"Sure," responded Druce, affably. "And I suppose you'll raise the rent on us."

"No," replied Boland, shaking his head.

"Eh?"

"Not if you're smart."

"I don't get you," announced Druce inquiringly, as he seated himself on the edge of the desk.

"My boy, Harry, thinks he is in love with a girl who has come to Chicago."

"Yes, Mr. Boland, but I don't see--"

"Now," continued Boland, regardless of the interruption, "if Harry happened to see this girl in some questionable resort,--say, like Cafe Sinister--if he were tipped off that this girl would be there--"

"I get you." Druce sprang to his feet; he was now keen and alert, like a hound on the scent. "Who's the girl?"

"She's got a position of some kind with the Alpha Mining Company on this floor," replied Boland. "She'll lose that tomorrow."

"I'm on. What's her name?"

"Patience Welcome!"

"What!" exclaimed Druce, with a sneering twist to the word.

"Do you know her?"

"Yes."

"Well?" Boland gazed at him, anxiously awaiting the reply.

"About the lease?" veered Druce with cunning perception.

Boland hesitated and scrutinized the other closely. He was satisfied with what he saw stamped on Druce's face, but he only said pointedly:

"I always make good when a man delivers the goods. Now get out--I'm busy."

"On my way," returned Druce easily, as he sauntered to the door, but he turned there, saying significantly:

"I'll deliver the goods,--don't worry."

John Boland sighed contentedly as he watched Druce go. Then he muttered:

"There, I guess I--"

"All right, Mr. Boland," rang out a clear feminine voice, as Miss Masters came from the inner office. "That contract is all ready."

"Oh, Miss Masters!"

"Yes, Mr. Boland," she replied in saccharine tones.

"Make out a lease for that property in South Twelfth street."

"For the Cafe Sinister, John?" inquired Michael Grogan, who had followed Miss Masters into the main office. "You're crazy."

"Oh, shut up, Mike," snapped Boland. "What ails you, anyway?"

"I've been reading the last edition," replied Grogan, lugubriously. "Mary Randall has had special officers sworn in at her own expense to help her make raids. She's put goose flesh all over me."

"Let me see it."

Boland took the paper which Grogan was fingering nervously.

"Take it," said the Irishman. "It's a live coal."

The other glanced over the sheet and threw it on the desk.

"Get busy on that lease, Miss Masters," he commanded.

"Just a moment, Governor," interrupted Harry, who had overheard the conversation as he came in. "If you lease that property to that hound, Anson, you and I are through."

"What?" exclaimed John Boland, astounded.

"It has come to a show-down," went on Harry, with determination expressed in both his tone and manner, "and I'm d.a.m.ned if I'll touch a cent of dirty money like that."

"You've been reading the Mary Randall stuff, eh?" sneered his father.

"Yes. And she's right. Now, you make your choice."

"Hold on--hold on," commanded the irate father. "Aren't you forgetting that I own and control this Lake City Company--that you are--"

"No! I realize that," retorted Harry, resolutely.

"All right!" Boland turned to Miss Masters grimly: "Make out that lease to Anson."

"Then here," said Harry quietly, as he wrote a few words on a sheet of blank paper and laid it on the desk; "here is my resignation as president of your Electrical Company, to take effect _now_."

"Harry!" protested his father.

"I'll get my personal things together at once," went on the young man, securing his hat from the rack.

"This has gone far enough," rasped John Boland, springing to his feet.

"I'll show this Mary Randall there's one she can't scare."

He paced nervously up and down the office, pausing finally beside his desk.

"Miss Masters, take an open letter from me to the newspapers."