you want to keep in good health and see the beautiful sunshine yet awhile.”
Chillingham capitulated. He knew he had no ground to stand on, and that when Val spoke in that tone something was very apt to drop. The Vice-President had a right in the files—a child would have admitted that.
Half an hour later, dusty from his delving into the files, Val had gathered what he thought would be valuable. It was a stroke of good luck, nothing more nor less, he said to himself—the fact that he happened to be a stockholder in an influential newspaper.
More than a year before, he found, old Peter J. Pomeroy, a breeder and racer of thoroughbred horses, had died, leaving as his only issue a daughter named Jessica. The obituary notice informed him that the funeral was to be from the deceased’s late residence, 999 West 86th Street, New York.
He found that the address given was a family hotel, overlooking Riverside Drive and the Hudson. The elevator man, who was new to the job, had never heard of anybody of the name of Pomeroy. Certainly they were not living there now. Val went to the office of the hotel and inquired of the manager.
Yes, Peter Pomeroy had lived there with his daughter. She had stayed on for a while after his death, but a few months ago she had moved. He knew her new address, it being occasionally necessary for him to forward mail to her.
“Fine,” remarked Val. “What is it?”
The manager looked him over calmly. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “whether I ought to give you her address.”
“Why not?” demanded Val.
