"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.
The small driver caught my attention at once: he was a beautiful child, and, although he showed traces of recent severe illness, his skin had now the clear transparency of health.
"Whoa, Flinders," he shouted.
"You're goin' to smash the trap."
Mr. Jamieson coaxed him over by holding out a lead-pencil, striped blue and yellow.
"Now, then," he said, when the boy had taken the lead-pencil and was testing its usefulness on the detective's cuff, "now then, I'll bet you don't know what your name is!"
"I do," said the boy.
"Lucien Wallace."
"Great!
And what's your mother's name?"
"Mother, of course.
What's your mother's name?" And he pointed to me!
I am going to stop wearing black: it doubles a woman's age.
"And where did you live before you came here?" The detective was polite enough not to smile.
"Grossmutter," he said. And I saw Mr. Jamieson's eyebrows go up.
"German," he commented.
"Well, young man, you don't seem to know much about yourself."
"I've tried it all week," Mrs. Tate broke in.
"The boy knows a word or two of German, but he doesn't know where he lived, or anything about himself."
Mr. Jamieson wrote something on a card and gave it to her.
"Mrs. Tate," he said, "I want you to do something.
Here is some money for the telephone call.
The instant the boy's mother appears here, call up that number and ask for the person whose name is there.