The little Syrian baby had disappeared.

Nobody had reckoned with the soft guile of a race as supple and silent as to their real intentions as cats.

There was a verandah column wound with a massive wistaria vine near the window of the baby's room.

The little nurse girl went home every night, and Jane Riggs was a heavy sleeper.

When she had awakened, her first glance had been into the baby's crib.