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.