There was a pad of Postal Telegraph sending blanks on a small writing desk in a corner of the room. It occurred to Owen that Dallas might have written out a message with the intention of sending it over the wire, then changed her mind and torn up what she had written. He began eagerly to pick the rest of the pieces from the heap of rubbish, and soon had the complete telegram. It consisted of two lines in the girl’s handwriting, which he recognized immediately. The torn-up message was addressed to Chester Worthington, 89 Dulwich Street, Chicago, and read: “Disregard my letter. Am coming to you immediately. Don’t do anything rash. Will do my utmost to help you. “DALLAS.” “Ah,” exclaimed Sheridan, “I guess this explains where she has gone--and why. That scapegrace brother of hers has got into trouble again, and she has gone out there to help him. And I suppose she used that hundred-dollar bill to pay her fare. Yes, that must be it. She tried to borrow the price of the train ticket from her employer, and when he refused, the poor girl, in her desperation, yielded to the temptation to steal that letter.” For several minutes he sat staring miserably at the telegram which he had pieced together on the writing desk; then he rose abruptly, and, thrusting the fragments of paper into his pocket, moved toward the door, a look of determination in his eyes. By the time he reached the street his mind was fully made up as to the course he would pursue. He intended to go back to the chief inspector, and report that he had failed to solve the mystery of the missing pink envelope; and, moreover, he would say nothing about the telegram he had found in Dallas’ room, so that if others were put on the case they would be unable to get on the track of the girl. The chief would sneer at him, no doubt, for falling down on his very first case; but he wouldn’t mind that as long as Dallas escaped punishment for an offense which he could not believe her guilty of, in spite of the evidence he had obtained. “And, of course, I’m going to hand in my resignation from the postal service, to take effect at once,” he told himself. “I couldn’t very well continue in the employ of the United States government after helping to defeat the ends of justice.” “Hello!” exclaimed a cheery voice, as Owen turned the street corner, so wrapped up in his gloomy meditations that he almost collided with the speaker. “And how’s our young post-office inspector to-day? Not on the trail of malefactors already, I’ll wager. From your pre-occupied air and the frown upon your countenance, Owen, it must be a perplexing problem you’re wrestling with.” Owen looked into the smiling countenance of ex-Judge Sugden Lawrence, the kind friend whose influence had enabled him to land the government job which he now contemplated resigning.