"I know it is," Peter agreed, cordially. "It's got a fine reputation, Mrs. Comfort. But even if you don't have men boarders, surely you must have men in to make repairs, or something. How about the telephone? I could go in to inspect the telephone. You could come along with me if you like." "But there's no telephones in the rooms," objected the landlady. "What d'you think this is? The Ritz?" Peter was checked for the moment. He glanced around the lace-curtained parlour for inspiration. The house was an old one, and lighted by gas. The fact, immediately noted, gave him an idea, and he was about to suggest that he go up and pretend to do something to the burners in Mrs. Smith's room, when a sharp ring at the front door bell interrupted him. "Them girls downstairs is so slow." With an annoyed gesture Mrs. Comfort turned quickly, passed through the open double doors of the parlour, and herself opened the street door. Peter heard but one sentence--and he was out in the hall in the twinkling of an eye. Without a word of explanation he snatched a yellow envelope from the outstretched hand of an elderly "messenger boy" who stood upon the threshold, dropped his own hat on the hall table, unceremoniously appropriated the cap of the astounded messenger, and turned swiftly to Mrs. Comfort. "Which room?" he whispered. "Quick!" "Third floor back," gasped the landlady. "But you can't----" Peter did not wait to hear her expostulations. He dashed up the stairs and was out of sight before she could finish the sentence. He stopped for an instant before the door of the third floor back, to get his breath. Then he knocked softly. "Who's there?" The voice had a startled, anxious ring. "Western Union Telegraph," Peter answered, in a quiet, assured tone. The door opened the least crack, and then was flung wide, the envelope snatched from his hand and torn open, the contents devoured. Peter stood stock still, with wide-open eyes. "Oh, thank God! Thank God! He'll take me home. He'll take me back! Oh, father, dear father!" She was sobbing, beside herself. She turned, blindly, to Peter. "How do I get this? This money?--I want to go home. To go home to California. He'll save me from Roger. He'll protect me. I won't have to bear anything more. I'll be free, at last!" The words tumbled wildly over each other, and again, almost without taking breath, she asked, "How do I get this money?" Peter saw it all in a flash. The woman, hiding from a husband who had ill-treated her, the father who had sent the money, faster than on the wings of the wind, to bring his daughter home.... It was an old story, with, Peter hoped, a happy ending, for the girl was beautiful and appealing--though not in the least, except in generalities, like the portrait which he carried inside the breast of his coat. CHAPTER XIV ONE CLUE