CHAPTER XIIBAD 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 herewaiting. 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 marriedyou, 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. “Fourfor 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 XIIITHE 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 Groganwith 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 ofthe 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 XIVIN 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 impassivenessof 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 hemade 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’tyou?” 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 XVTHE 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.