One restaurant was passed; it did not look inviting.  The next was better, but flies were crawling over the bottles and jars in the window.  He went on.

“It will cost more, I suppose,” he muttered regretfully to himself, as he entered a neat cafe where the door was opened to him by a boy in livery.

“Bread and milk,” he ordered of the trim maid, and he smiled to himself contentedly at the daintiness with which it was served.

The milk was cool and sweet, and Doodles was hungry.  The whistles and clocks announced that it was noon, and soon afterward people began to stream in.  Women with shopping-bags and bundles, men with newspapers, hatless working-girls; but everywhere were courtesy and low voices.  Doodles was glad of his choice.

He sat eating slowly, wishing he knew at what time he would be most likely to meet Mr. Randolph, when he stared at a man coming toward him—­it was the president of the Paper Company!  The boy drew in a delighted breath—­what great good luck!

Mr. Randolph sat down at a little table not far away.  He looked tired, the lad thought, and he decided to wait until the close of the meal, if he could manage to make his own small supply of milk last long enough.

“Nothing more, thank you,” Doodles told the maid who came to ask.  “This milk is very nice,” he added, which brought out an answering smile.

At last the president had reached his fruit.

The boy’s last crumb had vanished long ago, and he thought he might venture across to the other table.

“May I speak with you a moment, sir?” he asked softly, taking the letter from his pocket.

“Certainly.”  The man bowed with his accustomed courtesy.

“Polly Dudley gave me this for you.”

At mention of the name a pleasant light over-spread the grave face.

The lad watched him as he read.  The light deepened, then the brows drew together in a scowl.  Doodles wondered what Polly had written.

“This lady is a friend of yours, I take it.”

The keen gray eyes looked straight at the boy.

“Yes, sir,” Doodles smiled, “though a very new one.  I never saw her till yesterday.”

The eyes bent upon him widened a little.

The lad told his story as simply as possible, touching lightly upon his own part in it.  “And so,” he ended artlessly, his appealing brown eyes looking straight into the steady gray ones, “I thought, even if there were rules and patches and things she didn’t like, it would be better than the poorhouse.”

A little amused smile replaced the hint of surprise on the man’s face.

“Where do you sing?” he asked abruptly.

“At St. Bartholomew’s Church, Foxford.”

“Did you come down expressly to see me about this?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Doodles.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t.”  A smile overspread the small face.  “I waited at your office until”—­he hesitated an instant—­“I thought I would find you after I had had a lunch.”