The Millionaire Baby | Page 3

this favored retreat, they could hear,
borne back on the wind, the wild protests of the young nurse, that she
had left the child for a minute only and then to go no farther than the
bench running along the end of the bungalow facing the house; that she
had been told she could sit there and listen to the music, but that she
never would have left the child's side for a minute if she had not
supposed she would hear her least stir--protests which the mother
scarcely seemed to heed, and which were presently lost in the deep
silence which fell on all, as, brought to a stand in the thick shrubbery
surrounding the bungalow, they saw the mother stagger up to the door,
look in and turn toward them with death in her face.

"The river!" she gasped, "the river!" and heedless of all attempt to stop
her, heedless even of the efforts made by the little one's nurse to draw
her attention to the nearness of a certain opening in the high hedge
marking off the Ocumpaugh grounds on this side, she ran down the
bank in the direction of the railway, but fainted before she had more
than cleared the thicket. When they lifted her up, they all saw the
reason for this. She had come upon a little shoe which she held with
frantic clutch against her breast--her child's shoe, which, as she
afterward acknowledged, she had loosened with her own hand on the
little one's foot.
Of course, after this the whole hillside was searched down to the fence
which separated it from the railroad track. But no further trace of the
missing child was found, nor did it appear possible to any one that she
could have strayed away in this direction. For not only was the bank
exceedingly steep and the fence at its base impassable, but a gang of
men, working as good fortune would have it, at such a point on the road
below as to render it next to impossible for her to have crossed the
track within a half-mile either way without being observed, had one
and all declared that not one of them had seen her or any other person
descend the slope.
This, however, made but little impression on the mother. She would
listen to no hints of abduction, but persisted in her declaration that the
river had swallowed her darling, and would neither rest nor turn her
head from its waters till some half a dozen men about the place had
been set systematically to work to drag the stream.
Meanwhile, the police had been notified and the whole town aroused.
The search, which had been carried on up to this time in a frantic but
desultory way, now became methodical. Nor was it confined to the
Ocumpaugh estate. All the roads and byways within half a mile either
way were covered by a most careful investigation. All the near-by
houses were entered, especially those which the child was most in the
habit of frequenting, but no one had seen her, nor could any trace of her
presence be found. At five o'clock all hope of her return was abandoned
and, much against Mrs. Ocumpaugh's wish, who declared that the news

of the child's death would affect her father far less than the dreadful
possibilities of an abduction, the exact facts of the case had been cabled
to Mr. Ocumpaugh.
The night and another day passed, bringing but little relief to the
situation. Not an eye had as yet been closed in Homewood, nor had the
search, ceased for an instant. Not an inch of the great estate had been
overlooked, yet men could still be seen beating the bushes and peering
into all the secluded spots which once had formed the charm of this
delightful place. As on the land, so on the river. All the waters in the
dock had been dragged, yet the work went on, some said under the very
eye of Mrs. Ocumpaugh. But there was no result as yet.
In the city the interest was intense. The telegraph at police headquarters
had been clicking incessantly for thirty-six hours under the direction,
some said, of the superintendent himself. Everything which could be
done had been done, but as yet the papers were able to report nothing
beyond some vague stories of a child, with its face very much bound up,
having been seen at the heels of a woman in the Grand Central Station
in New York, and hints of a covered wagon, with a crying child inside,
which had been driven through Westchester County at a great pace
shortly before sunset on the previous day, closely followed by a buggy
with the storm-apron up, though the sun shone and there