Speedy stood at the front door of the Dillon house, his hand upon the knob, his ear to the inside of the panel, listening carefully. He could hear nothing amiss. He opened the door cautiously at a crack and looked out. Then he opened the door wide and stood questioningly.
A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man, a stranger to Speedy, stood in front of him. A luxurious limousine, with a trimly uniformed chauffeur in the front seat, was parked at the curb.
"Does Miss Jane Dillon live here?" asked the stranger.
Speedy nodded affirmatively.
"I should like very much to speak with her," continued the visitor.
Speedy, mystified, ushered him into the living room, indicated the best chair and went to get Jane.
"He looks like J. P. Morgan," whispered Speedy.
Both Pop and Speedy walked behind Jane as she catne to greet the new arrival. The latter arose.
"I am President Donaldson of the Inter-City Transit Company," he announced in a mild, pleasant voice. "You left a note for me, Miss Dillon. I was curious to know what it was you wished to tell me."
The thrilling events of the day, including her imprisonment, had driven from Jane's mind tem-
