"Whoever sent it must be traveling fast," the boy remarked, "that last one was from Montana."
"I've been doing my best to persuade myself that I have the right to keep Bridget longer. Twice I've begged an extra stay from the Commissioner, and he's been willing to consent, but he thinks she's got to go back now. There's really no valid reason that I can give against it."
As they walked toward the desk in the deporting division, one of the clerks called the chief. He came back a moment or two later with a telegram in his hand.
"A third one," he said, "it must have come while I was out at lunch. The same person wrote all three, for this is almost the same as the first; it reads:
"'—Don't—deport—my—old—Mother—I—have—plenty—to—support—her—'"
"Where's it dated from?" asked the boy.
"I hadn't noticed," the deportation chief replied. "Oh, yes, why it's from Albany!"
"That's pretty near here!" Hamilton said excitedly. "Oh, Mr. Farrell, what time was that sent?"
"Quarter to twelve."
"Whoever sent it ought to be here by now! Mr. Farrell, I'm just as sure as can be that is from Bridget Mahoney's son."