“The blue envelope, again,” he cried. “A harpoon for you, John.”
John Boland made no reply. He reached for his paper knife, ripped open the envelope and drew forth a sheet of blue note paper. He read with a gathering frown what had been written on it. Then he reread it, muttering under his breath.
“Does it hurt you much, John?” inquired Grogan, enjoying the other’s discomfiture.
For answer the elder Boland scrutinized Grogan over his glasses.
“What do you know about this, Mike?” he demanded.
“Only that I got one of those blue bombs myself this morning,” retorted Grogan.
“Listen to this.” John Boland flourished the envelope angrily. “‘The owner of property who leases same to vice is morally responsible for the crimes committed on his premises. Mary Randall.’”
He turned to Grogan. “What do you think of that?” he asked.
“She’s hit home,” replied Grogan grimly.
“Damn her, for a brazen busybody,” blurted Boland angrily. “Why doesn’t she mind her own business?”