Barton hospital as a result of his injuries
late today," Brennan said over the phone. At the other end of the wire a
reporter was taking the dictation on a typewriter. "Before he died
Murphy regained consciousness long enough to disclose that he was the
son of 'Red Mike,' now serving a life sentence for having attempted to
wreck the Southern Pacific 'Lark.' It was because he believed his father
had been the victim of former Police Commissioner Gibsons' lust for
glory, he said, that he aided in disclosing Gibson's plot with Cummings
to seize control of the city government. His death means that 'Slim'
Gray, Cummings' right-hand man, and his two strong-arm men now under
arrest, will be charged with murder and that a murder complaint will be
issued against Cummings."

They were silent as they wove their way through the hurrying streams of
men and women in Fifth street homeward bound after the work of the day
in downtown stores and offices. On the corners newsboys were still
selling editions of their paper with the exposure of the Gibson-Cummings
plot as fast as they could hand them out. They saw several men stop
where they had bought the paper and stand, jostled by the crowd, reading
the story absorbedly, apparently amazed by what was on the printed page
beneath their eyes.

From the corner of Fifth and Broadway, where he left Brennan waiting for
a street car, John went to the receiving hospital to have the wounds on
his face and his maimed hand dressed again before he started home. The
gauze bandages on his forehead and cheek were replaced with strips of
medicated plaster which were less conspicuous, but it would be more than
two weeks, the hospital surgeon told him, before the splints could be
removed from his hand.

His mother was at the door to meet him when he arrived home. Her face
paled as she saw the plaster hiding the cuts on his cheek and forehead
and the bandage on his hand. He took her in his arms quickly.

"I'm all right, mother, dearest," he said. "Don't worry, I'm all right."

"My boy, my boy! Why didn't you let me know you were hurt?"

"There, there, mother," he said, softly patting her with his uninjured
hand. "It's nothing to worry about. I've only a couple of scratches on
my face and my hand is hurt a little."

He led her into the living room and, seating her in a rocking chair, he
dropped to his knees at her feet, as he had in the grief and despair
that stunned him when his father died. With cares