Once more he realized that amused faces watched him as he interviewed his daughter, a lily in a bed of black tulips. "Get out of this crowd. Everybody is laughing at me. I'll get home some way," he declared peevishly. "You get rid of that outfit as soon as you can," he called, as he moved away, apparently in a hurry to escape the orphans' company. "I'll see you at home." CHAPTER III UNGIVEN ADVICE Obadiah Dale's office was in a modern building. He considered it the finest in South Ridgefield, but then--Obadiah owned it. The proximity of an army of employees disturbed him. So he had gathered his principal assistants about him, away from the mill, in this more peaceful environment. Obadiah's personal suite contained three rooms. His private lair was in the corner. Its windows overlooked metal cornices, tin roofs and smoke stacks. The view should have afforded inspiration to sheet metal workers, and professional atmosphere was available at all times to such chimney sweeps as called. The personal staff consisted of Obadiah's stenographer, Mr. Percy Jones, who referred to himself as the "Private Secretary" and was habitually addressed in discourteous terms by his employer, and a bookkeeper identified by the name Kelly. Across the hall was the sanctum of Hezekiah Wilkins, general attorney for the Dale interests. The other executive officers of the organization occupied the rest of the floor. Certain preparatory sounds evidencing to the discriminating ear of youth the probability of a band bursting into melody had reached Mr. Jones. Rising hurriedly from his desk in the center of the middle room of Obadiah's suite, he had gone to a window, and peering down, discovered that the Jubilee Minstrels were about to favor South Ridgefield with a parade. Mr. Jones watched the preparations with interest. He was a dapper little fellow with thin, dark hair, who sported a very small mustache with a very great deal of pride. As much of a dandy as his small salary would permit, he had indefinite social aspirations, and rather considered himself a man of much natural culture and refinement. His curiosity satisfied, he turned to a door, opposite to the one which insured privacy to Obadiah, and entered the domain of Kelly. The bookkeeper was perched upon a high stool before an equally elevated desk burdened with the mill owner's ledgers. He was red headed, big and raw boned, clearly designed by nature for the heaviest of manual labor but by a joke of fate set to wielding a pen. "Hi, Kelly,--minstrels," thus Mr. Jones advertised the forthcoming pageant as he lighted a cigarette. The upper part of Kelly's person was brilliantly illuminated by the reflected light of a globe hanging an inch above his head. "Where?" he asked, blinking about from his area of high illumination into the shadows of the room as though looking for callers. "In the street, you chump. They are going to parade. As soon as the old man goes, we'll hustle out and look 'em over."