“For you?” he asked, glancing at the slip of paper.

“Me?  No.  I come for a lady friend o’ mine.  You might tell ’em she’s awful sick an’ scared,—­just about all in, she is,—­or she wouldn’t of sent.  But he said she was to come here an’ hand in that slip I’ve just gave you.  That’s how I come to bring it.”

“All right.  You wait,” said the Japanese, and glided from the room.  It was the first time Hoichi had received any message from the new master, as he knew Mr. Peter Champneys to be; if the message was genuine, he was sure that Mr. Chadwick Champneys, had he been alive, would have investigated it.  Hoichi couldn’t imagine how the blonde person had gotten hold of such a slip of paper, signed by Mr. Peter Champneys.  If there was some trick behind it, some ulterior motive underlying it, then Hoichi proposed to have the trickster taught a needed lesson.  He was a suspicious man and visions of clever robbers planning a raid on the premises rose before him.  He would run no risks, take no chances.  He rang up Mr. Jason Vandervelde, fortunately caught the lawyer at home, and faithfully repeated the blonde person’s message.  He insisted that the signature was genuine; he had seen many letters addressed to the late Mr. Champneys by his nephew, and he would recognize that writing anywhere.  He asked to be instructed.

“Tell her to wait half an hour and I’ll be there,” said the lawyer upon reflection.

The blonde person was leaning back in a Morris chair, tiredly, when Vandervelde was ushered into the basement sitting-room.  He recognized her type with something of a shock.  She was what might be called—­charitably—­a peripatetic person, and she reeked of very strong perfume.  The lawyer’s eyes narrowed, while he explained briefly that he represented the Champneys interests.  Would she explain as concisely as possible just why and for whom she had come?

She explained ramblingly.  Mr. Vandervelde gathered that a certain “lady friend” of hers, one Gracie Cantrell, now in the hospital, said her prayers to Mr. Peter Champneys, whom she had met on a time, and who had advised her if ever she needed help to apply to his uncle, and to tell him that he had sent her.  Feeling herself down and out now, she had done so.

“Honest to Gawd, the poor little simp thinks this feller’s a angel.  Why,—­when she gets out o’ her head, she don’t rave about nothin’ but him, beggin’ him to help her.  Ain’t it somethin’ fierce, though?” The blonde person dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief.

Mr. Vandervelde rubbed his nose thoughtfully.  A girl down and out, a waif in a city ward, in her delirium calling upon Peter Champneys for help, didn’t sound at all good to him.  In connection with that penciled slip which seemed to imply that she had a right to expect help, it smacked of possible heart-interest—­sob-stuff—­so dear to enterprising special writers for a yellow press.  He couldn’t understand how or where Peter had met the girl; possibly some youthful foolishness back there in Carolina.  Maybe she’d followed him north, to become what her friendship with such as the blonde person indicated.  Vandervelde was a cautious man and he thought he had better investigate that message, written before Chadwick Champneys’s death.