Lacey. 

 While Miss Martha was indulging in a résumé of the dismal situation her companion took a folded memorandum from an inside pocket and scanned it. 

 "Girl at Hotel Frisbie. 

 "Name Sylvia Lacey. 

 "Age nineteen. 

 "Her mother, my sister, dead for ten years. 

 "Her father, recently deceased, an alleged artist, a rolling stone and a scapegrace all his life. 

 "Be present at interview between Miss Martha Lacey and the girl. 

 "Let Miss Martha take the lead." 

 There were a few further instructions, but Miss Lacey here broke in upon the reading. 

 "I'm going to ask you to do one more gallant thing for me, Sir Walter." 

 "I'm ready." 

 "Put me on the right car for Hotel Frisbie. The Boston street-cars are a hopeless muddle to me,—always were and always will be." 

 "I'll escort you to the hotel." 

 "Oh, that's too kind!" exclaimed Miss Martha. "I'm not quite non compos. I can get out all right. It's the getting in that's the puzzle." 

 "But I have to go there myself. Judge Trent thought you might need a lieutenant. He has sent me to help you." 

 The color rushed to Miss Martha's face. Calvin was thinking of her, after all. Her eyes glistened with sudden hope. 

 "What is he willing to do?" she demanded. 

 "Nothing—that is, very little," responded Dunham hastily. "You, I suppose, are acquainted with this young lady?" 

 "Indeed I'm not!" Miss Martha repudiated the charge with energy. "And I'm not nearly as well able to help her as 

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