“Mary Randall,” repeated Harry. The words meant nothing to him. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” replied Grogan. “I’ve never met the lady. That’s the mystery of her and she’s keeping it well. She belongs to the Randalls of Chicago—society folk—that’s all I know. But she isn’t one of these Michigan boulevard tea party reformers. They just talk. She goes out and delivers the goods. She’s a fighter.”
Harry laughed again. “This is good,” he said. “An unknown girl, a society bud, working single handed stirs up Chicago until she gets all of you alleged smart politicians worrying. Grogan, I’m going to write a comedy about that.”
“Are you now?” said Grogan. “Well, I don’t approve of your idea. It’s not funny. The other night they raided the Baker Club and when they came into court they had evidence enough to hang them all. This Randall girl had worked in the club for a month as a waitress and she KNEW.”
“Still, Mike, that shouldn’t affect father.”
“Not directly—no,” replied Grogan, again picking his words with care, “but it gives the whole city an unsteady feeling. People won’t invest their money. If I were in your place, my boy, I’d go home.”
“I’m off tomorrow in my new car. Better come with me.”
“Make it tonight and I will,” replied Grogan.
“You’re on,” agreed Harry. “We’ll go tonight.” He surveyed the sky. “It’s going to storm,” he said; “but even if it does, unless there’s a flood the roads will be good. We’ll go tonight.”