"I regret to report that things are in a chaos," it ran. "All of the regular advertising has been withdrawn. The usual entertainment money for salesmen classed under this head has been stopped. In consequence, our city trade has tumbled fearfully—and you know how bad it was before. The worst news I have to offer is in regard to Mr. Brainard personally. Our detective reports that his time outside is spent in most questionable company. He has been seen drinking at roof-gardens with a certain dissipated pugilist named Little Sullivan, and was traced with this man to the apartment of a song-and-dance woman named Violette. He seems to be spending money extravagantly and visits certain bohemian quarters in the vicinity of Jones Street, where he puts in his time with disreputable-looking men. I beg leave to advise immediate action.—Mowbray."
"My God!" groaned Houghton. This explained that derisive offer of fifty-one from Consolidated Pepsin.
"And you kept this from me?"
"They said not to worry you," she said. "I—I've had enough for two. Besides, I answered it."
"You did! What——?"
"I told them to wait a little longer."
The father groaned again.
"I just had to, daddy; and then today this letter came."
He seized it eagerly. It read: "You were right about waiting. Suspend all action."
"What does it mean?" she asked.