“I’ll deliver the goods,—don’t worry.”
John Boland sighed contentedly as he watched Druce go. Then he muttered:
“There, I guess I—”
“All right, Mr. Boland,” rang out a clear feminine voice, as Miss Masters came from the inner office. “That contract is all ready.”
“Oh, Miss Masters!”
“Yes, Mr. Boland,” she replied in saccharine tones.
“Make out a lease for that property in South Twelfth street.”
“For the Cafe Sinister, John?” inquired Michael Grogan, who had followed Miss Masters into the main office. “You’re crazy.”
“Oh, shut up, Mike,” snapped Boland. “What ails you, anyway?”
“I’ve been reading the last edition,” replied Grogan, lugubriously. “Mary Randall has had special officers sworn in at her own expense to help her make raids. She’s put goose flesh all over me.”