“A letter from the stolen boy,” repeated the city editor.
“That’s what Madame Androletti says. It just came, by mail, and she called me up at once. Say, it may be a good clew, and it may pan out to be nothing; but it’s a story, anyhow!”
“That’s so,” agreed Mr. Emberg. “Get right after it, Larry, and telephone in, to catch the last edition.”
“I will!” cried the young reporter as he hurried from the city room.
All the way up in the subway to Madame Androletti’s house, Larry was thinking of what might be the outcome of the new clew. He had not asked many questions over the wire for two reasons: One was that he wanted to have a personal talk with the singer as soon as possible, and the other was the fear that some listening ear on the maze of telephone wires might catch the secret, and “tip off” some newspaper. Larry was very cautious when it came to exclusive stories.
Goegi, the maid, admitted him to the apartments of the singer. Larry found Madame Androletti much excited.
“Oh, I am so glad you are here!” she cried, shaking hands with the young reporter. “It seems an age since I telephoned you. I think we are on the right track at last.”
“Have you really a letter from your son?” asked Larry. “Are you sure it is from him? Is it not some terrible joke?”
“It is the handwriting of Lorenzo,” said the singer with a happy smile on her face, as she held out a scrap of paper. “I would know his writing among a thousand, and, besides, he uses a pet name for me that no one else would ever think of. Oh, it is from dear Lorenzo, surely enough. And now to find him. Where do you think he is?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Larry.