't say," answered Connie.

"You won't say? But you know."

"I won't say nothing," said Connie.

"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself.

"Yer've got to say--yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up?

Speak!"