And still Wyat Carp read on and on, skirting the outer circle of forbidden subjects, leading up to closed doors he made no attempt to open, expatiating voluminously on conditions that all the world knew, elucidating the obvious, ranging from one platitude to another—and avoiding the vital and concrete as though it were poisonous. And as Mr. Carp read Mary became oppressed with his total futility.

Mrs. Ives risked a hasty glance at her jeweled wrist watch.

"Doesn't the man know it's nearly time to dine?" she wondered.

Grove Evans, with a dinner engagement at the club and a place bespoken in a quiet poker game afterward, squirmed in his chair and cursed Wyat Carp silently. Finally, with a last rhetorical flourish, Mr. Carp quite suddenly ended. He sat down amid a murmur of applause.

"Wonderful," exclaimed Mrs. Ives. She was agreeably astonished that Mr. Carp should ever have finished.

"Very full, concise and to the point," was Miss Laforth's verdict.

"Great!" announced Grove Evans, really delighted, for he would be in time for dinner at the club after all.

The Rev. Thomas Brattle gazed about the circle with a bland smile. "I am glad," he said, "to have my judgment indorsed by such excellent critics."

Then, rapping gently on the table, he glanced about him. "A motion is in order before we adjourn, my friends," he stated, expectantly.

"I move Mr. Carp's report be adopted as it stands," said Marvin Lattimer breathlessly. He had waited patiently all afternoon to speak just those words. His business judgment, as applied to social affairs, had taught him the wisdom of getting into the record. He was only a recent confidant of this inner circle of All Souls and he aspired to remain where he was. Besides, it would be something to tell the socially ambitious Mrs. Lattimer when he got home. There was a second from Miss Laforth.

"You hear the motion," breathed the reverend chairman. "Those in favor will please say 'aye.'" As they all responded he beamed upon them. He turned with a deprecatory glance to Carp. "And as a matter of form, those contrary minded will please signify by saying 'no.'"

He waited a moment. Quite clearly and distinctly Mary Randall spoke:

"No!"

The tiny monosyllable seemed to echo and reecho through the high-ceiled room. There was a most embarrassing silence.

"Mary," faltered Mrs. Randall.

Mary came over and pressed her hand against her aunt's shoulder. "Believe me," she said, "I don't mean to wound you. You don't understand." Then turning to the Rev. Mr. Brattle, she went on: "But I must insist that my vote in the negative be recorded in the minutes of this meeting."

"May I inquire the cause of your—er—peculiar attitude?" asked the clergyman.

"Do you think that fair, Dr. Brattle?"

"Possibly not fair, but perhaps our curiosity is pardonable." There was suppressed sarcasm in his retort.

"In your little speech of introduction, my dear doctor," said the girl, "you advanced the suggestion that this meeting might evolve some theory that would rid society of the social evil. The great trouble with this report is that it is all theory. I have no quarrel with the facts that Mr. Carp has given us, except that they are old—'world old,' as I think you said. Weeks have been spent on this investigation and yet there is not one word—not a single word—that answers the appeal going up in this city day after day from thousands of unfortunate women. We sit here, after weeks of investigation, and listen to a homily. The time is past in Chicago for homilies. The question is: What are we going to do about it? Helpless thousands are asking us that question and we answer it with a treatise full of 'world-old' truth and full of 'theory.' Mr. Carp speaks of the resorts on Dunkirk street being 'questionable'—"

"They are questionable," defended Mr. Carp stoutly.

"Questionable, Mr. Carp," replied Mary, "is a gentle word. These resorts are a shrieking infamy. They are markets in which young girls are sold like cattle."

"How do you know that?" demanded Grove Evans, almost rudely. He felt his club appointment slipping away from him and the poker game owed him two hundred dollars.

Mary looked from her aunt to her uncle.

"I know," she replied, "because I have been there. I know because I myself bought four girls there!"

The company gasped its surprise.

"I told them I was 'in the business' in Seattle," the speaker continued. "I told them I wanted to buy. I asked for four girls—four young girls. They sold me four for one hundred dollars each."

There was a silence for a long moment. It was broken by Marvin Lattimer.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed.

Mary looked at him sadly. "There is one fact more impossible than that, Mr. Lattimer," she said. "It is that men of the world like you—men who, above all others, should make it their business to know these things,—cry out 'Impossible!' when such a fact is exhibited before you in all its hideousness."

"You should have had the man who sold those girls arrested," blurted Grove Evans.

"I did," replied Mary quietly, "and The Reporter, in which you are a part owner, suppressed publication of the fact. I had the man arrested and Jim Edwards, the politician who holds the district in the hollow of his hand, prevented the case from going to trial. That man walks the streets of Chicago free and without bond."

The girl turned to Dr. Brattle again.

"Doctor," she said, "you are a clergyman. You are the shepherd of the flock. Are you, too, deaf to the appeal that goes up daily from the sinks of this city,—from hundreds of ruined girls? Do you, too, stand by while wolves rend the lambs? Do you deny the existence of the wolf?"

"We can only strive to educate these women, to teach them the error of their way," pleaded the shepherd.

"But, doctor, while you are educating one, the wolves are tearing down twenty. They 'educate,' too, and their facilities are better than yours."

The girl stopped breathlessly and, stooping swiftly, kissed her aunt. There were tears in her eyes.

"Don't worry about me," she said.

Then suddenly she crossed the room and threw open the door. The maid, Anna, stood there with a satchel at her feet and Mary's cloak upon her arm. Mary picked up the satchel and turned toward the street door.

"The time for theory alone is over," she said, addressing the company. "Someone has got to go into action against the wolves."

The door swung behind her and she stepped out into the boulevard.



CHAPTER X

THE ADVENTURES OF A NEWSPAPER STORY

Great cities thrive on sensations. The yellow journal with its blatant enthusiasms and its brazen effrontery finds a congenial habitat there, not because it is brazen, nor even because it is enthusiastic, but because it supplies a community need. The screaming headline is a mental cocktail. Bellowed forth by a trombone-lunged newsboy, it crashes against the eye, the ear and the brain simultaneously. It whips up tired nerves. It keys the crowd to the keen tension necessary for the doing of the city's business. And the crowd likes it. Fed hourly on mental stimulants, it becomes a slave to its newspapers.

On the morning after Mary Randall's dramatic exit from her uncle's mansion Chicago awoke and clutched at the morning papers with all the eagerness of a drunkard reaching for his dram. A hint of a powerful new thrill lay in the half disclosed first pages. Black headings and "freaked" makeup meant but one thing—a big story.

And Chicago was not disappointed. Occupying the place of honor on the first pages of all of the morning sheets was the announcement of a new assault upon the Vice Trust. To the crowd the name Mary Randall meant nothing. It knew little of her and cared less. But the idea of a young girl, beautiful, socially prominent, immensely wealthy in her own right, declaring war single-handed on a monster so mightily armored and intrenched and so brutally strong as the Vice Trust appealed instantly to the crowd's imagination. In the crowd's thought, at least, the girl became a heroine. And though the man in the street openly wearing an air of cheap cynicism spoke of her as "another crazy reformer" or as a "notoriety-hunting crank," secretly he responded to the enthusiasm of the headline writer who announced her as a "modern Joan of Arc."

Mary had given out the story herself. A simple letter from her to the city editors announcing that she had left her home and all the luxuries that such a home implied and, accompanied only by a maid, had set forth on a war of extermination against the "vice ring" had been sufficient to set every local room in the city in a frenzy. Re-write men and head writers had done the rest. Every newspaper recorded the launching of her adventure with a luxuriance of illustration and a variety of detail that left nothing more to be said on the subject. Mary had counted rather shrewdly on this. She possessed, among her other natural gifts, a keen judgment of news values. She knew, too, the immense power of the press. By enlisting the agencies of publicity behind her she had multiplied her forces a thousand-fold. At the end of her letter Mary had written a modest appeal to the public. Every newspaper printed it under display type. It read as follows:

"TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF CHICAGO.

"Our city, which should be the heart of American honor, is in the grip of a hideous System. So quietly and surely has this monster worked that our civic blood is poisoned. It feeds upon youth, innocence and purity—all that we as decent citizens love best. I call upon you all to stand by me now in my fight to kill the White Slave Traffic.

"Mary Randall."

Grove Evans read that appeal through and smiled at its naivete. Then he looked across his office to his partner, William Brierly, a younger man with pompadour hair and an habitual air of immense self-satisfaction. Brierly was reading the same story in another newspaper. He, too, looked up and smiled.

"You know this girl, don't you, Grove?" Brierly asked. "By George, she must be interesting. A new kind of female maniac, eh?"

"You've met her," responded Evans. "She was at the Country Club during trophy match last fall. Carries herself like a queen. I remember your raving about her."

"Ah," Brierly's derisive smile faded. "That girl, eh? Say, I saw her make the ninth hole in three. That girl! Say, look here, Grove," he struck the open paper with his palm, "does she mean this stuff?"

Evans lighted a cigarette before replying. "She sure does," he stated finally. "I was at the Randalls when she delivered her ultimatum and took to the war path. Talk about a jolt! After she left us, you could hear the shades of night falling. For ten minutes we sat there exhibiting all the vivacity of a deaf and dumb man at a Quaker prayer-meeting."

Brierly laughed. "Oh, well," he said. "She'll do what all these suffragettes do—run around in a circle, yell herself tired, then marry some fellow and forget it."

He yawned. Evans turned to the huge safe and got out a heavy packet of papers.

"What are you doing, Grove?" Brierly demanded lazily.

"Nothing," responded Evans curtly. "Just looking over some of our shady leases."

"Hello!" said Brierly, getting on his feet. "Are you taking this thing seriously?"

Evans turned with a folded paper in his hand.

"You bet your life I am," he replied. "I know this girl. There's a strain of wild Irish in her and it's my opinion that she's going to raise merry hell!"

The dreamer who had visited the Millville Button Works with the owner of the mill lunched with his friend in the city that day. Quite casually, among other items of interest, Mary Randall's adventure came up for discussion.

"I don't know the girl," said the mill-owner, "but her announcement gives me a fairly good mental picture of her."

"What's your picture?" inquired the journalist.

"A rag and a bone and a hank of hair, one of these raving suffragettes. Since bomb-throwing and burning are not fashionable over here, she's chosen this means of expending her surplus energy."

"My dear friend, you're entirely wrong!"

"What! You've seen her?"

"Oh, no, but I have quite a different mental picture of her. You remember Joan of Arc? Mount her on a charger, hand her a sword of fire and send her forth to fight for Mary Magdalene. That's my idea."

"You've borrowed that from the headline writers," the mill-owner said.

"Not at all. I know the type. A thoughtful young girl, healthy, cultivated and, by the modern miracle, taught how to think. She studies vice conditions in Chicago at first hand and what she sees turns her into a crusader. This girl has spirit. Brought face to face with a great evil, moved by the appeal of helpless womanhood, she throws aside her veneer of false education."

"Unsexed!"

"Yes, if you would say that the crisis in her life unsexed Portia. Or the crisis in France's history unsexed Charlotte Corday."

"You're fond of historical allusions," chided the practical man. "Always the literary man, always the dreamer. This girl is a disturber. She'll unsettle business."

"Ah, there you are. 'Unsettles business.' Did it ever strike you business men that you take yourselves too damn seriously? Any movement, any agitation that 'unsettles business' is ipse facto wrong. You business men have had a hand in the martyring of most of the saints and all of the reformers since time began. And, invariably, you are wrong. Why, you're wrong even about yourselves. You firmly believe that the foundations of the country rest upon you. As a matter of fact, not one per cent of you are producers. You're middlemen, profit shavers, parasites."

"My dear fellow," asked his friend, "where would you be if business men—publishers—didn't buy your wares?"

"Ha," answered the writer, "and where would the publishers be if I and others didn't produce the wares to market? It won't do. The reason the newspapers and magazines of this country are so bad is because most of the publishers are not newspaper men and magazine writers, but merely business men."

"Well, I suppose your Joan of Arc will have to have her fling. Then life will swing back to its same old channels and we'll forget her."

"Yes, she will have her fling and perhaps we'll forget her, but life will not swing back to the same old channel. She'll make a new channel, forgotten though she may be, and it will be a better channel."

* * * * *

Captain Shammer of the Eighth police district read Mary Randall's open letter through slowly and carefully. When he had finished he lighted a long black cigar from a box that had been sent him by a world famous confidence man. He smoked thoughtfully for some time. Then he put out a heavy hand and, without looking, pressed a white button at the side of his desk.

A sharp-eyed young man opened the captain's door.

"Nick," said the captain, "shut that door a minute and come over here." He pointed to the black newspaper headline.

"Get that?" he demanded.

"Sure, first thing this morning, Captain."

"Well?"

"We should worry."

Captain Shammer rolled his cigar in his mouth. He wasn't exactly satisfied with the answer.

"All right," he agreed finally, "but Nick—"

"Yes, Captain." Nick paused alertly, one hand on the door knob.

"Easy for a while until we see how things break on this."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

"Curtains drawn, you know, and back rooms quiet. Tell the girls to go slow on the piano playing. Did Ike, the dip, come across?"

"Not yet, Captain."

"Pinch him today and give him the cooler. Get me?"

"It's done, cap."

"Close in on the stuss games. Pass the word to go easy."

"I get you."

"Mary Randall, eh?" asked Captain Shammer of vacancy when his aid had gone. "Mary Randall! Well, Mary, you sure have got your nerve with you."

Senator Barker was a member of the Governor's vice investigating committee. The committee had been appointed to frame a minimum wage law for women. He was a person of ponderous bulk and mental equipment. He had slipped into office, not because the people yearned for him, but because there had happened to be a battle on between two factions of his natural political opponents in the fortunate hour he had selected for aspiring to office. Like most other American officeholders he spent his days and nights scheming out ways to continue living at the public's expense. He perused Mary Randall's screed as he sat over his morning grape-fruit.

In an intermission in the committee meeting Senator Barker leaned across the heavy oak table and pointed out the letter to the Rev. Wallace Stillwell.

"Did you see that?" he inquired huskily.

Mr. Stillwell nodded and drew his thin lips together. He was quite young and just now carried the burden of having been called from an obscure country pulpit to a fashionable church in Chicago. He knew that the wealthy man who was his sponsor in this new position was interested in whole blocks of houses whose curtains were always drawn. He had never forgotten a certain phrase that great man had used when he came in his own automobile to bear the young pastor to the new field of his labors.

"We want you, Mr. Stillwell," he had said, "because we believe you to be a safe and sane man, one who will not be swept off his feet by wild-eyed reformers and the anarchistic tendencies of the times."

Mr. Stillwell, therefore, knew why he was wanted in Chicago. The knowledge made him cautious in all things. He thought Senator Barker's question over carefully. Then he nodded calmly.

"Why, yes, Senator," he answered. "One could hardly avoid reading it."

"Well, what about it?"

"Just what do you mean, Senator?"

"You know. What do you think of it, eh?"

"It seems to me," purred the Rev. Wallace Stillwell, "that the whole exploit is worse than fantastic. It is hardly in good taste. Investigations of the kind this girl has undertaken ought to be left to the men."

"That's all right," put in the Senator, gloomily, "but I've noticed lately that the women don't seem to be willing to do that. They want to take a hand in such matters themselves." He leaned back in his chair sadly. "It certainly makes it hard for us politicians."

* * * * *

A woman of ample girth and a handmade complexion pushed her coffee cup away and lighted a fresh cigarette. She had just finished reading Mary Randall's manifesto. Nature had made her beautiful, but advancing years and too much art had all but destroyed Nature's handicraft. She inhaled the acrid smoke deeply and then raising her voice, called:

"Celeste! You, Celeste!"

A mulatto girl threw open the door, crying:

"Yes, madame?"

"What you doing?"

"Cleaning up."

"Get a bottle of wine. Or did those high rollers guzzle it all last night, the drunken beasts?"

"No, madame. I've saved one for you." She opened the bottle and placed the effervescent liquid before her mistress.

"All right, Celeste. Anybody up yet?"

"I hardly think so, madame."

"Well, I'm up and I wish I wasn't," announced a girl who appeared at that moment coming down the broad staircase. She entered the room.

"Got a head this morning, eh, Nellie?" said the madame, knowingly.

"Yes, I've got a head," replied Nellie sullenly, "and a grouch."

"Make it two, Celeste," said the madame promptly, indicating the bottle. The colored maid poured out another glass of the liquor. Madame threw the paper across the table to the girl.

"There," she said, "that's something that will make you worse."

"Where?" asked the girl, as she caught up the paper.

"Front page, big headlines. You can't miss it."

The girl stepped to the window and pushed aside the heavy curtain. In the morning light she was revealed there petite and charming, despite penciled eyebrows and carmined lips. Her figure was daintily proportioned. There was grace in every line. Her deep brown eyes glowed as she read the words Mary Randall had written.

When she finished reading the girl crumpled the paper in her hand and filled another glass. She lifted the wine slowly.

"Here's to you, Mary Randall," she said.

"That's a rotten toast," said the madame.

"Is it?" replied the girl. "Well, let me tell you something. I'd like to go straight out of this house and find Mary Randall and say to her: 'I'm with you, Mary Randall, and I hope to God you win out.'"

"You don't think of me," whined the older woman. "Look what a knock that reform stuff gives business."

"You!" Nellie's temper flared into a flame. "Say, you ought to be in jail! Now don't start anything you can't finish—" The older woman had got to her feet menacingly. "You don't deserve no pity. You got into this"—she indicated the gaudily furnished house by a gesture, "with your eyes wide open. You picked out this business for yourself. But with me it's different." She leaned across the table defiantly. "Yes, how about me? How about Lottie and Emma—and that poor kid that came here happy because she thought she'd found a decent job? Did we pick out this business? Did we? Not on your life. We walked into a trap and we can't get out. Yes, and there's thousands like us all over this country." She snatched up the bottle and poured more wine. "I'm for you, Mary Randall," she said, raising the glass to the sunlight. "More power to your elbow!"

* * * * *

Mary Randall read the newspapers in a garret room of a tall lodging house. A pile of letters, in a peculiar shade of dark blue, sealed, stamped and ready for the postoffice, lay in a heap before her. She went through each newspaper carefully, noting the display and studying the "features" of her story that had impressed the newspaper men. At last she laid them down.

"Well, Anna," she said, smiling, addressing her maid. "We've made a good beginning. The town, you see, is interested in us."

Anna's ordinarily impassive face smiled back at her mistress' enthusiasm. Her blue eyes lighted with admiring loyalty. She was blonde, big boned and so strongly built as to look actually formidable. Competency and reserve power fairly radiated from her. Her voice betrayed her Scandinavian ancestry.

"Ya-as," she said, "and in another week they'll be fighting for us."

Mary got up from her chair and went to the window, threw it wide open and looked out on the city. She saw its myriad lights rimming the shore of the inland sea. She heard its roar—deep, passionate, powerful. In her imagination she laid her ear close to the city's heart and she heard it beat strong and true. The smile had left her face and a prayer formed itself silently on her lips. The revery lasted only a moment.

"And now," she said, "for the next movement in the battle." She indicated the letters. "There's our ammunition, Anna," she said. "Mail them. I've picked you for a great honor. You're to open the engagement with a fusillade of bombshells."



CHAPTER XI

A BOMB FOR MR. GROGAN

The telephone in the outer office of the Lake City Telephone Company rang insistently. Miss Masters, the stenographer, after the fashion of stenographers, let it ring. At length the telephone gave vent to a long, shrill, despairing appeal and was silent. Then, and then only, did Miss Masters lay aside the bundle of letters she was sorting and pick up the receiver.

"Yes?" she said. "Well, what is it?"

Apparently a voice responded.

"Speak a little louder, please," the girl said impersonally. "I can't hear a single word you're saying."

More words from the outside poured through the receiver.

"Yes." Miss Masters nodded mechanically. "Yes, this is the main office of the Lake City Electrical Company. What?"

There was another pause.

"This is Miss Masters at the 'phone,—yes—yes—I'm the stenographer. What's that? Private secretary? Yes, I am Mr. John Boland's private secretary. No, our president, Mr. Harry Boland, has not come downtown yet. We are expecting him at any moment."

A red-headed office boy stuck an inquisitive head through the door.

"Who's that," he demanded, "someone for the boss?"

Miss Masters merely motioned him to silence.

"Yes," she went on, "his father, Mr. John Boland, will be in some time during the morning. Who shall I say called?"

The girl waited for the answer and hung up the receiver.

"Who is it, Miss Masters?" inquired the boy.

"Well, Dickey, I don't think it's any of your business," retorted Miss Masters good-naturedly. "But, for fear you'll burst with curiosity, I'll say that it's Mr. Martin Druce."

"Happy as a crab this morning, ain't you?" jeered the boy. "Well, you want to look out for that geezer, Druce. He's a devil with the girls."

Miss Masters made a face at him and the boy, whistling derisively, disappeared through the door, not failing to slam it loudly after him.

Miss Masters resumed her letter sorting. The door opened slowly. A man entered with his hat over his eyes. His hands were deep in his pockets and he chewed a despondent looking cigar. Had the reader been present he would have recognized him instantly, despite his unaccustomed air of lugubriousness, as our old friend, Mr. Michael Grogan.

"Good morning, Mr. Grogan," said Miss Masters cordially.

Grogan made no reply. The girl went on with her work. Then as if communing with herself she said: "And yet they say the Irish are always polite."

"Eh?" said Grogan, rousing himself, "what's that?"

Miss Masters vouchsafed no reply. She merely laughed. Grogan, conscious that he was being chaffed, stared at her. He was pleased with what he saw. He found Miss Masters handsome. Her office dress, slit at the bottom and displaying at this moment a neat ankle, was ruched about the neck and sleeves. It was a rather elaborate dress for a stenographer, but John Boland was a vain man and liked to have the employes he kept close about him maintain the appearance of prosperity. In fact, he paid these particular employes well with the explicit understanding that they would keep their appearance up to his standard.

"You're making light of me gray hairs, I see," said Mr. Grogan, smiling.

"Well," said the girl, "I said good morning to you and you didn't even grunt in reply."

"The top of the morning to you, Miss Masters," said Grogan, hastening to remedy his oversight and removing his hat with an ornate bow.

"Sure, and I'm wishing you the same and many of them," replied the girl.

Mr. Grogan bowed again and added:

"And, if I have failed in the politeness due a lady, I begs yer pardon."

"You're forgiven, Mr. Grogan," replied Miss Masters, resuming her work.

Grogan returned to his meditations. He was regarding his mutilated cigar ruefully when Miss Masters observed:

"If all of the millionaires were as thorough gentlemen as you are, Mr. Grogan, we wouldn't have any labor unions."

The word millionaire seemed to sting Grogan.

"I'll thank you," he said abruptly, "to leave me out of the millionaire class."

"Why, Mr. Grogan," said the girl, surprised, "I thought you'd like that!"

"So would I—wanst," retorted Grogan, "but now when any one says 'you millionaire,' faith, I get ready to dodge a brick."

"I should think it would be pleasant to know you had a million dollars." There was a note of envy in the girl's voice.

Grogan rose slowly, walked to the desk and leaned across it confidentially.

"So it always was," he said sententiously, "but now they're beginning to ask, 'Where did you get it?'"

"Oh," said the girl.

"It's not 'Oh,' I'm saying," said Grogan, "it's 'Ouch!'"

"Something's disturbing you, eh?"

"Something—and somebody. 'Tis a girl."

"Oh, Mr. Grogan!"

"Whist!" retorted Mr. Grogan, "You don't get me meaning. It's not the kind you buy ice cream sodies for. No! This lady has a club in her fist and a punch in both elbows."

"For you?"

"I suspicion so, and I'm oneasy in me mind."

"It's silly to worry, Mr. Grogan," said Miss Masters, "sit down and look over the papers." She extended a morning newspaper, smiling.

"I may as well." Grogan took up the paper and selected a chair.

"Stirring times in Chicago, just now," said the young woman.

"They're stirring, all right," Grogan agreed. "They're too stirring. What I want is peace. I'd like to pass the rest of my days in quiet—quiet—and—"

The sentence expired on his lips as he stared at the front page of the paper held open in his hands.

"What's the matter, Mr. Grogan," said Miss Masters starting up, alarmed.

Grogan wiped his forehead and moistened his lips.

"Nothing," he said, "it's hot and I'm—I'm—"

He threw the newspaper on the floor.

"Here," he said, "give me another newspaper."

The girl picked up another paper from the heap on the corner of the desk and passed it across to him. Grogan looked at the headlines.

"Help—murder," he cried. Then he cast the paper on the floor and got to his feet abruptly.

"Mr. Grogan," asked the girl, "what is the matter?"

"I asked for quiet," Grogan replied, picking up the papers and shaking them angrily, "and on the front page of this paper is a letter written and signed by Mary Randall."

"And why should Mary Randall disturb you?"

"Do you know she writes to me?"

"Writes to you?"

"She does."

"What does she say?"

"Everything—and then some," was the grim response. "Don't laugh!" he ordered. "Here's one of the last of them." Grogan took a dark blue envelope from his pocket, extracted a single sheet of the same color and read.

"Michael Grogan:—Do you remember what your old Irish mother said to you when you left Old Erin to seek your fortune in the new world? She said: 'Mike, me boy, don't soil your hands with dirty money.' Mary Randall."

"Don't soil your hands with dirty money," repeated Miss Masters.

"That's a nice billy dux to find beside your plate at breakfast, ain't it now?" demanded Grogan. Then after a pause he murmured half to himself,

"Me old Irish mother, God bless her, with her white hair and her sweet Connemara face! I can see her now, just as she stood there that day in the door of our cabin when I went off up the road, a slip of a boy, with a big bag of oatmeal over me shoulder—one shirt and me Irish fighting spirit. That was me capital in life, that and her blessing. She's sleeping there now, and the shamrock is growing over her—"

Grogan stopped. His voice had grown husky.

"Say," he demanded turning on Miss Masters abruptly, "why don't you make me stop? Don't you see I'm breaking me heart?"

The girl had really been moved. "I can't," she said, "because—" She got out her powder puff and proceeded hastily to decorate her nose. She was still engaged in this operation when the telephone rang. Grogan started.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"Why, it's only the telephone. What is the matter with you, Mr. Grogan?"

"I dunno," responded Grogan despondently, "I'm as nervous as a girl in a peek-a-boo waist."

The telephone rang again.

"Why don't you answer that?" demanded Grogan sharply.

"I will," replied the girl, "but there's no great rush, is there?"

"Yes there is," insisted Grogan, "I can't bear the suspense."

The young woman laughed and picked up the receiver.

"Lake City Electrical Company," she said. "What? Who is it, please."

Grogan, who had continued pacing up and down the office, stopped and made wild gestures to Miss Masters. Covering the mouthpiece of the instrument so she would not be heard, the girl asked.

"What is it, Mr. Grogan?"

"Whist!" replied Grogan, "If that is Mary Randall on the wire there, I've gone to Alaska. I've given all me money away and I'm living on snow balls."

Miss Masters smiled and replied with assurance: "This isn't Mary Randall."

"Thank God for that," breathed Grogan.

"Hello," went on Miss Masters into the telephone. "Oh, you're long distance? Well?"

There was a pause.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Harry Boland hasn't come downtown yet."

"He may be in any moment—shall I—"

She broke off sharply as Harry himself came in the door drawing off his gloves.

"Wait! Just a moment please," she went on. "He has just come in."

"Someone for me, Miss Masters?" the young man inquired, hanging up his hat on a rack by the door. Without waiting for a reply he turned to Grogan. "Good morning, Mike."

"'Tis a fine day—I hope," returned Grogan cautiously.

"Yes, someone calling you, Mr. Boland," broke in Miss Masters.

"Don't want to talk to anyone," said the young man curtly.

"Hello, hello," continued Miss Masters at the telephone. "Hello, long distance? Mr. Boland is too busy—"

"Wait, please," interrupted Harry quickly, "did you say 'long distance?'"

Miss Masters nodded. "Just a moment," she said into the telephone.

"Yes, Mr. Boland," she said. "It's a long distance. Some one wants to talk to you in—Millville, Illinois."



CHAPTER XII

BAD NEWS FROM MILLVILLE

The word Millville had an instantaneous effect on Harry Boland. It was, in fact, the most pleasant sound he had heard in days. Upon returning to Chicago after his lover-like interview with Patience Welcome he had dispatched a long letter to her. To this he had received no reply. Then he wrote two letters in one day. Neither of them had been answered. Thoroughly disturbed now, but too busy to leave Chicago himself, Harry had sent his confidential man, John Clark, to Millville to learn, if possible, the cause of Patience's silence.

While Harry stood eagerly waiting for the 'phone Miss Masters was busy getting the long distance connection.

"All right, Mr. Boland," she said at last, "here's your party." Then into the telephone she continued: "Yes—Mr. Boland is here waiting. He will talk to Millville. Hello—hello—Millville? Hello!" She handed Harry the instrument.

"I wouldn't answer that 'phone for a thousand dollars," put in Grogan dolefully.

"Hello—hello!" exclaimed Harry.

A shrill whistle rent the air and Grogan jumped hysterically.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"The postman's whistle," replied Miss Masters calmly, repressing a smile as she started for the outer door.

"Hello, Millville, hello," called Harry Boland, not getting his connection.

Grogan beckoned Miss Masters to his side. "If there's a letter there for me in an envelope like this," he said producing the dark blue letter from his pocket, "you keep it."

"Really?" Miss Masters now smiled openly.

"Keep it," reiterated Grogan, "don't show it to me or I'll climb up the side of the building and jump off."

Miss Masters thoroughly amused vanished into the hall. Meanwhile Harry Boland was talking to Millville.

"Millville?" he said. "Yes this is Harry Boland. Oh!" He paused with a distinct note of disappointment in his voice. "Oh, it's you, Clark? Yes I know—You've something to report about the Welcomes."

"The Welcome family," said Grogan, pricking up his ears.

"All right, I'm listening," Harry went on. "Yes, I get you."

"Look at that now," continued Grogan reflectively.

"No, no, you needn't wait there any longer—All right."

He hung up the receiver.

"Asking your pardon," ventured Grogan, "may I take the liberty of an old friend to inquire what Mr. Boland wants with a bum family like the Welcomes—"

"Just a moment, Mike," interrupted Harry putting out his hand imperatively. "You're speaking of the girl I mean to marry."

Grogan gaped at the young man.

"I am?" he gasped.

"You are," replied the other. He rose to his feet and turned tranquilly toward Grogan. "Now what are you going to say?" he inquired.

"Nothing," said Grogan, too surprised to talk.

"All right," replied Harry pointedly.

"But the old man is no good," hazarded Grogan. "Tom Welcome is a worthless—"

"He's dead, Mike," interrupted Harry.

"What?" This was a day of surprises for Grogan.

"He's dead," repeated Harry, "died the night we left Millville."

"Well," Grogan's manner had changed. "There were some good points about the man, after all. I've heard he'd never take a drink alone—if he could avoid it."

"And the Welcome family has moved away," Harry went on.

"Where?"

"No one knows. I've been too busy to investigate myself so I sent Clark to locate them."

"Aha," said Grogan. "Then it was Clark you were talking to?"

"Of course," replied Harry impatiently, "didn't you hear?"

"Yes, yes, but—" Grogan broke off abruptly. "Say, didn't that fat fellow who was going to be a detective, the fellow who nearly killed me riding on his grocery wagon, didn't he know anything?"

"He's left Millville, too."

"What!" exclaimed Grogan incredulously. "Do you mean to say a bunch like that can drop out of a town like Millville without anyone knowing where they've gone?"

"I'm not telling you. The facts speak for themselves," said Harry.

Both men were silent.

"Mike," said young Boland suddenly.

"Yes," responded Grogan.

"You were married?"

The Irishman was too surprised by the question to answer.

"I've heard you speak about your wife," Harry insisted.

Grogan still vouchsafed no answer. He stood staring at Boland.

"I've heard you speak of your wife, Norah," repeated Harry, "in a way that made me feel how sacred her memory was to you. She married you, a husky young Irish laborer in the mills, and how that little woman worked for you, toiling, saving, scrimping, tending the babies as they came! How you worshiped her, and big man as you were, how a word from her would make you kneel at her feet. You held her in your arms when the little mounds were raised in the church yard—"

Grogan listened in silence, deeply moved. He put out his hand and grasped Harry's firmly.

"That's the way I love Patience Welcome, Mike," went on Harry, "just as you loved Norah McGuire."

"Well," broke in Grogan huskily, "I didn't know—I—" He turned suddenly and demanded, "Well then, why in hell don't you find her?"

"I'm going to try."

"And I'll help ye!"

"Good old Mike," said Harry, putting his arm around Grogan's shoulders, "Aha, you can't beat the Irish!"

"Yes, you can," responded Grogan, "but they won't stay beaten."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Boland senior. He hung up his hat, took off his gloves and rubbed his hands together.

"Ah," he said, "good morning Harry—Mike."

"Morning, Governor," returned Harry tersely. Grogan acknowledged the salutation with a grunt.

"Have Miss Masters make out a lease for that house in South Twelfth street," went on the elder Boland briskly. He laid some papers on the table. "Here is the copy of the present lease with the necessary changes noted."

"Who's the lessee?" inquired Harry carelessly.

"Carter Anson."

"What!" exclaimed Harry in amazement.

"Well, well, what's the matter?" demanded the father.

"Ask Mike," said the young man turning with a smile to Grogan.

"I refuse to answer any questions," declared Grogan. "'Tis a little rule I learned in politics."

"Carter Anson is going to be indicted by the grand jury," Harry informed his father.

"Ah," said John Boland, "you've been reading the yellow journals."

"They're yellow," conceded Harry, "because they contain so many golden truths."

"Mary Randall, please write," sneered the elder Boland.

"Stop! No!" Grogan, who had been sitting down jumped to his feet in protest. The others looked at him in astonishment. He sat down again shamefacedly. "I don't want Mary Randall to write to me," he admitted dolefully.

"What's come over you, Grogan?" inquired John Boland sharply.

"A blue envelope—a sheet of blue paper with words on it, and—I've got a pain in the back of my neck." Grogan brought forth the blue letter again and gazed at it gloomily.

"You're crazy," John Boland informed him curtly. Then he turned to Harry. "Look here, my boy," he said, "don't be a fool—"

"He's your son," interrupted Grogan chuckling.

"Keep quiet, Mike. You know, Harry, I own that property with Mike here, and—"

Grogan interrupted again. "Look here, John Boland," he inquired, "how much will you give me for my share?"

"Two thousand dollars."

"It's yours," said Grogan.

"Why it's worth double that!" exclaimed John Boland.

"Never mind that. It's yours," repeated Grogan. "I'll give two thousand for my peace of mind any day."

"Are you crazy?"

"Not yet—but I'm headed that way. Take it at two thousand and I'll love you, John."

"All right."

"But, Governor," protested Harry, "don't you know—"

"Now don't let a fool reform wave scare you," burst out the father irritably. "Did you ever see a vice investigation get anywhere? Never! Just a lot of talk and—letters."

Miss Masters appeared with a package of letters in her hands. "Mail, Mr. Boland," she said. She began sorting the letters. "Four for you, Mr. Boland," she went on, "and a special for Mr. Harry Boland."

Grogan had been watching her intently. He breathed deeply and muttered: "Sure and I'm an old fool. Why should I be afraid of letters? Who could write—"

Miss Masters interrupted. "And one for you, Mr. Grogan," she said casually.

Grogan dropped into his chair crying: "Help!" Then cautiously he took the letter from Miss Masters. The envelope was white and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"What the deuce ails you this morning, Grogan?" demanded John Boland irritated.

"I'm getting second sight," returned Grogan gloomily, "and I don't like it."

"Oh, don't be a fool." John Boland began opening his mail. "All this investigating," he continued, "this talk of a minimum wage law, is just talk and that's all. Now take this crazy woman—Mary Randall—"

While he spoke he had opened a letter containing a second enclosure. It was an envelope of a peculiar shape and its color was dark blue.



CHAPTER XIII

THE READER MEETS ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE

The sight of the blue envelope had transfixed Grogan. He stood staring at it like a man in the presence of a ghost.

"The blue envelope, again," he cried. "A harpoon for you, John."

John Boland made no reply. He reached for his paper knife, ripped open the envelope and drew forth a sheet of blue note paper. He read with a gathering frown what had been written on it. Then he reread it, muttering under his breath.

"Does it hurt you much, John?" inquired Grogan, enjoying the other's discomfiture.

For answer the elder Boland scrutinized Grogan over his glasses.

"What do you know about this, Mike?" he demanded.

"Only that I got one of those blue bombs myself this morning," retorted Grogan.

"Listen to this." John Boland flourished the envelope angrily. "'The owner of property who leases same to vice is morally responsible for the crimes committed on his premises. Mary Randall.'"

He turned to Grogan. "What do you think of that?" he asked.

"She's hit home," replied Grogan grimly.

"Damn her, for a brazen busybody," blurted Boland angrily. "Why doesn't she mind her own business?"

Meanwhile Harry was opening an envelope the exact counterpart of his father's. He read the note twice and stood considering its import.

"Another of 'em?" said the elder Boland. "Well, what's yours, Harry?"

"Mine?—Oh,—mine—why," the young man faltered.

"Well, well, can't you speak?" demanded the father irritably.

Harry returned no direct reply. Opening his note he read:

"'We count on young men like you, Harry Boland, to lead the fight we are making to save our Little Lost Sisters. Mary Randall.'"

"Now," chuckled Grogan, "you know how I felt when I got my little blue envelope this morning." As he spoke he tore off the end of the envelope which he had held unnoticed. Inserting his finger and thumb into the envelope he went on:

"Do you know, I never did like the color of blue—"

He broke off as he lowered his eyes to the enclosure he had brought out. It was another blue letter. Grogan started up and jerked out the note. Holding it at arms' distance he read:

"'The strength of Ireland is in the purity of her sons and daughters. Mary Randall.'"

The three men stood staring at each other in amazement.

"Mary Randall." John Boland broke the silence with a sneer.

"Mary Randall," repeated Harry quietly.

"Oh you Mary Randall!" put in Grogan with just a touch of admiration in his voice. "She's the lady champion lightweight. Three knock-outs in three minutes. 'Tis a world's record!" He turned to the elder Boland. "Does the punch she gave you hurt much?" he inquired.

Boland glared at Grogan. "Who the devil is Mary Randall?" he demanded.

"I've never met her," replied Harry. "She's a member of the wealthy Randall family. Her mother died when she was young and I understand she was brought up very quietly."

"Do you know her, Miss Masters," persisted Boland.

The girl was startled, "I—why—I?" she hesitated.

"Yes—yes," said Harry, "do you know her?"

The girl still hesitated and Grogan broke in.

"You're a woman, Miss Masters," he said, "you ought to know all the feminine quirks. Now it's up to you. Who's Mary Randall?"

"Mary Randall is a wealthy girl," said Miss Masters calmly. "She has grown weary of the foolish methods you men have employed in attacking the vice problem. Convinced of your total incompetence she has started out really to do something."

"What does she want?" snorted John Boland.

"She said in a printed letter," replied Miss Masters, "that she wanted to put several property owners and crooked senators in jail."

Grogan was impressed by this statement.

"Do you want to buy the rest of my South Side property, John?" he inquired of Boland.

"Doesn't she know she's disturbing business?" asked Boland of Miss Masters, ignoring Grogan.

"Mary Randall also said," the girl replied, "that the greatest business in the world is that of redeeming 'Little Lost Sisters.'"

"You see, you see," said Grogan, "the farther you go, John, the more punches you get."

"I haven't time to bother with this foolishness," said Boland. "I've got a big contract on with the Simmons people."

He went to the door of his son's office.

"Come on Harry—you too Mike. Come in, Miss Masters, and take down this contract."

The three men started toward the door. As Grogan passed Miss Masters he whispered: "Young woman, if any more blue skyrockets come for me, play the hose on them."

"Very well," said the girl, smiling.

Having secured her notebook she started toward the inner office when a smartly dressed young man entered.

"Hello girlie," he said, intercepting her.

"Good morning," replied Miss Masters primly. "What's your business?"

"Oh, just like that, eh?" said the youth.

"Yes," replied the girl sharply. "What do you want?"

"Mr. John Boland."

"You can't see him now. He's busy."

There was a sharp, impatient call from the inner office.

"Yes sir, I'm coming," replied the girl.

"Well, be quick about it," returned the voice. "Do you think I can wait all day?"

"That's John Boland, isn't it?" inquired the man eagerly.

Miss Masters nodded assent.

"Well, tell him—"

"I'm sorry," broke in the girl, "but he's busy. He won't see anyone."

"Well then, tell him when you can that Martin Druce called."

"Martin Druce!" Miss Masters kept her eyes on the blank page before her, but she made no effort to make a memorandum of the name. She added slowly:

"You called on the 'phone this morning."

"I sure did." Druce, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, began toying with the silver vanity box Miss Randall wore suspended from her neck. "Say," he went on insinuatingly, "you have the sweetest voice—"

"Better tell me why you want to see Mr. Boland," she said quietly taking the vanity box from him and putting him at a distance. At the same time she smiled at him archly.

"Just want to renew a lease—the Cafe Sinister."

"Oh," said the girl, "I've heard of it."

"It's some swell place," replied Druce with pride.

"Yes?" said the girl. She pantomimed counting money. "Yes, as long as you can keep the police asleep."

"What in—what the deuce do you mean?" Druce inquired quickly.

Miss Masters shrugged her shoulders. Again she smiled at him archly.

"Oh, you're wise, eh?" Druce laughed. He felt that he was on familiar ground with this girl. There was that in her manner that indicated the wisdom of the demi-monde. He thought he had placed her.

"You're wise, eh?" he repeated. The girl had maneuvered to place a table between them. He leaned against the table and placed a hand on hers.

"Why does a fine looker like you spend her life pounding a typewriter?"

"Would you advise a change?"

"You could make a hundred a week in the cabarets," declared Druce admiringly.

"Perhaps," replied Miss Masters. She picked up her notebook and started for the inner office. "But I know where that road leads."

Druce was daunted with this reply. It wasn't at all what he had expected.

"Oh," he jeered, "you're one of the goody-goody kind, are you? Fare you well. I'll see you in church Sunday."

The girl was now at the inner office door. She turned and eyed Druce narrowly.

"Thank you," she replied without anger.

"Perhaps, some day, I'll see you wearing stripes and looking through iron bars!"

The door shut swiftly behind her, leaving Druce staring at the panels.

"What do you know about that," he spoke aloud, though there was no one in the outer office to hear him.

"Never mind, kid—you're no boob, anyway." He turned on his heel and walked out.



CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH THE WOLF IS BITTEN BY THE LAMB

John Boland was a very capable business man. He possessed the combination of shrewdness, ability to grasp and marshal details, and that utter selfishness which the world from time immemorial has rewarded with huge accumulations of money. He had one of those minds which find their recreation in intrigue. Unembarrassed by a conscience and unhampered by scruples he drove directly to his goal—success.

As head of the Electric Trust Boland was compelled to be at once a financier and a politician. The faculties for success in both fields are closely allied; in both Boland was eminently triumphant. Sitting in his office day after day, unmoved by events that might have disturbed other men and unstirred by emotions that might have turned other men from their paths, he looked out over the city and "played his game" with all the cold impassiveness of a gambler operating an infallible system in roulette. No detail was too small to escape his notice, no agent too ignoble to serve his purpose.

These facts are mentioned to explain the relationship that existed between John Boland and Martin Druce. In these two men, the social extremes of the city met—Boland, the financial power and leading citizen; Druce, the dive keeper and social outcast. They met because Boland wished it. Druce was one of the creatures that he could and often did use in his business.

Although ostensibly ignorant of the very existence of Druce, Boland in reality had the man often in his thoughts. He kept these thoughts hidden in that inner chamber of his mind from which, from time to time, emerged those inspirations that had made his name a by-word on La Salle street for supernatural astuteness. Not even the most intimate of his coworkers guessed them.

For nearly a month now Druce had been calling at Boland's offices intent on obtaining a renewal of his lease to the Cafe Sinister. During that entire month he had never been able to obtain even a word with the master financier. Boland had purposely refused to grant the interview so frequently requested by Druce not because he had any repugnance against doing business with the dive keeper but because to his mind there had never appeared any good reason why he should grant that interview. He played the waiting game with Druce because he had found by profitable experience that the waiting game paid John Boland best. The time might come when he would be able to use so excellent a tool as Druce to its best advantage. Boland was waiting calmly for that time. If Druce suffered in the interim John Boland was unable to see how that was any of his concern. In fact, Boland figured, the more Druce suffered, the keener a tool he would be for his purposes.

Druce guessed something of this. He too possessed a mind adapted to intrigue. Therefore every rebuff from Boland found him undaunted. He knew that his time must come. He called at Boland's offices again and again, smiling always in the face of denial.

Of late a new incentive for calling at the Electric Trust's offices had developed for Druce. This was furnished by Miss Masters. The girl's charming looks had aroused the man's curiosity and cunning. Her air of worldly wisdom, her alternate repulses and advances, had stirred him as he had rarely been stirred before. In his eagerness to possess her he almost lost sight of the main object of his visits.

But whether by accident or design Druce was never able to get a word with the girl alone. She was always, save on the sole occasion of his last visit, either engaged with Harry Boland's dictation, or, if in the outer office, chaperoned by Harry Boland's red-headed office boy. One day Druce met Red in the lower corridor of the Electric Trust building. The boy grinned knowingly at him and yelled as he hurried by.

"I'll be back in a minute."

"Don't hurry on my account," answered Druce, but at the moment it came to him that Red's chaperonage of Miss Masters might not be entirely accidental.

Druce stepped into the elevator and was let out at the Electric Trust's offices. He entered and found the offices empty.

"Hang the little fool," he said, "she doesn't know which side her bread is—"

"Meaning whom?" inquired Miss Masters' saccharine voice.

Druce turned quickly and saw Miss Masters coming from the inner office. He was impressed by the attractiveness of her dress.

"Where does she get all the glad rags?" he demanded of himself. "Maybe old Boland—"

"Who's a little fool?" persisted Miss Masters.

"Nobody," returned Druce. "Just talking to myself. Mr. Boland's out or busy, I suppose?"

"Yes, Mr. Boland's out," replied Miss Masters. She sat down at a typewriter and inserted a sheet of paper in the machine. "He left a message for you, however. He told me this morning that if you called I should ask you to 'phone him about twelve o'clock. He'll try to see you then for a moment."

"All right," said Druce, "thanks." But he made no move to go. He watched the girl as she hammered the typewriter keys. Presently she looked up at him inquiringly.

This to Druce appeared to be a direct offer to open a conversation. He hastened to take advantage of it.

"Yes," he replied in his most ingratiating manner, drawing near her. "I want to talk to you. I have been dying to speak to you alone, girlie—"

The girl rose from her chair and picked up her notebook.

"Oh, Mr. Druce," she said.

"Yes, girlie."

Miss Masters opened the notebook and took a lead pencil from the shining rolls of her hair.

"I have to keep a record of all callers," said the girl unexpectedly. "Mr. Boland is very particular about it. Let me see, your name is Martin Druce?"

She wrote the name into her book and showed it to him.

"I have the name correctly, haven't I, Mr. Druce?" she went on.

"Rather tardy with your duties, aren't you?" inquired Druce with a smile. "I've been coming here for some days now and you haven't wanted to put me into your book before."

"Perhaps," replied the girl, "I haven't noticed you."

Druce was sure now that he was beginning a flirtation with her.

"And your business?" continued the girl.

"Oh, Boland knows my business," replied Druce, with an air of carelessness.

"No doubt he does, but I don't. And how can I keep my records properly if I don't know? I can't bother Mr. Boland with these details. What is your business?"

"Why—ah—" hesitated Druce. "Live stock."

"What kind of live stock?" persisted Miss Masters, preparing to write down his answer.

"Eh!" Druce began to feel that he was being badgered.

"What kind of live stock do you deal in?"

"See here," snarled Druce, "what are you trying to do?"

Miss Masters' answer was perfectly calm. "I am trying," she said, "to find out what kind of live stock you deal in, Mr. Druce."

"Forget it!"

"Are you ashamed to tell me?"

Druce turned on the girl as though stung.

"Why should I be ashamed?" he blustered. He moved toward the door.

"I'll know that," replied Miss Masters, "when you tell me what kind of live stock you deal in."

There was a stern quality in Miss Masters' voice that Druce had noticed in the voice of a district attorney with whom he had once had an unpleasant interview. The man was a coward. He wanted to be off.

"Every kind," he blurted. "Good day."

A moment later he found himself in the hallway. "Red," the office boy, had just come from the elevator.

"What's the trouble, Druce?" demanded the boy. "You look pale around the gills."

"You go to hell, you little rat," retorted Druce, and without waiting for the elevator vanished down the steps, with the jeering laughter of the boy ringing in his ears.



CHAPTER XV

THE SEARCH BEGINS FOR THE LOST SISTER

There was nothing in Miss Masters' manner after Druce had made his hasty departure to indicate that she felt any thrills of triumph over the completeness of the dive keeper's rout. On the contrary she seemed unaccountably depressed. She sat down at her typewriter thinking deeply. Presently her meditations were disturbed.

The door opened quietly. A man entered who, in spite of the shabbiness of his clothing, his emaciation and the haggardness of his features the reader would have had no difficulty in recognizing. He was Harvey Spencer. He stood in the open door looking at the girl uncertainly. She took him in in a glance.

"Good morning," she said sympathetically. "You are looking for someone here?"

"I was," replied Harvey enigmatically, "but he's gone."

"Gone?" repeated the girl.

"Yes," replied the caller quickly, "perhaps you can give me some information. That man, who stepped in here a moment ago—you know who he is?"

"Yes," replied the girl, "his name is Martin Druce."

"That's his name, yes—what's his business?"

"Live stock, he says," replied Miss Masters in some surprise.

"You know where he lives?"

"No. Won't you sit down?"

"I can't. I'm following him."

The girl was bewildered. "Are you a detective?" she inquired.

The question produced an extraordinary effect on the young man. He threw up his head and gave vent to a short, sharp exclamation.

"Ha!" he said. "No," he went on, "I once thought I was a detective, but I woke up." Then he started for the door. "Thank you," he said. As he reached for the knob he reeled and clutched at the wall for support. Miss Masters started toward him.

"Come," she said, "sit down. Aren't you feeling ill? Let me get you a glass of water."

She drew a glass full from a cooler and carried it to the young man.

"It's warm," she said, "you're exhausted."

Harvey gulped the contents of the glass, and looked at Miss Masters mournfully.

"Thanks," he said. "Yes—mighty warm."

"Looking for a job?" inquired Miss Masters.

"I ought to be," was the reply.

"Why aren't you?"

"Because," Harvey's despondency deepened, "I'm looking for a girl."

"A girl from down state?"

"How did you know that?"

"Why," replied Miss Masters, "you don't belong to Chicago. Your clothes tell me that. And the girl—she was from your own town?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it?" Miss Masters' manner was friendly. She drew a chair and sat down opposite the young man. Harvey was so moved by this unlocked for sympathy that tears filled his eyes.

"Her name," he said huskily, "was Elsie Welcome. She ran away. Her father had beaten her. On the night she left the father died. We were to have been married. I learned that she had come to Chicago with this man—Martin Druce. I followed her. For days I have tramped the streets. Today I caught a glimpse of Druce as he entered an elevator in this building. I had just reached here when I lost sight of him."

The door behind him opened slowly. Miss Masters looked up to see a gray haired woman enter. She wore a waist and skirt of dead black with a little old fashioned black bonnet. Her face was sweet with motherliness, but drawn with sorrow and exhaustion.

"Harvey," she said.

Harvey turned and hurried to her side.

"I saw you come in here, Harvey," the woman went on, "so I followed. I hope we're not intruding Miss—"

"Masters is my name," responded the stenographer quickly.

"This is the girl's mother," said Harvey. "This is Mrs. Martha Welcome."

Miss Masters hastened to bring another chair.

"And your daughter," she asked quickly, "have you—"

"I—I don't think there was anything wrong in Elsie's going away," interrupted Mrs. Welcome. "She wasn't happy and her father—"

"Her father beat her," said Harvey wrathfully.

"Harvey," chided Mrs. Welcome, "Tom's dead. He wasn't a bad man, Miss Masters. He lost his courage when he lost his invention."

"I understand," said Miss Masters sympathetically. "You haven't heard anything from your lost girl?"

"No," replied Mrs; Welcome sadly, "not a word. Patience and I and Harvey came to the city hoping to find her—"

"Patience?"

"She's my other daughter," replied Mrs. Welcome, "two years older. Elsie was my baby." Her voice broke.

"I'm wondering," she went on in subdued tones, "if she's all right. I've prayed, too. Seems as though I've prayed every minute that God would bring my baby back to me. You don't think it makes any difference, do you, Miss Masters, even if we are in a great, noisy city? God is here, too, isn't he?"

She put out her hand impulsively and Miss Masters took it into her own cool palm.

"Yes, God is here," she replied reverently, "though sometimes it is hard to have faith and believe it."

Harvey had walked away and stood looking out at the door.

"Here's Patience," he said suddenly.

Patience Welcome entered almost immediately. She was dressed in the same somber black as her mother. She wore a heavy veil pushed back from the brim of her hat. Harvey presented her to Miss Masters.

"I've good news for you, mother," exclaimed Patience after acknowledging the introduction. "I've got a place in that office I went into when I left you. I begin work tomorrow. Then when I came out and missed you I was terribly frightened, but the elevator man told me you had come in here. And so I found you."

"Your mother has been telling me something about the search for your sister," said Miss Masters. "Perhaps I may be able to help you. Could you tell me something about it?"

"Thank you," replied Patience, "we need help. It seems as if we had exhausted all our own resources. But we mustn't stop now. Mother is worn out."

"Perhaps," said Miss Masters, "it would be better if this young man should take your mother home. You and I may be able to talk the situation over more confidentially if we are alone."

"You think you can help us?" inquired Patience eagerly.

Miss Masters was thoughtful. "Yes," she said, "I believe I have unusual facilities for helping you. I know a great deal about Chicago—"

"Then," said Patience, "I'll put our case in your hands. I know I can trust you. Somehow, I feel better already."

She took Miss Masters' hands in her own, confidently.

"Yes," returned Miss Masters, a little tremulously, "you can trust me."

Harvey in the meantime had helped Mrs. Welcome with her wraps and was leading her toward the door.

"I'll follow in a little while," said Patience, as the two passed out the door. "I'll be home in time for supper."

"Now," said Miss Masters, after Harvey and Mrs. Welcome were gone, "first tell me if you have any money."

Patience hesitated. Such a question coming from a stranger embarrassed her.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I think we have enough money. Harvey brought fifty dollars with him and Mother was given some money by a man who came to our aid, in Millville—"

"Millville?" interrupted Miss Masters.

"Yes," continued Patience, "that is the town we live in. The man's name was Dudley—"

"Dudley!"

Patience looked at Miss Masters in surprise. "You know him?" she asked.

Miss Masters hesitated. "The name seems familiar," she said.

"He was a stranger in Millville," Patience went on. "My mother wired to her sister, Sarah, for money after Elsie left us and my father died. My aunt sent us forty dollars."

There was a pause after this explanation, then Miss Masters went on hesitatingly.

"Forgive me, Miss Welcome," she said, "if I speak plainly to you. Were there any strangers in Millville about the time your sister went away?"

"Strangers?" repeated Patience.

"Any attractive young men," pursued Miss Masters.

"Why—why—I—" stammered Patience in confusion.

"There were, I see."

"You don't think my sister—" burst out Patience.

"Forgive me," interrupted Miss Masters, "but when an innocent country girl leaves her home suddenly it is a good rule to look for—the man."

"You think some one lured Elsie away?" said Patience stifled by the thought. "That some man is to blame?"

"It isn't an easy thing to say, my dear, but I do."

"Aren't there laws against such crimes?"

"Yes," replied Miss Masters, "but these laws were made by men, and men have always shown an unwillingness to legislate against their sex. Now there were some young men in Millville at the time your sister went away, weren't there?"

"Yes," admitted Patience, "two."

"Do you know their names?"

"Martin Druce."

"Ah!"

"You know him?"

"I have seen him." Miss Masters opened her memorandum book. "Martin Druce," she read, "dealer in live stock."

"Yes," assented Patience, "he told us that was his business."

"And the other stranger, Miss Welcome? Do not hide any of the facts."

"I'd rather not say," replied Patience hesitatingly.

"You had better tell me," urged Miss Masters.

"I—I can't," exclaimed the girl, "it hurts me even to think that he—"

"Better tell me," Miss Masters persisted.

"The other young man," said Patience, "was—Harry Boland."

"What?" exclaimed Miss Masters sharply.

"You know Harry Boland?" Patience flushed and stood up.

"I do. You are in the Bolands' outer offices at this moment."

She had scarcely spoken when the door of Harry Boland's office opened and the young man came out.

Patience drew her heavy veil down over her face and darted toward the outer door.

"Here is a corrected form of that contract, Miss Masters," said young Boland brusquely.



CHAPTER XVI

JOHN BOLAND MEETS MARY RANDALL

But Patience did not leave the office of the Lake City Electrical Company as quickly as she had hoped to do. She was intercepted by the young man, who deliberately placed himself between her and the door, effectually blocking the way.

He eyed the small figure in black with an inquisitiveness which was almost rude, attempting to peer through the meshes of the heavy veil, as he spoke to Miss Masters:

"I beg your pardon, I thought you were alone."

Before she could reply a rasping voice called from the inner office:

"Oh, Harry, send Miss Masters in here, will you?"

"The Governor wants you, Miss Masters," said Harry, his eyes still on Patience.

"I'm coming, Mr. Boland," proclaimed the stenographer.

With only a glance at her companions, she made a detour of the desk in the center of the room and glided into the other office.

"I'm afraid Miss Masters may be kept busy for some time," volunteered Harry kindly, "but if—if you care to wait—"

Patience only bowed her head and attempted to pass him; but she caught her breath quickly and her body swayed slightly, but perceptibly.

"I beg your pardon," went on Harry, fencing for time.

Again endeavoring to pass him, she staggered and put out one hand to steady herself, which Harry clasped quickly.

"Let me help you," he said.

She made a movement to release her hand as she recovered from the dizziness which had seized her.

"Better put up your veil, dear," said Harry gently. "I'm sure it is you."

"Please!" pleaded Patience. The word was scarcely audible.

"Put up your veil," he persisted.

When she complied, he gazed into her deep, dark eyes and stroked her hand tenderly.

"Did you think I could be in the same room with you and not know you? Oh, my dear—"

"No, Harry, no!" protested Patience, withdrawing her hand.

"If you knew how long and patiently I've searched for you, I don't think you could be so unkind."

"It's the only safe way," she replied, stepping away from him and clutching the back of a chair.

"Why?" he asked as he went close to her again.

"Because—because—"

"Because you do really care for me and you're fighting against yourself."

"Please let me go," begged Patience.

"No!" returned the young man stoutly.

"What shall I do?" she pleaded distractedly.

"Just turn around," was the smiling retort, "and run straight into the arms of the man who loves you."

"And bring trouble and sorrow on you? No—no—no!"

"I don't understand."

"Please don't ask me," she went on. "I've been through the deep waters of grief and suffering. Harry, I've been hungry."

"Hungry!" exclaimed Harry. "Oh, my poor girl, you must let me—"

Patience shook her head slowly, sadly; an eager light of desire for his love and tender care illuminated her face.

"Do you love me?" pursued the young man fervently.

"You mustn't ask me that—wait!"

"And lose you again?" He laid his hand on one of hers. "No; I want my answer now."

A harsh, commanding voice interrupted them.

"Harry!"

Patience started and drew her hand from beneath the other's touch as an elderly man came into the room.

"Governor!" exclaimed Harry, a little surprised, but entirely composed as he went on:

"Governor, I want you to meet the young lady who is to be my wife."

"What!" ejaculated John Boland, scarcely believing his own ears.

"Miss Patience Welcome."

"Welcome?" the older man turned his back to conceal the startled expression which came over his features.

"Yes. This is my good old dad, Patience," said Harry, laying one arm affectionately about his father's shoulders.

"Rather sudden, isn't it?" demanded Boland, senior, in a sharp tone.

But Harry was accustomed to his father's abrupt ways and gave no heed to the testiness of the query.

"No, Governor, I met Miss Welcome when I was in Millville."

"Oh, yes," hemmed John Boland, truculently unmindful of the introduction. "But just now get that contract off; Miss Masters is waiting."

"All right," assented Harry cheerfully. Then he turned to Patience. "I won't be long, dear."

Boland placed himself before his desk, covertly watching from beneath his shaggy, lowered brows until his son had disappeared. Then he cleared his throat and wheeled upon Patience without ceremony.

"Now, listen, Miss Welcome, you're not taking this seriously, I hope."

"No, Mr. Boland," she replied, moving toward the door. "I've tried to tell Harry how impossible it is—that—"

"You're a sensible girl," he broke in bluntly. "As it happens, Harry is already engaged."

The girl's breath came in short, sharp gasps, but she managed to control her voice as she murmured:

"He is?"

"Yes."

Boland placed his fingers in his vest pocket and drew out a fountain pen, the point of which he examined attentively. Patience felt that she ought to go at once, but somehow she couldn't. She stood there trembling, scarcely knowing whether or not she should believe the other's statement. She could not believe that Harry would do such an ignoble thing.

Boland glanced over his shoulder and saw her still hesitating on the threshold.

"Yes," he repeated blandly. "He is going to marry the daughter of my business partner—a girl who will inherit half a million."

He could see from the corner of his eye that the shot had told, but still Patience lingered, dazed.

"I—I see," she faltered weakly.

"Now you go along like a good girl," advised Boland, "and I'll see that you are treated fairly."

He opened a pretentious looking check book which lay on the desk.

"Just tell me how much you want and—"

"Nothing!" was the firm, decisive reply.

He eyed the girl critically as he remarked:

"You look as though ready money were a stranger to you."

"It is—but I have a position with the Mining Company in this building."

"I know them," declared Boland thoughtfully. Patience made no comment. She went on proudly, drawing her figure to its full height:

"And I want nothing; I am giving you back your son, Mr. Boland, I am not selling him to you."

He shrugged his shoulders and stared stupidly at the vacant doorway as he heard the girlish voice in the hallway, saying:

"Down, please."

He closed his check book with a snap, and involuntarily fumbled about his well arranged desk, replacing a paper here and a contract there.

"Hum!" he mused, "I thought there was something wrong with Harry."

The desk telephone rang sharply. He picked up the instrument and placed the receiver to his ear.

"Hello! hello!" he jerked out irritably. "Yes—yes, this is John Boland. Who wants me?"

His acute features contracted as he listened to the reply.

"Oh, Martin Druce," he said. "Want to see me about the lease of the Cafe Sinister, eh?"

His mind worked rapidly while he again listened.

"All right," he blustered finally, "all right, see you in fifteen minutes. Yes,—yes, here!"

He hung up the receiver and took a cigar from his pocket, thoughtfully biting off the end, as he muttered half aloud:

"Martin Druce, eh? Cafe Sinister—Ah!"

His lips ceased moving as he looked about him. He was still thinking deeply; then he struck a match and lighted the cigar at the glowing flame which he contemplated for a second before extinguishing it. With a look of one who has just solved a problem, he cast aside the charred ember and gritted:

"I guess so."

He seized a sheet of paper and rapidly scratched a few words on its white surface, settling back comfortably in the big chair as Harry came in.

"All right, Governor," called out the son; but he paused in astonishment when he saw that his father was alone. "Why—why, where's Patience?"

"Miss Welcome had to go,—she said," returned the other, calmly puffing his cigar.

"Didn't she leave any word for me?"

"Yes, she said she'd see you again."

"When?" asked Harry, impatiently. "Why, I don't even know where she lives."

"I thought of that," replied his father, as he handed the memorandum slip to Harry, on which he had just written. "Here's her address."

Harry took the bit of paper gratefully, and looked at it.

"Why—"

"What's the matter?" John Boland surveyed the wrapper of his cigar with keen interest, deftly closing a small broken place in it.

"This address!" exclaimed Harry.

"Well, what about it?"

"It's in the lowest, most depraved section of the city."

"Yes, I noticed that."

Harry looked up at his father quizzically.

"You did?"

"Yes."

"Governor," began Harry pointedly, a new idea beginning to dawn upon him, "if you do not know that a great deal of your property is rented and used for the most immoral purposes how do you know this address so well?"

"Why," spluttered Boland, senior, "I—I've read the papers."

"But this vile section of the city that you own has never been published."

"Look here, Harry," demanded his father, aggressively, "do you doubt my word?"

"I do," was the firm reply.

"I'm your father," he retorted angrily.

"You are," agreed Harry, "but this is a matter of right and wrong, and you can't fool me again as you have all these years."

"I'll show you who's master," threatened John Boland, grimly.

"It's your privilege to try," conceded the son with suppressed anger.

"Hold on—hold on," hedged his father, apologetically, "don't let's get mad about it. Finish up that contract and then—"

"And then?"

Harry's manner was alert, defensive, but wholly questioning.

"Then we'll talk this over calmly."

"All right, but Governor—" the young man turned at the door, grasping the contract in one hand as he put out the other warningly and pointed with his forefinger to the scrap of paper he had laid on the desk, on which was written Patience's supposed address: "Let me give you a piece of advice. Don't try to fool me."

John Boland stood motionless for a moment looking after his son; then he clenched his hand and brought it down on the desk with a forcible thump, as he thought:

"I've got to do something—quick."

"Well, made up your mind to see me, did you, Mr. Boland?"

Martin Druce's suave voice recalled Boland from the revery into which he had lapsed.

"Yes," he replied quickly, walking to the door through which Harry had gone and closing it.

"Now, don't talk," he commanded as he returned to his desk. "Listen! You and Anson want a renewal of the lease for the Cafe Sinister, don't you?"

"Sure," responded Druce, affably. "And I suppose you'll raise the rent on us."

"No," replied Boland, shaking his head.

"Eh?"

"Not if you're smart."

"I don't get you," announced Druce inquiringly, as he seated himself on the edge of the desk.

"My boy, Harry, thinks he is in love with a girl who has come to Chicago."

"Yes, Mr. Boland, but I don't see—"

"Now," continued Boland, regardless of the interruption, "if Harry happened to see this girl in some questionable resort,—say, like Cafe Sinister—if he were tipped off that this girl would be there—"

"I get you." Druce sprang to his feet; he was now keen and alert, like a hound on the scent. "Who's the girl?"

"She's got a position of some kind with the Alpha Mining Company on this floor," replied Boland. "She'll lose that tomorrow."

"I'm on. What's her name?"

"Patience Welcome!"

"What!" exclaimed Druce, with a sneering twist to the word.

"Do you know her?"

"Yes."

"Well?" Boland gazed at him, anxiously awaiting the reply.

"About the lease?" veered Druce with cunning perception.

Boland hesitated and scrutinized the other closely. He was satisfied with what he saw stamped on Druce's face, but he only said pointedly:

"I always make good when a man delivers the goods. Now get out—I'm busy."

"On my way," returned Druce easily, as he sauntered to the door, but he turned there, saying significantly:

"I'll deliver the goods,—don't worry."

John Boland sighed contentedly as he watched Druce go. Then he muttered:

"There, I guess I—"

"All right, Mr. Boland," rang out a clear feminine voice, as Miss Masters came from the inner office. "That contract is all ready."

"Oh, Miss Masters!"

"Yes, Mr. Boland," she replied in saccharine tones.

"Make out a lease for that property in South Twelfth street."

"For the Cafe Sinister, John?" inquired Michael Grogan, who had followed Miss Masters into the main office. "You're crazy."

"Oh, shut up, Mike," snapped Boland. "What ails you, anyway?"

"I've been reading the last edition," replied Grogan, lugubriously. "Mary Randall has had special officers sworn in at her own expense to help her make raids. She's put goose flesh all over me."

"Let me see it."

Boland took the paper which Grogan was fingering nervously.

"Take it," said the Irishman. "It's a live coal."

The other glanced over the sheet and threw it on the desk.

"Get busy on that lease, Miss Masters," he commanded.

"Just a moment, Governor," interrupted Harry, who had overheard the conversation as he came in. "If you lease that property to that hound, Anson, you and I are through."

"What?" exclaimed John Boland, astounded.

"It has come to a show-down," went on Harry, with determination expressed in both his tone and manner, "and I'm damned if I'll touch a cent of dirty money like that."

"You've been reading the Mary Randall stuff, eh?" sneered his father.

"Yes. And she's right. Now, you make your choice."

"Hold on—hold on," commanded the irate father. "Aren't you forgetting that I own and control this Lake City Company—that you are—"

"No! I realize that," retorted Harry, resolutely.

"All right!" Boland turned to Miss Masters grimly: "Make out that lease to Anson."

"Then here," said Harry quietly, as he wrote a few words on a sheet of blank paper and laid it on the desk; "here is my resignation as president of your Electrical Company, to take effect now."

"Harry!" protested his father.

"I'll get my personal things together at once," went on the young man, securing his hat from the rack.

"This has gone far enough," rasped John Boland, springing to his feet. "I'll show this Mary Randall there's one she can't scare."

He paced nervously up and down the office, pausing finally beside his desk.

"Miss Masters, take an open letter from me to the newspapers."

He did not notice the actions of the stenographer as he dictated:

"I, John Boland, am a business man. I stand on my record. I defy Miss Mary Randall—"

In pausing to formulate his thoughts, he became conscious that Miss Masters had not been taking his dictation; that she had laid an envelope on his desk directly in front of where he usually sat, and that she was putting on her hat.

"Here, hold on!" he cried peremptorily. "What does this mean, Miss Masters?"

"It means, Mr. Boland," she replied quietly, as she adjusted a hat pin, "that I have resigned. Good day."

When she started to leave Boland called out to her in amazement:

"Here—wait—why do you resign?"

"That letter on the desk will tell you," she said as she moved through the doorway. "Good day."

John Boland picked up the letter and opened it. He was dazed as he read aloud:

"I refuse to lend my aid to the owners of vice property. Mary Randall."

Boland stared into space, while Harry exclaimed:

"Then Miss Masters is Mary Randall!"

"Murder, alive!" yelled Grogan. He slid down in his chair and attempted to conceal himself beneath the desk.

John Boland's hands trembled as he clutched the letter.

"Mary Randall," he said, still dazed. "By all that's holy! That girl Mary Randall!"



CHAPTER XVII

THE CAFE SINISTER

The Cafe Sinister stands like a gilded temple at the entrance to Chicago's tenderloin. The fact is significant. The management, the appearance, the policy, if you please, of the place are all in keeping with this one potent circumstance of location. The Cafe Sinister beckons to the passerby. It appeals to him subtly with its music, its cheap splendor, its false gayety. To the sophisticated its allurements are those of the scarlet woman, to the innocent its voice is the voice of Joy.

Two pillars of carved glass, lighted from the inside by electricity, stand at the portal. Within a huge room, filled with drinking tables sparkling with many lights, gleaming and garish, suggests without revealing the enticements of evil.

This is the set trap. Above is that indispensable appurtenance to the pander's trade—the private dining room. Above that is what, in the infinite courtesy of the police, is called a hotel. And behind and beyond lies the Levee itself—naked and unashamed, blatantly vicious, consuming itself in the caustic of its own vices.

To the trained observer of cities the words: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here," are written as plainly over the door of the Cafe Sinister as if it were that other portal through which Dante passed with Beatrice. But the unlearned in vice cannot read the writing. By thousands every year they enter joyously and by thousands they are cast out into the Levee, wrecked in morals, ruined in health, racked by their own consciences.

The Cafe Sinister is not an institution peculiar to Chicago. Every great city in America possesses one. It is the place through which recruits are won to the underworld. It is the entrance to the labyrinth where lost souls wander. Viewed from its portal it is the Palace of Pleasure; seen from behind, through those haggard eyes from which vice has torn away the illusions of innocence, it is the Saddest Place in the World.

Druce owned the Cafe Sinister with Carter Anson; their lease was written for them by John Boland. Thus the upper world and the under were leagued for its maintenance. And though the press might shriek and the pulpit thunder the combination and the Cafe Sinister went on forever.

These three men had been drawn together by a common characteristic. Their consciences were dead. That atrophy of conscience made them all worshipers of the same idol—money. The motives that propelled each of the three to the altar were as diverse as their separate natures, but the sacrifice that each offered to the Moloch was the same—their souls.

Having forfeited by their deeds the thing that made them men, the three shrunk to the moral stature of animals. Boland was the tiger, brooding over the city with yellow eyes, seeking whom he might devour. Druce was the wolf; cunning, ruthless, prowling. Anson was the mastiff; savage, brutal, given to wild bursts of rending passion. Love of power lashed Boland to his crimes; lechery prompted Druce in his prowlings; and whisky was the fire that smouldered under Anson's brutalities.

On an afternoon in June Druce and Anson sat together in conference in one of the little booths of the Cafe Sinister's main dining room. The cafe, after its orgy of the night before, was quiet. Waiters, cat-footed and villain faced, gathered up the debris of the night's revel, slinking about their work like men ashamed of it. The sunlight peered dimly through the curtained windows; the air was heavy with the lees of liquor and the dead smoke of tobacco.

The two men sat facing each other. A glass of whisky was cupped in Anson's closed hand. His clothes, unbrushed and unpressed, flapped about his huge figure. His throat bagged with flabby dewlaps. His head was bullet-shaped, his eyes fierce, his mouth loose-lipped and brutal. He made a strange contrast to his companion. Druce was lithe, well made and gifted with a sort of Satanic handsomeness. He was immaculately dressed.

"It's fixed, I tell you," Druce was saying.

"Fixed, be damned," rumbled Anson. "I know Boland. Nothing's fixed with him until the lease is drawn and delivered."

"I say the thing's fixed," insisted Druce. "All we've got to do now is carry out our part of the agreement and I've completed all of the arrangements. We've got a week."

"I know," said Anson, unconvinced. "It's fixed and you've completed the arrangements. I'm from Missouri."

"Boland wants this girl, Patience Welcome, brought in here next Saturday night," said Druce. "He has arranged that his pious pup of a son, Harry, shall be here the same evening. We are to manage it so that he will get the impression that the girl has been amusing herself with him, that she has been kidding him along and playing this tenderloin game on the side. He's not to be allowed to talk to her. He'll see her—that will be enough. She's to come here to help her mother earn a little cash. I sent a fellow to hire the old woman to start here on Saturday night as a scrub woman. She's agreed to keep that part of it quiet. Then I'll drag the other one in—mine, do you understand. We'll make young Boland think the whole damned Welcome family belongs to us. We can see to it that the Patience girl gets some glad rags and some dope when she gets here. She's seen me in Millville, so it's up to you, Anson, to sign her up at good pay as a singer—" He stopped significantly.

"Too complicated," was Anson's rejoinder. "Sounds good on paper, but it won't work, I tell you, it won't work. I don't like the way things have been going lately." He drained the whisky glass. "This vice commission and this crazy yap of a Mary Randall—"

"O, hell!" interrupted Druce in disgust. "You've got it, too, have you? Mary Randall! My God, you talk like an old woman!"

"I tell you—" Anson began.

"You can't tell me nothing. I'm sick and tired of framing stuff and then have you throw it down because you've lost your nerve and are afraid of a girl. I'm done, I tell you. If you think you can improve on my plans, go ahead. I'm through. I won't—"

Anson capitulated immediately. "Now don't get sore, Mart," he whined, "I know I'm no good on this frameup stuff. Maybe I am a little nervous. Go ahead with your plan—I guess it's the best one. Don't let's fight about it."

"All right," rejoined Druce. "Now that's settled. I'll handle this thing. All you've got to do is keep your trap shut and stand pat."

The conversation was interrupted by the angry and maudlin exclamations of a girl. She had been sitting at a distant table half asleep. A porter had wakened her.

"I won't go home and sleep," she shrieked. "Keep your hands off me, you dirty nigger."

"Now what's the trouble?" demanded Druce of Anson.

"Swede Rose has been drunk all night."

"We've got to get rid of her. She's always pulling this rough stuff."

"Not now," warned Anson. "It's too hard to get new girls. When she's sober she's a wise money getter."

"Damn her," muttered Druce, "I don't like her anyway. She had the nerve to slap my face the other night because I wouldn't give her money for hop. As soon as this lease is signed I'm going down state. I'll bring back some new stock and then it's 'On your way' for that wildcat."

"Let me handle her," advised Anson. He got up and walked over to the table where the girl was having the altercation with the negro. She was still young, but drink and drugs had left ineffaceable lines upon her face. She was beautiful, even this morning after her night's debauch, for she possessed a regularity of feature and a fine contour of figure that not even death itself could wreck. Her disheveled hair showed here and there traces of gray. Her skin was a dead white, save where two pink spots blazed in either cheek.

"Here he comes," called the girl, catching sight of Anson. "Good old Carter. Ans," she went on, "chase this coon out of here; he won't let me sleep." Anson motioned the porter to keep his distance. "An' say, Ans," the girl went on, "gimme a quarter. I'm broke and I got to have some hop or die."

Anson handed the negro a quarter without a word. The porter hurried out of the cafe.

"He wanted to chase me out," the girl whimpered.

"Well, Rose," Anson went on pacifically, "you've got to cut out this all night booze thing. You're hurting the house."

The girl looked up at the dive keeper with dull eyes.

"Hurting the house, eh?" she echoed. "What about me? Think I ain't hurting myself? Say, it's got so I'd rather be drunk than sober. I can't stand to be sober. I always start thinking. Some of these days you'll hear of me walking out of this place and making a dent in the lake—"

The negro returned with the drug. The girl seized it with trembling hands. While the two men stood and looked she drew a small lancet from the bosom of her dress, inserted its point under the skin of her white forearm and drove a few drops of the drug into the vein. The effect was instantaneous. She laughed loudly.

"Now, you get to bed," ordered Anson.

"Bed, hell," retorted the girl.

"I said get to bed." Anson glowered at her.

"There'll be a big night tonight, and—"

"You can't give me no orders."

Anson had held in his temper as long as he was able. His fierce eyes twinkled and his brutal mouth twitched. Without a word he reached across the table, clutched the girl by the throat and dragged her out of her seat. He hurled her, half strangled, on the floor.

"Here," he bellowed to some of his servitors, "take this damn hell-cat out of here. Take her up to the hotel. If she won't go to bed, throw her into the street."

"You—you—" gasped the girl, struggling to her feet.

"Don't talk back to me," roared Anson, "or I'll kill you. I'll show you what you are and who's running this place." Then to the waiters: "Get her out of here."