"
"I am glad you have come," she said. "In spite of the other
children, I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought
perhaps his mother would be here to-day."
Mr. Jamieson stepped forward.
"You are Mrs. Tate?" I wondered how the detective knew.
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the
house--"
"Come right in," she said hospitably. And soon we were in the
little shabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes.
Mrs. Tate sat uneasily, her hands folded in her lap.
"How long has Lucien been here?" Mr. Jamieson asked.
"Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week's board
in advance; the other has not been paid."
"Was he ill when he came?"
"No, sir, not what you'd call sick. He was getting better of
typhoid, she said, and he's picking up fine."
"Will you tell me his mother's name and address?"
"That's the trouble," the young woman said, knitting her brows.
"She gave her name as Mrs. Wallace, and said she had no address.
She was looking for a boarding-house in town. She said she
worked in a department store, and couldn't take care of the child
properly, and he needed fresh air and milk. I had three children
of my own, and one more didn't make much difference in the work,
but--I wish she would pay this week's board."
"Did she say what store it was?"
"No, sir, but all the boy's clothes came from King's. He has far
too fine clothes for the country."
There was a chorus of shouts and shrill yells from the front
door, followed by the loud stamping of children's feet and a
throaty "whoa, whoa!" Into the room came a tandem team of two
chubby youngsters, a boy and a girl, harnessed with a clothes-
line, and driven by a laughing boy of about seven, in tan
overalls and brass buttons.
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