"Mr. Fitzgerald has fallen and sprained his knee. He has to be put to bed, but wants to know if you won't come to see him tonight. He wants to talk with you about the investigation—has something to tell you."
"Where does he live?" asked the mayor.
"In the Sutherland," was the reply, "the big apartment building back of the American House."
"Very well. Tell him I will be there with Miss Snow at eight o'clock," she answered; and then she called Mary Snow and told her of the appointment.
"Don't you think we ought to take someone else along?—a man—Bailey Armstrong, say?"
"O, no," returned the Mayor, confidently. "Fitzgerald would not talk before him—or any other man—in my opinion. He was a peculiar boy, but I could manage him. It will be better for us to go alone—and quietly. We won't even take the carriage. I'll come down on the car at a quarter before eight and meet you at Harne's drug store. Then we'll just go quietly up to Fitzgerald's flat. I know his wife."
"Very well," said Mary. If she did not feel quite satisfied with the plan, it was not for her to question the mayor's authority, and she said no more.
But the next morning the newspapers brought a new sensation to a startled city. Two important pieces of news furnished excitement enough to arouse even the staid and respectable old Atlas. People gathered in knots on street corners to discuss them. The air was breezy with excitement. The street corners were blocked with gathering knots of indignant citizens, eager crowds gathered in front of newspaper bulletin boards, questioning among themselves whether there was any respect for law and order left in Roma; whether life was safe on the open street; whether the public was to be fooled any longer by charlatans and tricksters; whether the police could or would do anything in the premises. In short, every citizen of Roma, rich or poor, old or young, was aroused at last by these two bits of news.
Orlando Vickery had "jumped his bail" and disappeared; and