This announcement took away the remnant of my appetite. Mr. Burton rung to have the tray removed, and to bid the servant tell Miss Lenore, as soon as she had lunched, to come to the library. We had but a few minutes to wait. Presently we heard a light step; her father cried, “Come in!” in answer to her knock, and a lovely child entered, greeting me with a mingled air of grace and timidity—a vision of sweetness and beauty more perfect than I could have anticipated. Her golden hair waved about her slender throat, in glistening tendrils. Seldom do we see such hair, except upon the heads of infants—soft, lustrous, fine, floating at will, and curled at the end in little shining rings. Her eyes were a celestial blue—celestial, not only because of the pure heavenliness of their color, but because you could not look into them without thinking of angels. Her complexion was the most exquisite possible, fair, with a flush as of sunset-light on the cheeks—too transparent for perfect health, showing the wandering of the delicate veins in the temples. Her blue dress, with its fluttering sash, and the little jacket of white cashmere which shielded her neck and arms, were all dainty, and in keeping with the wearer. She did not have the serene air of a seraph, though she looked like one; nor the listless manner of an invalid. She gave her father a most winning, childish smile, looking full of joy to think he was at home, and had sent for her. She was so every way charming that I held out my arms to kiss her, and she, with the instinct of children, who perceive who their real lovers are, gave me a willing yet shy embrace. Mr. Burton looked pleased as he saw how satisfactory was the impression made by his Lenore.
Placing her in a chair before him, he put a photograph of Miss Sullivan in her hand.
“Father wants to put his little girl to sleep again,” he said, gently.
An expression of unwillingness just crossed her face; but she smiled, instantly, looking up at him with the faith of affection which would have placed her life in his keeping, and said, “Yes, papa,” in assent.
He made a few passes over her; when I saw their effect, I did not wonder that he shrunk from the experiment—my surprise was rather that he could be induced to make it, under any circumstances. The lovely face became distorted as with pain; the little hands twitched—so did the lips and eyelids. I turned away, not having fortitude to witness anything so jarring to my sensibilities. When I looked again, her countenance had recovered its tranquillity; the eyes were fast closed, but she appeared to ponder upon the picture which she held.
“Do you see the person now?”
“Yes, papa.”
“In what kind of a place is she?”
“She is in a small room; it has two windows. There is no carpet on the floor. There is a bed and a table, a stove and some chairs. It is in the upper story of a large brick house, I do not know in what place.”
“What is she doing?”
“She is sitting near the back window; it looks out on the roofs of other houses; she is holding a pretty little child on her lap.”
“She must be in the city,” remarked Mr. Burton, aside; “the large house and the congregated roofs would imply it. Can you not tell me the name of the street?”
“No, I can not see it. I was never in this place before. I can see water, as I look out of the window. It appears like the bay; and I see plenty of ships, but there is some green land across the water, besides distant houses.”
“It must be somewhere in the suburbs, or in Brooklyn. Are there no signs on the shops, which you can read, as you look out?”
“No, papa.”
“Well, go down the stairs, and out upon the street, and tell me the number of the house.”
“It is No. —,” she said, after a few moments’ silence.
“Go along until you come to a corner, and read me the name of the street.”
“Court Street,” she answered, presently.
“It is in Brooklyn,” exclaimed the detective, triumphantly. “There is nothing now to prevent us going straight to the spot. Lenore, go back now, to the house; tell us on which floor is this room, and how situated.”
Again there was silence while she retraced her steps.
“It is on the fourth floor, the first door to the left, as you reach the landing.”
Lenore began to look weary and exhausted; the sweat broke out on her brow, and she panted as if fatigued with climbing flights of stairs. Her father, with a regretful air, wiped her forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so. A few more of those cabalistic touches, followed by the same painful contortions of those beautiful features, and Lenore was herself again. But she was pale and languid; she drooped against her father’s breast, as he held her in his arms, the color faded from her cheeks, too listless to smile in answer
