It was something over an hour before Jack reached the address printed by the ‘World’—a small, two-story, frame building, one of a row of six, on a side street off Westchester Avenue.
He rang the bell and a boy answered, holding the door partly ajar.
“I should like to see Mrs. Breeze,” said Jack, in a business-like way.
“Are you a reporter?” asked the boy, doubtfully.
“Well, hardly,” grinned the young messenger. “I’m from Wall Street.”
“Who are you talking to, Bobbie?” asked a woman’s voice rather petulantly.
“There’s a boy here from Wall Street who says he wants to see you,” answered the young hopeful.
“What does he want?”
“What do you want?” repeated the lad.
“I want to see Mrs. Breeze in reference to the money she lost.”