had dropped; then he stepped back and out of the circle of light in
which he had been standing. For a moment he did not speak lest his
voice be as unsteady as his hands, but, taking out his watch, he
looked at it, then put it back with fumbling fingers.

"Her first name--Miss Barbour's first name," he said, and the dryness
of his throat made his words a little indistinct. "What is it?"

With mouth rounded into a little ball, Carmencita blew on her stiff
finger-tips. "Frances," she said, and first one foot and then the
other was stamped for purpose of warmth. "The damanarkist says God
made her, but the devil has more to do with most women than anybody
else. He don't like women. Do you know her, Mr. Van?"

"If your friend is my friend--I know her very well," he said, and put
his hands in his pockets to hide the twitching of his fingers. "A long
time ago she was the only real friend I had, and I lost her. I have
wanted very much to find her."

"Oh, Father, if he knows Miss Barbour he's bound to be all right!"
Carmencita's arms were flung above her head and down again, and on her
tiptoes she danced gaily round and round. "We can show him where she
lives." She stopped. "No, we can't. She told me I must never do that.
I mustn't send any one to her, but I could tell her of anybody I
wanted her to know about." Head uplifted, her eyes searched Van
Landing's, and her words came in an awed whisper, "Was--was she your
sweetheart, Mr. Van?"

"She was." Again Van Landing wiped his forehead. It didn't in the
least matter that he was telling to this unknown child the most