“Where’s it dated from?” asked the boy.

“I hadn’t noticed,” the deportation chief replied.  “Oh, yes, why it’s from Albany!”

“That’s pretty near here!” Hamilton said excitedly.  “Oh, Mr. Farrell, what time was that sent?”

“Quarter to twelve.”

“Whoever sent it ought to be here by now!  Mr. Farrell, I’m just as sure as can be that is from Bridget Mahoney’s son.”

“If it is, he may reach here in time,” the other answered, “but it will mean a great deal of trouble, because the boat sails early in the morning long before the office here is open, and the deported aliens go on board to-night.  Indeed they are going now—–­if they haven’t gone.”

“And Bridget with them?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say Bridget is with them.”  He strolled to the window.  “No,” he continued, “they haven’t gone yet, but they will in a few minutes.”

“Could I see her before she goes?”

“What for?”

“Just to cheer her up a bit,” pleaded the boy.

The two men looked at each other, and Hamilton’s new acquaintance nodded.

“You won’t say anything about these telegrams,” the chief warned him.

“No—­very well,” said Hamilton, “but it seems a shame that she doesn’t know.”

The three passed through the door to the yard beside the lawns, and there Hamilton encountered one of the most desolate groups he had ever seen, sitting and standing in all attitudes of dejection.  Among them was a little old lady with snow-white hair, walking with a stick, but clear-eyed and brisk-looking.

“You’re Mrs. Mahoney?” the boy asked.

“I’m Bridget Mahoney, young masther,” the old Irishwoman answered, “at your service, sorr.”

“I hear you haven’t found your son yet,” Hamilton said; “did you write to him before you left the old country?”

“I did, dear, but I intoirely disremember what I did wid the letther.  I know I intinded to give it to Mickey O’Murry, but I’ll niver tell ye whether I did give it to him, an’ if I did, there’s no knowin’ av he posted it.  ‘Tis a difficult thing to remember, this letther-postin’ and maybe he forgot.”

“But what did you write on the envelope?  Can’t you remember what you wrote?”

“‘Tis I that am the poor hand for writin’, young masther, but there was no schoolin’ when I was a gurrl such as there is now.  Jim, that’s me son, he makes shift to read me writin’, but he always sinds me a written envelope to put me answer in so that the postman can read it.  An’ so I niver learnt the address.  I thought, av course, he’d be here.  But he isn’t, dear, an’ so I must thravel all the weary way home again.”

“But you don’t sail till morning,” said Hamilton, as cheerfully as he could, “and maybe he’ll come by then.  I have a feeling, Mrs. Mahoney, that he’s just surely going to come.”