the close of school Gyp and Pat, with Jerry and Peggy Lee
close at their heels, to bolster their courage, walked briskly downtown
to the Morse Building. If any doubts as to the propriety of their action
crept into any one of the four minds, they were quickly dispelled--for
the sake of sentiment. It, of course, would not be pleasant, facing this
stranger, but any momentary discomfort was as nothing, considering that
their act might mean many years of happiness for poor, starved, little
Miss Gray!

To avoid the leering elevator man the two girls climbed the six flights
to the seventh floor. Pat carried the letter. Gyp agreed to go in first.

"746--748----" read Pat.

"It's the other corridor." They retraced their steps to the other side
of the building. "784-788-792----" Gyp repeated the office numbers
aloud. "7-9-6! _Wilbur Stratman, Undertaker!_"

"_Pat Everett!_" Gyp clutched her chum's arm. "_A--undertaker!_ I
_won't_ go in--for all the Miss Grays in the world!"

Pat was seized with such a fit of giggling that she had difficulty in
speaking, even in a whisper. "Isn't that _funny_? We've _got_ to go in.
The girls are waiting--we'd never hear the _last_ of it! He can't bury
us alive. Oh, d-dear----" She wadded her handkerchief to her lips and
leaned against the wall.

"If Miss Gray wants an undertaker she can _have_ him! For my part _I_
should think she'd rather have a policeman or--or the iceman! Come
on----" Gyp's face was comical in its disgust. She turned the knob of
the door.

A thin, sad-faced woman told them that Mr. Stratman was in his office.
She eyed them curiously as, with a jerk of her head, she motioned them
through a little gate. As Gyp with trembling fingers opened the door of
the inner office, a man with a noticeable white streak in his hair
pulled his feet down from his desk, dropped a cigar on his pen tray and
reached for a coat that lay across another chair.

"Is--is this Mr. Stratman?" asked Gyp, wishing her tongue would not
cling to the roof of her mouth.

He nodded and waited. These young girls were not like his usual
customers, probably they had some sort of a subscription blank with
them. He watched warily.

"Our errand is--is private," stumbled Gyp, who could see that Pat was
beyond the power of speech. "It's--it's personal. We've come, in fact,
of--our own accord--she doesn't know a thing about it----"

"She? Who?"

"Miss--Miss Gray." Gyp glanced wildly around. Oh, she was makin