"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.