“Well, if she’s all right, as you say she is,” said Hamilton, “why can’t she land and wait until her son is reached?”

“Bridget’s over seventy,” the chief replied, “and not very strong; she’d be a public charge, sure.”

“And yet she’s all right?”

“Oh, perfectly,” he said as soon as they reached the building.

“We got this telegram yesterday and I took it to your office this morning,” the newcomer answered, “to talk it over with you, but you weren’t there.”

The chief of the Information Division glanced at the telegram and then turned it over to Hamilton.

“Read that,” he said.  “That’s the way it came, without signature or anything.”

Hamilton read it eagerly, and as soon as he had finished, “that’s from Bridget Mahoney’s son,” he announced, with as absolute assurance as though it had been signed.

The deportation official looked up in surprise, but Hamilton’s guide made a hasty explanatory introduction.

“We should like to be as sure as you are,” said the deportation chief, “although I think we all rather hope it is from him.  But you see it isn’t dated Johnstown or anything like that, and it isn’t signed.  Just simply the words: 

“‘Don’t—­deport—­my—­old—­mother.’”

“If you notice,” he continued, “it comes from away out West, and it might apply to any one of thousands of cases.  ‘My Old Mother’ might have been deported weeks ago.”

“But this is yesterday’s wire,” Hamilton’s friend interjected, “you said there were new developments in the case.”

“There are,” Farrell replied, drawing another telegram out of his pocket.  “This one came this morning, and it’s just about as intelligent as the one you have.  Notice, though, that it’s dated from Chicago early yesterday evening.”

“What does it say?” burst out Hamilton, too eager to wait until it was read.

“It’s very short,” was the answer, “it just reads: 

“‘—­Hold—­Mother—­’”

“Unsigned?”

“Unsigned, just as before.”

“It must be from the same person,” Hamilton suggested.

“I think there’s little doubt of that,” the deportation chief agreed.

“Whoever sent it must be traveling fast,” the boy remarked, “that last one was from Montana.”

“I’ve been doing my best to persuade myself that I have the right to keep Bridget longer.  Twice I’ve begged an extra stay from the Commissioner, and he’s been willing to consent, but he thinks she’s got to go back now.  There’s really no valid reason that I can give against it.”

As they walked toward the desk in the deporting division, one of the clerks called the chief.  He came back a moment or two later with a telegram in his hand.

“A third one,” he said, “it must have come while I was out at lunch.  The same person wrote all three, for this is almost the same as the first; it reads: 

“‘—­Don’t—­deport&m
dash;­my—­old—­Mother—­I—­have—­plenty—­to—­support—­her—­’”