or which bore
the name of the organization.

A young girl, toying with the wires of a telephone switchboard, did not
bother to look up, despite his query.

"Yes, dearie," she confided to some one at the other end of the
telephone. "We had the grandest time. He's a swell feller, all right,
and opened nothing but wine all evening. Yes, I had my charmeuse
gown--the one with the pannier, you know, and----"

"Excuse me," interrupted Burke, "I'd like to speak to the president of
this company."

The girl looked at him scornfully.

"Just a minute, girlie, I'm interrupted." She turned to look at Bob
again, and with a haughty toss of her rather startling yellow curls
raised her eyebrows in a supercilious glance of interrogation.

"What's your business?"

"That's _my_ business. I want to see Mr. Trubus and not _you_."

"Well, nix on the sarcasm. He's too busy to be disturbed by every book
agent and insurance peddler in town. Tell me what you want and I'll
see if it's important enough. That's what I'm paid for."

"You tell him that a policeman from the ---- precinct wants to see him,
and tell him mighty quick!" snapped Burke with a sharp look.

He expected a change of attitude. But the curious, shifty look in the
girl's face--almost a pallor which overspread its artificial carnadine,
was inexplicable to him at this time. He had cause to remember it
later.

"Why, why," she half stammered, "what's the matter?"

"You give him my message."

The girl did not telephone as Burke had expected her to do, according
to the general custom where switchboard girls send in announcement of
callers to private offices.

Instead she removed the headgear of the receiver and rose. She went
inside the door at her back and closed it after her.

"Well, that's some service," thought Burke. "I wonder why she's so
active after indifference?"

She returned before he had a chance to ruminate further.

"You can go right in, sir," she said.

As she sat down she watched him from the corner of her eye. Burke
could not help but wonder at the tense interest in his presence, but
dismissed the thought as he entered the room, and beheld the president
of the Purity League.

William Trubus was seated at a broad mahogany desk, while before him
was spread a large, old-fashioned family Bible. He held in his left
hand a cracker, which he was munching daintily, as he read in an
abstracted manner from the page before him. In his right ha