CHAPTER XIV. THE SEARCH.

 When Connie had been suddenly dragged with extreme force from the preacher's side, he had darted after her, and would have been knocked down himself, and perhaps killed, if the neighbor who had accosted him had not also gone a67 step or two into the dark alley and dragged him back by main force.

 

"You don't go down there, Father John," he said—"not without two or three big men, as big as myself. That you don't—I'll keep you back, Father John by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?"

 

Father John acknowledged the justice of this. A crowd of men and women had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest disturbance. Father John recognized many of them, and soon formed a little body of strong men and women. The policemen also came to their aid. They searched the blind alley, going into every house. In short, they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor Connie; but, alas! all in vain.

 

Father John was at least glad that he had not gone to visit Sue and Giles. He could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that poor Connie had come home and had been kidnapped again.

 

"We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren, we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out."

 

Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early—very early—in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a queer feeling that something very bad had happened.

 

When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.

 

"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream—I must be mistook, of course, but I thought Connie had come back."

 

"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."

 

"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair.

 

"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"

 

"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o' breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"

 

All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.

 

"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"

 

"You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice. "She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you—you turned her away, Peter Harris."

 

"I did wot?" said Harris.68

 

"You turned her off—yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too much and didn't know what you were doing."

 

The man's face was ghastly pale.

 

"What do yer mean?" he said.

 

"You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I assured her that I know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome her home in the morning."

 

"Well, and so I be. Welcome my lass home? There ain't naught I wouldn't do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear, sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave—the Prodigal didn't have a bigger welcome."

 

"But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin. Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong, perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because of you; for you were so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. I'll tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare; you must get up and help to find her."

 

Peter Harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position.

 

"Find her?" he said. "But she were here—here! Where be she? Wot did yer do with her, Father John?"

 

"I didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. I was taking her to Giles and Sue when——"

 

"Man—speak!"

 

Harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. Father John staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently,

 

"As we were passing a blind alley some one snatched her from me, right into the pitch darkness. I followed, but was pulled back myself. As soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. It is your duty now to help to find her. The police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. Beyond doubt the child is in danger. Wake up, Harris. Think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child."

 

"God in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "Lost—you say? And she come 'ere—and I turned her off? Oh, my little Connie!"

 

"Keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. You must help the police. You know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of London. You can give valuable information; come at once."

 

A minute or two later the two men went out together.