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.