So it was nearly noon when he arrived at the Powell home.
The wooden-faced doorman advised the caller to go round to the tradesman’s entrance, and the milkman expressed his entire willingness to do so.
“But,” he said, “these people are going to be mighty glad to see me! I bring them a message from a young girl—”
“What!” for the doorman knew the principal facts of the tragedy in one apartment of the big house. “Here, you, go right up. Take that elevator!”
And so it happened that the uncouth and unkempt person went up in the shining and luxurious elevator, and was eagerly shown by the elevator man to the Powell door.
“I want to see the head of the house,” he announced, as he stepped inside the hall.
“I’ll do,” said Coley Coe, on the alert for anything new or strange.
“Well, sir, here’s a note.”
Coe read the few scribbled words, recognized Elsie’s writing and gave a low, but very triumphant shout.
“Oh, Gerty, Mrs. Powell, Joe,—everybody,—listen here!”