Читать книгу Little Lost Sister - Virginia Brooks - Страница 17

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Harry Boland strode away from his interview with Patience deeply occupied with tumultuous reflections, not seeing the beauties of Millville which, but a short time before, he had been enthusiastically celebrating. He was, in fact, a young man walking in a dream. Every word the girl had uttered, every inflection of her voice, the involuntary confession of affection won from her by his own no less sudden avowal of love, projected themselves against his excited mind with all the vividness of kinetoscope pictures. He was very happy with these reflections that come to the youth in love when a familiar voice suddenly recalled him to mundane things.

“Hello, there Harry,” said the voice.

It was Grogan’s.

“Hello,” replied Harry, roused but not displeased to meet his father’s intimate political adviser in this part of the world, “what are you doing in this part of Illinois?”

“I’m on my way home,” replied Grogan, laconically.

“Ah, yes, Dad wrote me. You went to Kansas City, didn’t you?”

“I did. Your father caught me on the wire at St. Louis.”

“What did the governor want?”

“Nothing much. He told me you were here and suggested that I meet you. He thought it would be pleasant for us both to have company home.”

It dawned on Harry that perhaps his father had not been quite disinterested in this.

“You’re a good politician, Mike,” he said shortly.

“Is that a compliment now, or a slander against my character?” Grogan demanded, smiling.

“Neither,” replied Harry. “It’s a fact.”

“And why, might I ask, have you recalled it at this particular moment?”

“Because your conversation in this particular instance seemed to me to be that of a person who was concealing something. Politician’s talk, Grogan, is specious, but notable for its reticence.”

“Well, Harry,” returned Grogan, “your own line of talk is not particularly illuminating, either.”

“What do you mean, Mike?”

“Well, here I am, an old friend of your father’s, mixed up with him in half a dozen deals. I’ve known you ever since you sat in a high chair and spooned gruel from a bowl. I come on you in this out of the way corner and you say never a word of why you’re here, or what you’re doing. I think Clam is your middle name.”

“Why,” replied Harry, “I came down to Millville to collect some rents.”

“Only rents?” queried Grogan pointedly.

“What the devil do you mean?”

“Youngsters of your age sometimes amuse themselves collecting—shirtwaists.”

“Stop that, Grogan,” retorted Harry angrily.

“Stop what, me boy?”

“I don’t like that sort of insinuation.”

“Ho,” said Grogan, “angry, eh? Then it’s as I thought. There’s always fire in the heart when a young man flares up about a girl.”

“Look here, Grogan—”

“Easy, boy,” interrupted the older man. “I’m your friend and I don’t want to see you get into trouble—with your father, I mean.”

“Did he send you to spy on me?” demanded Harry hotly.

“Not at all,” returned Grogan suavely, “only he’s worried.”

“Worried, what the devil about?”

Grogan did not reply.

“I know I’ve overstayed my time,” Harry went on, “but some of these people have been difficult. I couldn’t throw them into the street when they promised to pay and—”

“I know, I know,” put in Grogan. “It’s not about you. Your father’s worried about business. One of these crazy reform waves has started in Chicago. A vice investigating committee is raising ructions.”

“What do you mean by a reform wave? What can a vice investigating committee have to do with my father?”

“Well, you see,” Grogan was picking his words carefully, “your father has large interests. An investigation of that sort unsettles business.”

“What started the reform wave?”

“A girl.”

“A what?”

“I said a girl,” replied Grogan evenly.

Harry laughed.

“Yes,” said Grogan, “they all laughed at her at first, just as you are doing now. But the joke is beginning to lose its point.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name,” returned Grogan, “is Mary Randall.”

“Mary Randall,” repeated Harry. The words meant nothing to him. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” replied Grogan. “I’ve never met the lady. That’s the mystery of her and she’s keeping it well. She belongs to the Randalls of Chicago—society folk—that’s all I know. But she isn’t one of these Michigan boulevard tea party reformers. They just talk. She goes out and delivers the goods. She’s a fighter.”

Harry laughed again. “This is good,” he said. “An unknown girl, a society bud, working single handed stirs up Chicago until she gets all of you alleged smart politicians worrying. Grogan, I’m going to write a comedy about that.”

“Are you now?” said Grogan. “Well, I don’t approve of your idea. It’s not funny. The other night they raided the Baker Club and when they came into court they had evidence enough to hang them all. This Randall girl had worked in the club for a month as a waitress and she KNEW.”

“Still, Mike, that shouldn’t affect father.”

“Not directly—no,” replied Grogan, again picking his words with care, “but it gives the whole city an unsteady feeling. People won’t invest their money. If I were in your place, my boy, I’d go home.”

“I’m off tomorrow in my new car. Better come with me.”

“Make it tonight and I will,” replied Grogan.

“You’re on,” agreed Harry. “We’ll go tonight.” He surveyed the sky. “It’s going to storm,” he said; “but even if it does, unless there’s a flood the roads will be good. We’ll go tonight.”