CHAPTER I
A FRIGHTENED SINGER
“Hello, Larry, just the chap I want to see!” greeted Paul Rosberg, one of the oldest reporters on the New York Leader, as a tall, good-looking young fellow came into the city room one September afternoon. “I’ve been hoping you’d show up.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Larry Dexter, the “star” man on the Leader, when it came to solving strange cases and mysteries. “Do you want the loan of five dollars, or has your typewriter gone out of commission?”
“Neither,” replied Paul Rosberg, with a smile, though he knew Larry would oblige him were it necessary. For Larry Dexter had a natural talent for machinery, and often adjusted the “balky” typewriters of his fellow reporters. Also, he would lend them cash when they were temporarily embarrassed, not to say broke. For Larry had made considerable money of late, especially in solving the big bank mystery, and he was always willing and ready to lend to his less fortunate brethren.
“Then, if it isn’t either one of those things, I can’t imagine what it is,” went on the young reporter, as he sat down at his desk. The city room was nearly vacant, all the other reporters having gone home. For the last edition of the Leader was off the presses, and work for the day was over, the sheet being an afternoon one.
“I want you to do me a favor,” went on Mr. Rosberg, who was considerably older than Larry, and, as he spoke the man began reaching in his various pockets as if searching for something. “You haven’t anything on for to-night, have you?”
“No, I’ve been out on a Sunday special story, and I’ve cleaned it up. It didn’t take me as long as I expected, so I thought I’d come back to the office to see if Mr. Emberg had anything else for me.”
“You’re too conscientious Larry; altogether too fussy,” spoke his companion. “But I’m tickled to pieces that you did come in. I was hoping you, or some of the other obliging lads would, for I’m stuck on a night assignment that I don’t want, and it comes at a bad time. There, cover that for me, will you?”
He handed Larry two slips of pasteboard, theater tickets, as was evident at first glance.
“Hum!” mused Larry as he looked at them. “Farewell appearance of Madame Androletti, eh? I wonder how many ‘farewell’ appearances she’s had? This must be about the forty-ninth. She’ll soon finish up at this rate. ‘Grand concert and musicale,’” he went on reading. “Musicale with a final ‘e’ no less. In the new Music Hall, to-night, too. I say, Mr. Rosberg, what does it mean, anyhow? Do you want me to go to this concert with you?”