It was so late when Dan heard of Althea's disappearance that he felt it necessary to wait till morning before taking any steps toward her recovery.

"I'll find her, mother," he said, confidently. "Do not lie awake thinking of her, for it won't do any good."

"How can I help it, Dan? I didn't know how much I loved the dear child till I lost her."

"You have not lost her, mother."

"I am not so hopeful as you, Dan. I fear that I shall never see her again."

"I am sure we shall. Now, mother, I am going to bed, but I shall be up bright and early in the morning, and then to work."

"You won't have any time, Dan. You must go to the store."

"I shall take a week's vacation. I will write a note to Mr. Rogers, telling him my reasons, and he will be sure not to object. If Althea is to be found, I will find her within a week."

Dan's confidence gave Mrs. Mordaunt some courage, but she could not feel as sanguine of success as Dan.

In the morning Dan sought out Nancy, and took down her account of how the little girl had been spirited away.

"So she went away in a carriage, Nancy?"

"Yes, Master Dan."

"Can you tell me what sort of a looking man it was that took her away?"

"Shure I couldn't. I was struck dumb, you see, wid hearing how your mother broke her leg, and I didn't think to look at him sharp."

"You can tell if he was an old man or a young one."

"He was naythur. He was betwixt and betwane."

"Very tall or very short?"

"Naythur. He was jist middlin'."

"Well, that's something. Now, what kind of a carriage was it?"

"Jist a hack like them at the square."

"You wouldn't remember the driver?"

"No; shure they all look alike to me."

Dan made more inquiries, but elicited nothing further that was likely to be of service to him.

After a little reflection he decided to go to Union Square and interview some of the drivers waiting for passengers there.

He did so, but the driver who had actually been employed by Hartley was absent, and he learned nothing. One driver, however, remembered carrying a gentleman and child to a house on Twenty-seventh street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues.

Dan thought the clew of sufficient importance to be followed up. His courage rose when, on inquiring at the house mentioned, he learned that a child had actually been brought there.

"May I see the child, madam?" he asked.

"If you like," answered the lady, in surprise.

She appeared in a short time with a boy of about Althea's age.

Dan's countenance fell.

"It is a little girl I am inquiring after," he said.

"Then why didn't you say so?" demanded the woman, sharply. "You would have saved me some trouble."

"I beg your pardon, madam."

"I begin to think I am not as good a detective as I thought," said Dan to himself. "I am on a false scent, that is sure."

So Dan returned to Union Square.

When he had been asking questions of the cab-drivers he had not been unobserved. John Hartley, who knew Dan by sight, laughed in his sleeve as he noted our hero's inquiries.

"You may be a smart boy, my lad," he said to himself, "but I don't think you'll find the child. I have a great mind to give you a hint."

He approached Dan, and observed, in a friendly way:

"Are you in search of your little sister?"

"Yes, sir," returned Dan, eagerly. "Can you tell me anything about her?"

"I am not sure, but possibly I may. I occupy a room directly opposite the house in which you board."

"Did you see Althea carried away?" asked Dan, eagerly.

"Yes; I was sitting at my window when I saw a hack stop at your door. The door-bell was rung by a man who descended from the hack, and shortly afterward your sister came out, and was put into the carriage."

"What was the man's appearance, sir? The servant could not tell me."

"So much the better," thought Hartley, with satisfaction.

"He was a little taller than myself, I should say," he answered, "and I believe his hair was brown"—Hartley's was black. "I am sorry I can't remember more particularly."

"That is something. Thank you, sir. I wish I knew where the cab went."

"I think I can tell you that. I came down into the street before the cab drove away, and I heard the gentleman referred to say, in a low voice, 'Drive to Harlem.'"

"Thank you, sir," said Dan, gratefully. "That puts me on the right track. I shall know where to search now."

"I wish I could tell you more," said Hartley, with a queer smile.

"Thank you, sir."

"If you find your little sister, I should be glad if you would let me know," continued Hartley, chuckling inwardly.

"I will, sir, if you will let me know your name and address."

"My name is John Franklin, and I live in the house directly opposite yours, No. —."

"All right, sir; I will note it down."

John Hartley looked after Dan with a smile.

"My dear young friend," he said to himself, "it goes to my heart to deceive you, you are so innocent and confiding. I wish you much joy of your search in Harlem. I think it will be some time before I receive intelligence of your success. Still I will keep my room here, and look after you a little. I am really afraid your business will suffer while you are wandering about."

John Hartley had already written to London, and he was prepared to wait three weeks or more for an answer to his proposition. Meanwhile he had one source of uneasiness. His funds were getting low, and unless Harriet Vernon responded favorably to his proposal, he was liable to be seriously embarrassed. He had on previous similar occasions had recourse to the gaming-table, but Fortune did not always decide in his favor. He did not dare to hazard the small sum he had on hand, lest want of success should imperil the bold scheme for obtaining an income at his child's expense.

At this critical point in his fortunes he fell in with a Western adventurer, who, by a sort of freemasonry, recognizing Hartley's want of character, cautiously sounded him as to becoming a partner in a hazardous but probably profitable enterprise. It was to procure some genuine certificates of stock in a Western railway for a small number of shares, say five or ten, and raise them ingeniously to fifty and a hundred, and then pledge them as collateral in Wall street for a corresponding sum of money.

John Hartley, if an honest man, would have indignantly declined the overtures; but he was not endowed with Roman virtue. He made a cautious investigation to ascertain how great was the danger of detection, and how well the enterprise would pay. The answer to the second question was so satisfactory that he made up his mind to run the necessary risk. Blake and he came to a definite understanding, and matters were put in train. Certificates were readily obtained, and by the help of a skillful accomplice, who did the work for a specified sum, were ingeniously raised tenfold.

Then Blake, assuming the dress and manners of a thriving business man from Syracuse, negotiated a loan, pledging the raised certificate as collateral. The private banker put it away among his securities without a doubt or suspicion, and Blake and Hartley divided a thousand dollars between them.

John Hartley was very much elated by his success. The pecuniary assistance came just in the nick of time, when his purse was very low.

"It's a good thing to have more than one string to your bow," he thought. "Not but that my little game in getting hold of the child is likely to pay well. Harriet Vernon will find that I have the whip-hand of her. She must come to my terms, sooner or later."

At that very moment Harriet Vernon was embarking at Liverpool on a Cunard steamer. She had received the letter of her brother-in-law, and decided to answer it in person.