"Mr. Jack Sullivan," repeated the butler. "I asked him for his card, miss, but he said he hadn't got none. Told me to mention his name, an' said you'd know him."
"But I don't know him," protested Grace. "I never heard of him in my life. There must be some mistake. Are you sure he wants, me, Peterson?"
"He said so, miss, but I'll ask again."
Whereupon the butler, as stiff as a ramrod, went back to the door where he had left Mr. Sullivan standing.
"He means you, miss," the functionary remarked, as he came back to the library.
"I wonder what he can want," Grace said, half to herself. "I don't know any such person. I think there's a mistake. I will see him, and tell him so."
"Wait a minute," exclaimed Larry. "Perhaps I can explain this. I think I know Mr. Sullivan."
"Who is he?"
"A political leader of the eighth assembly district."
"What does that mean; I'm dreadfully ignorant of politics," Grace remarked with a smile. "Poor papa was much interested in them, but I never could make head or tail out of political matters."