2 The Acorn months of the year before. Now, what is the matter? Have you lost your nerve? Who is this O'Leary, that he can make the best salesman on our force act like a weakling? If it is he that is running us out of that Held, he must be gotten rid of. Do you understand? Draw on us for any amount. Buy him over. Now, get at it, we depend upon you to succeed. Yours truly, H. S. HOOKE, President." McGraw set to work. His shrewdness told him that if he succeeded he must be tactful and cunning, his enemy must be assailed upon his weakest point. He also knew that if he were to retrieve his lost ground he must do more than buy O'Leary, for O'Leary possibly could be replaced. He must strike the business of the company. O'Leary represented an extremely damaging blow. McGrew determined not to fail. With much the air of a sleuth, he hired a taxicab and directed the driver to the office of the Daily Times. From that place he went toward 976 E. Broad Ave., O'Leary's home. He calculated the time and knew that there would be no danger of finding him at home. O'Leary loved the seclusion of a quiet, private life. To him the hotels were cold and formal. He had not been away from the fireside in old Ireland long enough to forget the spirit permeating a simple home. For these reasons he chose a room in the home of a private family in preference to one in a public house. His landlady was Irish too, and an intimacy grew up between them. To Mrs. Sullivan, whose children had all been "married awa'," Tom became a son, and many were the memories of home he confided to her. The chauffer, obedient to orders, drew his machine to a stop in front of 976 E. Broad Ave. McGraw stepped out, walked up to the house and rang the bell. A gray woman of over sixty opened the door, looked askance, but said nothing. "How do you do?" McGraw returned to the question she failed to utter, but expressed in her looks, "is this the place where Mr. O'Leary lives?" "Thot it is," responded Mrs. Sullivan, "but 'e ain't in." "I have important business to transact with him," rejoined McGraw, "I suppose that I may come in and wait until he comes." "Thot ye' may, if ye' are willing to wait a couple of hours." "A couple of hours will be nothing at all if I may be allowed to chat with you until he comes," answered McGraw flatteringly. Christmas, 1909. 3 "Thot ye' may too," said Mrs. Sullivan highly pleased, "if you'll come out where I'm workin'." She led him to the kitchen, pulled an old-fashioned rocker out of an adjoining room, and invited him to sit down, which he did very courteously. "I suppose you're a friend of his," remarked Mrs. Sullivan, as she picked up an iron holder and turned toward the stove. "Well, not ex-." McGraw caught himself and added, "Yes, I have known him for some time." "I shall be kond o' sorry to see him leavin'; I guess ye' know all about it." McGraw started and barely suppressing an oath. "Is is Mr. O'Leary going away? Where?" "Ye' seem to be mighty concerned 'bout it," she answered, eyeing him narrowly, "bein' that you're a friend, I thought you'd know about it. Back to Ireland o' course. Where do you think he'd be goin' haven a little girl waiten for him all these years?" McGraw was now getting inside information, this was what he came for. He was on the point of asking when O'Leary was going when Mrs. Sullivan noticed him start violently. He recovered himself, however, and lied in an even voice: "Of course, now I do remember Tom saying something about it, but I have forgotten the name of the girl. "See, it's it's" "Kittie McGee, to be sure," said Mrs. Sullivan, turning to go to the stove. McGraw sprang to his feet and stood as one dazed. To several questions he answered nothing, he heard nothing. Like an automaton, he turned and moved slowly toward the door, which he opened and passed through. Suddenly, he quickened his step and leaped in the waiting automobile. "To the Times quick. Let her out to the limit." The chauffer disregarded the speed ordinance and drew the machine to a stop in front of the office of the Daily Times in record time. Even before the machine stopped McGraw sprang out, ran up the steps, burst into the room and went straight to a reporter who was hammering upon a typewriter. "Stop that matter I gave you an hour ago. Cut it out, it must not be published." The reporter looked up, understood and disappeared in the press room. In a few minutes he emerged. "Can't do it, old man, the press is already started." McGraw was not surprised, he had fearfully expected such to be the case. He walked out, dismissed the taxicab, and walked rapidly to-