“’Lo, Glen! Evening, Mrs. Parker!” the girl from Pittsburg greeted them. “What am I doing here, you ask--the butterfly in the ant hill? Or, should you say, grasshopper? Less picturesque but possibly more accurate. Well, I decided to see how the other half lives. Nancy had been dining with me at the B.V.D., and I persuaded her to bring me slumming. _Pretty_ place you have here, Glen! The House Beautiful!” Little Miss Carey merely trailed her heavy white lids over her hazel gaze and smiled faintly; it was amazing, how seldom Nancy spoke. “But I think I’ll go back to the fleshpots, if any. Peter is a flop to-night; a flat tire. C’mon, Nancy!” Miss Jennings shot a sharp glance from the young part owner of the mill to the superintendent’s assistant. “In spite of Peter Piper’s pleas, I insist--” She stopped and stared at Pap Tolliver, advancing toward them at his shambling gait, his accordion under his arm, and a twist of grimy paper in his fingers. “Page Rip Van Winkle,” said the northerner softly. “Say, Glen,” the old man quavered, “I plumb fo’got to give yo’ th’ letter feller gimme fo’ yo’!” He tendered the note apprehensively. “M’liss,’ she jes’ purely took my haid off!” “Never mind, Pap,” Glen comforted him, taking it curiously. “When did you get it?” “This mawnin’,” said Pap Tolliver, hanging his head. “Oh, well, it probably isn’t so important,” she was opening it. “Not Rip Van Winkle,” Janice Jennings whispered, “but a nice, mild old billygoat. Perfect! His beards part in the middle when he speaks! I’d adore to watch him eat!” Glen Darrow was staring at the paper in her hand. “Who gave this note to you, Pap?” “Why--” he scratched his head--“I disremember ’zackly who ’twas, Glen! One o’ them furrin’ fellers ... all pretty much of a muchness, they are.” She leaned nearer to him, put a hand on his shoulder, gave him a slight shake. “Pap! You must remember! Was it--Black Orlo?” He grinned delightedly. “Yes, me’um! That’s hit! That’s jes’ who hit were! Or leastways,” his face clouded over, “_one_ o’ them furrin’ fellers....” He grasped the handles of his accordion and shuffled away, and his inevitable tune came back to them furtively and faintly, in little wheezing gasps. Glen had kept her eyes resolutely away from Peter Parker, but he was watching her intently, and it seemed to him that she had paled. He stepped forward quickly. “What is it?” She shook her head. “I don’t know--I must see Luke!” She turned and ran toward the office, her employer at her heels, his mother and the two girls following after. “Why the mob scene?” he asked, looking back at them, but they pressed forward, and presently they were all in the dingy room where Luke Manders held despotic sway. The superintendent was at his desk, and rose at sight of them.