It was fortunate that the Bryants were there to take the initiative, for Mr. and Mrs. Maynard seemed incapable of action. Usually alert and energetic, they were so stunned at the thought of real disaster to Marjorie that they sat around helplessly inactive.

"Come with me, King," said Cousin Jack, going to the telephone in the library.

Then he called up every house in Seacote where Marjorie could possibly have gone, and King helped by suggesting the names of acquaintances.

But no one could give any news of the little girl; no one whom they asked had seen or heard of her that afternoon.

Cousin Jack's face grew very white, and his features were drawn, as he said: "You stay here, Ed, with Helen and Ethel; King and I will go out for a bit. Come, King."

Kingdon said nothing; he snatched up his cap and went along silently by Mr. Bryant's side, trying to keep up with his companion's long, swift strides.

To the beach they went; it was not yet quite dark, but of course they saw no sign of Marjorie.

"Are you thinking she might have been washed away by the waves?" asked King, in a quivering voice.

"That's all I can think of," replied Mr. Bryant, grimly.

"But it isn't likely, Cousin Jack. Mopsy is really a heavyweight, you know. And there's not a very big surf on now."

"That's so, King. But where can she be?" Then they went and talked with the fishermen, and then on to the Life-saving Station.

The big, good-hearted men all knew Marjorie, and all declared she had not been on the beach that afternoon,—at least, not within their particular locality.

Discouraged, Cousin Jack and King turned down toward the pier. Their inquiries were fruitless; though many people knew Midget, by sight, none had seen her. There was nothing to do but go back home.

"Have you found her?" cried Cousin Ethel, as they entered the house.

"No; but the beach people haven't seen her, so I'm sure there's no accident of that sort." Cousin Jack wouldn't make use of the word drowning, but they all knew what he meant.

Mrs. Maynard sat staring, in a sort of dull apathy. She couldn't realize that Marjorie was lost, she couldn't believe an accident had befallen her, yet, where was she?

"Let's search the house," she said, jumping up suddenly. "I must do something. Couldn't she have gone somewhere to read quietly, and fallen asleep?"

This was a possibility, and the house was searched from top to bottom by eager hunters. But no Marjorie was found.

As it neared midnight, the ladies were persuaded to go to bed.

"You can do nothing, dear, by remaining up," said Mr. Maynard to his wife. "The Bryants will stay with us to-night, so you and Ethel go to your rooms, and King, too. Jack and I will stay here in the library for a while."

King demurred at being sent away, but his father explained that if he wanted to help, all he could do was to obey orders. So King went upstairs, but not to his own room. About an hour later he came down again, to find his father and Mr. Bryant still sitting in the library waiting for morning.

"Father," said King, his eyes shining bright beneath his tousled hair, "I've been rummaging in Midget's room. I thought I might find out something to help us. And she's taken her pocketbook, and the gold piece Uncle Steve gave her last Christmas. I know, because I know where she always kept it,—and it's gone."

"Well, King," said his father, thoughtfully, "what do you make out from that?"

"Only that she has gone somewhere especial. I mean somewhere to spend that money,—not just for a walk on the beach, or down to the pier."

"That's encouraging," said Cousin Jack, "for if she went away on some special errand, she's more likely to be safe and sound, somewhere. Did you notice anything else missing, King?"

"Not a thing. And you know how wet her pillow was. Well, I think she heard about some poor person or poor family, and she cried about them, and then she took her gold piece and went to help them."

"That's ingenious, King," said Mr. Maynard, "and it may be true. I hope so, I'm sure. But why should she stay away so long and not let us know?"

"Well, you see, the poor family may live at some distance, and not have any telephone, and they may be ill, or something, and she may be there yet, helping. You know Mopsy is awful kind-hearted. Remember the Simpsons' fire? She forgot everything else in caring for them."

"That's so, my son; at any rate, it's the most comforting theory we've had yet, and I'll go and tell your mother about it. It will help her, I know."

Mr. Maynard went away, and King remained downstairs.

"I'm not going to bed, Cousin Jack," he said; "I'm old enough now to stay up with you men, in trouble like this."

"All right, King. You're showing manly traits, my boy, and I'm proud of you. Now, old chap, between you and me, I don't subscribe to your poor-family theory. It's possible, of course, but it doesn't seem probable to me."

"Well, then, Cousin Jack, what can we do next?"

"We can't do anything till morning; then I think we must see the police."

"Oh, that seems so awful!"

"I know, but if it's the means of finding Marjorie?"

"Then, of course, we'll do it! How early can we see them?"

"We can telephone as early as we like, I suppose. But I've little confidence in the powers of the police down here. They're all right to patrol the beach, but they're not like city policemen."

At last the night wore away, and daybreak came.

They telephoned the police, and in a few minutes two of them arrived at the Maynard house for consultation.

"I know the child well," said one of them, "I often see her about,—a well-behaved little lady, but full o' fun, too. D'ye think she might have been kidnapped, now?"

"It might be," said Mr. Bryant, "though she's pretty big for that. And, too, she took extra money with her."

"Then she may have been goin' somewhere by rail."

"That's so! I never thought of that!" and Cousin Jack almost smiled.

"But where would she go?" said Mr. Maynard, hopelessly. "She never travelled alone, and though impulsively mischievous, sometimes, she wouldn't deliberately run away."

The policemen went away to begin their quest, and the Maynards and their guests went to breakfast.

No one felt like eating, yet each urged the others to do so.

"Where's Middy?" inquired baby Rosamond, at table. "Middy gone 'way?"

"Yes, dear," said Cousin Jack, for no one else could speak. "Middy's gone away for a little while."

"I know," said the child, contentedly, "Middy gone to Gramma's to see Kitty!"

"Why, perhaps she did!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard.

But Mrs. Maynard had no such hope. It was too unlike Marjorie to do such a thing.

"Well, let's find out," urged King. "Let's get Uncle Steve on the long-distance wire."

"Don't alarm Grandma," said Mrs. Maynard. "There's no use stirring her up, until we know ourselves what has happened."

"Leave it to me," said Cousin Jack. "I'll find out."

After some delay, he succeeded in getting Uncle Steve on the telephone. Then he asked for Kitty.

"Hello, Susannah!" he cried, assuming a merry voice, in his kind desire not to alarm her. "This is your Cousin Jack!"

"Oh, hello, Cousin Jack!" exclaimed Kitty, in delight. "How nice of you to call me up! How is everybody?"

"We're well, thank you! How are you all?"

"Oh, we're all right."

"Are you lonesome, away from your family?"

"No, not lonesome, though I'd like to see them. Tell Midget there are two hundred incubator chicks now."

"Well, that is a lot! Now, good-by, Kitsie; I can't run up too big a telephone bill for your father. We all send love. Be a good girl. Good-by."

Cousin Jack hung up the receiver and buried his face in his hands. It had been a great strain on his nerves to appear gay and carefree to Kitty, and the implied assurance that Marjorie was not there nearly made him give way.

"She isn't there," he said, dully, as he repeated to the family what Kitty had said. And then the telephone rang, and it was the police department.

Mr. Maynard took the receiver.

"We've traced her," came the news, and the father's face grew white with suspense. "She bought a ticket to New York, and went there on the three-o'clock train yesterday afternoon. Nothing further is known, as yet, but as soon as we can get in touch with the conductor of that train, we will."

"New York! Impossible!" cried Cousin Ethel, when she heard the message, and Mrs. Maynard fainted away.

Marjorie! on a train, going to New York alone!

"Come on, King," said Cousin Jack, abruptly, and leaving the others to care for Mrs. Maynard, these two strode off again. Straight to the railroad station they went to interview the agent themselves.

He corroborated the story. He did not know Marjorie's name, but he described the child so exactly that there was no room for doubt of her identity.

But he could tell them no more. She had bought her ticket and taken the train in a quiet, matter-of-fact way, as any passenger would do.

"Did she look as if she had been crying?" asked King, almost crying himself.

"Why, yes, now you speak of it, her face did look so. Her eyes was red, and she looked sorter sad. But she didn't say nothin', 'cept to ask for a ticket to New York."

"Return ticket?" put in Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; a single ticket. Just one way."

The conductor couldn't be seen until afternoon, as his run was a long one, and his home far away.

"I can't understand it," said King, as they walked homeward; "and I can't believe it. If Midget went to New York alone, she had lost her mind,—that's all."

But when they reached home, they found the Maynards quite hopeful. It had occurred to them that, by some strange freak, Marjorie had decided to visit Grandma Maynard, and had started off there alone.

"I'm trying to get them on the long-distance," Mr. Maynard announced, quite cheerily, as they entered.

"Let me take it," said Cousin Jack. "If she isn't there, we don't want to alarm them, either."

"That's so!" said Mr. Maynard. "All right, Jack, take it. Bless you, old fellow, for your help."

But when connection had been made, and Cousin Jack found himself in communication with Grandma Maynard, he didn't know what to say. He caught at the first pretext he could think of, and said:

"How do you do, Mrs. Maynard? You don't know me, but I'm Jack Bryant, a guest at Ed Maynard's house in Seacote. Now, won't you tell me when Marjorie's birthday comes?"

"Ah, I've heard of you, Mr. Bryant," said Grandma Maynard, pleasantly. "I suppose you want to surprise the child with a present or a party. Well, her birthday is next week,—the fifteenth of July."

"Oh, thank you. She is getting a big girl, isn't she? When,—when did you see her last?"

Cousin Jack's voice faltered, but the unsuspecting lady, listening, didn't notice it.

"About two months ago. They were here in May. I love Marjorie, and I wish I could see her again, but there's little hope of it. She wrote to me last week that they would be in Seacote all summer."

"Yes, that is their plan," said Cousin Jack.

He could say no more, and dropped the receiver without even a good-by.

But though Grandma Maynard might think him rude or uncourteous, she could not feel frightened or alarmed for Marjorie's safety, because of anything he had said.

"She isn't there," he said, quietly; "but I still think she started for there, and now we have a direction in which to look."

But what a direction! Marjorie, alone, going to New York, endeavoring to find Grandma Maynard's house, and not getting there! Where had she been all night? Where was she now?

There were no answers to these questions. And now Mr. Maynard took the helm. He cast off the apathy that had seemed to paralyze him, and, rising, he began to talk quickly.

"Helen," he said, "try to rouse yourself, darling. Keep up a good hope, and be brave, as you have always been. King, I am going out to find Marjorie. You cannot go with me, for I want to leave your mother in your care. You have proved yourself manly in your search for your sister, continue to do so in caring for your mother. Ethel, I'd be glad if you would stay here with Helen, and, Jack,—will you come with me?"

"Of course," replied Mr. Bryant.

"And, King," his father went on, "keep within sound of the telephone. I may call you at any moment. Get your sleep, my boy,—if I should be gone over night,—but sleep here on the library couch, and then the bell will waken you."

"Yes, Father, I'll look after Mother, and I'll be right here if you call me. Where are you going?"

"I don't know, my son. I only know I must hunt for Marjorie with such help and such advice as I can procure. Come on, Jack."

After affectionate farewells, the two men went away.

"First for that conductor," said Mr. Maynard. "I cannot wait till afternoon; I shall try to reach him by telephone or go to his home."

At length he learned that the conductor lived in Asbury Park. He was off duty at that hour, and Mr. Maynard tried to get him by telephone, but the line was out of order.

"To his house we go, then," and the two men boarded the first possible train.

At Asbury Park they found his house, but the conductor's wife, Mrs. Fischer, said her husband was asleep and she never disturbed him at that hour of the day, as he had a long run before him, and needed his rest.

But after a few words of explanation of their quest, the good lady became sympathetic and helpful.

"Of course I'll call him," she cried; "oh, the poor mother! my heart aches for her!"

Mr. Fischer came downstairs, rubbing his eyes. It was about noon, and he was accustomed to sleep soundly until two o'clock.

"Why, yes," he said, in answer to their queries. "I remember that girl. I didn't think much about her,—for a good many children travel alone between stations on the shore road. But, somehow, I don't think that child went to New York,—no, I don't think she did."

"Where did she get off?" asked Mr. Maynard, eagerly.

"Ah, that I don't know. You see, the summer crowds are travelling now and I don't notice individuals much."

"Can't you tell by your tickets?" asked Mr. Bryant.

"No, sir; I don't see's I can. You know, lots of people did go to New York on my train, and so, I've lots of New York tickets, but of course I couldn't tell if I had hers. And yet,—seems to me,—just seems to me,—that child got off at a way station."

"Then," said Mr. Maynard, with a businesslike air, "I must telephone or telegraph or go personally to every way station between Seacote and New York. It's a strange case. I can only think my daughter became suddenly demented; I can think of no other reason for her conduct. Can you, Jack?"

"No, Ed, I can't. And yet, Marjorie is a child who always does unexpected things. Some crotchet or whimsey of her childish mind might account for this strange freak, quite naturally."

"I can't see how. But we will do what we can. Good-day, Mr. Fischer, and thank you for your help and interest."